The Gallery of the Obsessed
I turned the flashlight toward the back wall, and the breath left my lungs in a ragged gasp. The plywood was covered in white rectangles, hundreds of them, pinned in neat, chronological rows. I stepped closer, my vision blurring as the reality of the images set in. They were Polaroids—thousands of dollars worth of instant film—and every single one of them featured the same subject.
Me.
There I was, three months ago, carrying the first load of boxes into the front door. There I was through the bathroom window, my face obscured by steam. There were photos of me sleeping on the sofa, taken from an angle that could only have been achieved by someone standing on the porch, pressing a lens against the glass. The most recent photo was pinned at eye level. It showed me from behind, taken only an hour ago, standing at the edge of the ivy with my shovel in hand.
The realization hit me like a physical blow: he had been watching me clear the brush. He had been watching me find the hatch.
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