Img_0430.mov

I reached for the power button, but the screen stayed black. The battery hadn't died; the phone was cold, as if it had never been turned on at all.

"I don't think it's following anymore," a girl’s voice whispered. She sounded young, maybe seventeen. IMG_0430.MOV

After an hour of cleaning the charging port and a frantic jump-start of the battery, the screen flickered to life. There was no passcode. The previous owner hadn't wiped it; the gallery was empty, save for a single file in the "Recents" folder. I reached for the power button, but the screen stayed black

The girl gasped, and the running started again. The footage became a blur of dark branches and strobe-like flashes of light. Then, suddenly, the girl tripped. The camera tumbled through the air, landing face-up in the dirt. She sounded young, maybe seventeen

I hit play. The footage was shaky, clearly filmed by someone running. It was night, and the only light came from a flickering flashlight held by the person behind the camera. The audio was heavy with ragged, panicked breathing and the sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot.

I looked back at the sticker on the phone's case. The sunflower wasn't a sticker. It was a hand-drawn doodle in permanent marker, identical to the ones on the "Missing" posters that had been plastered around my neighborhood ten years ago.

I looked at the date stamp in the file info: