The Rotten Photo*

***

I’m just an ordinary Internet dweller—I keep a blog, sometimes write fanfics about my favorite works, and, for some reason, even set up accounts on Twitter and Facebook. Basically, I live an active online life. Nothing seemed amiss, until one morning a reader from my blog added me on ICQ. I was surprised—never interacted with her before, not even in comments. Yet there she was, messaging me: “Wanna see a joke?” Who refuses a morning joke? Of course, I said yes. She sent a file.

Morning being a hectic time—checking mail, reading comments, drinking tea, getting dressed, maybe putting on makeup—I kept getting distracted. Eventually, I opened the file. It was just a regular room, with the usual carpets on the walls and geraniums. Only in the corner was a murky dark spot—either a camera defect or bad Photoshop. “And… what?” I wrote. “Where’s the joke?” She replied, “Never mind,” and went offline. I mentally added her to my list of potential weirdos, shut down my computer, and went to work.

In the evening, I remembered the “joke” again, found the photo, and looked once more. The room looked normal, the spot gone—it must have been a trick of the morning light. Not funny. I wanted to find this girl and interrogate her, but she was offline. Then I forgot about it, because chaos struck my apartment.

First, a horrific smell came from the sink—rot and damp. We tried every cleaning product imaginable, but nothing helped. Dad eventually called a plumber. He fiddled with the pipes, looked at us like idiots, and said everything was fine. Except it wasn’t. A few days later, the smell began coming from the bathroom. Sometimes, it seemed like something was scratching in the drains. Crocodiles in the pipes, perhaps?

One morning, I walked into the kitchen and found the vent cover lying on the floor. I put it back. The next morning it was down again, then the next. Soon, it became my ritual. But then wet spots appeared on the vent—first a few drops, then full puddles, murky, like squeezing a dirty rag. And the smell… I panicked a little, but Dad helped with liquid nails—they glued the vent, and it stayed put.

But things got even stranger. Murky puddles formed under the glued vent. At night, footsteps echoed in the apartment, barefoot, first in the kitchen, then in the living room. Summoning courage, I turned on the lights to investigate. No one was there, just wet spots on the floor. In the drains, scratching noises grew clearer. Once, when I was in the shower, the water stopped—and I heard familiar rustling, like something trying to get out. I bolted.

Sleep was impossible; when I finally fell asleep, I dreamed I was drowning in a swamp—murky water, dirt, foul stench. And when I woke, there were puddles by my bed. This happened every other night. My parents seemed different too, smiling oddly when I told them my experiences. “It’s fine, darling,” they said in unison. I hadn’t been called “darling” in years. Mom even suggested a bath, to relax. At that point, I was too scared to even brush my teeth. I was close to begging friends to let me use their showers.

Then it stopped, suddenly. No more stench, no more puddles. Dreams became peaceful—warm baths, comfort, serenity. Life returned to normal: Internet, work, friends… though now my parents took long showers, apparently inspired by some TV show on anti-stress remedies.

Everything was fine… until I decided to update my Facebook photos. I photographed myself a few times, and then noticed it: that same dark spot, behind me, along the wall. It appeared in all the shots—kitchen, hallway, bathroom. In the bathroom, the ceiling looked as if shrouded in smoke.

That night, I dreamed of drowning again. Woke to a wet pillow. My parents smiled at me like they were hypnotized.

I grabbed my laptop and fled to a nearby café with Wi-Fi. I tried to find that reader’s blog. Her account was gone—“diary closed or inactive.” One last hope: a friend of hers from the same course. I messaged her, casually asking why her friend had left. I learned that the girl had quit the Internet, citing lost time, the stress of exams… and, importantly, she had become withdrawn after her brother drowned in the bathroom.

Cross-referencing the dates, I realized the accident had occurred just days before I opened the “joke.” I knew then what had happened.

But here’s the problem: from watching horror movies, I understood one thing clearly—if something like that involves people you know, even online acquaintances, you simply cannot intervene. The guilt would be unbearable, even if I was just a witness. Yet I cannot live like this either.

This morning, my bed was soaked, as if the blanket had been dunked in a swamp. Dad locked himself in the bathroom and hasn’t come out.

Forgive me.