Chapter 1: The Camera That Kills

The stray cats I'd been feeding, five of them, died overnight.

That morning, the city felt colder than usual. It was that bone-deep cold. The kind that gets under your jacket, settles in your bones. I found their little bodies in the alley behind my building, curled up in their usual spots, as if they’d just fallen asleep and never woken up. The sight made my stomach twist. For a second, I just stood there, frozen. My breath fogged in the dawn air. I knelt down, brushing a hand over their fur, but they were stiff and cold. I’d given them names—Snowball, Daisy, Bandit, Ginger, and Boots. Now they were all gone.

The strangest part? They were the exact five I’d deleted photos of yesterday.

I remembered scrolling through my camera roll, deleting random snapshots to clear space. I’d hesitated over those cat photos—each one a little moment of comfort from my lonely evenings. But I’d pressed delete anyway, thinking nothing of it. Now, staring at their lifeless bodies, a cold wave of regret hit me. My hands shook as I shoved my phone back into my pocket. My mind raced with questions I didn’t want to answer. Why did I do it? Was it just to save space…? No. I didn’t want to think about it.

A shiver crawled up my spine, but this wasn’t just the cold. I tried to tell myself it was just a freak coincidence, something explainable.

I kept telling myself that. Over and over. Like if I said it enough, it’d finally stick. Still, the sense of dread wouldn’t let go. I walked away from the alley, but the feeling followed me, clinging to my skin like sweat. It was the kind of unease that makes you look over your shoulder, half-expecting to see something lurking in the shadows.

Still, I had to test it.

I couldn’t help myself. Logically, I knew it was ridiculous, but curiosity gnawed at me. I lined up a few flowers from the planter on my apartment balcony under the pale kitchen light. Their petals were bright and full, colors popping against the old wooden table. I snapped pictures—close-ups, wide shots, even a little video. Then, heart pounding, I deleted every single one.

I watched the progress bar crawl across the screen as the photos vanished. For a moment, nothing happened. I laughed at myself, feeling foolish, and went to bed with the faint scent of flowers still on my hands.

The next morning, they were wilted and brown.

I found them drooping, petals shriveled and leaves brittle, as if they'd been left out in the sun for days. My stomach dropped. I touched a petal and it crumbled under my fingertip. I stared at the empty spot on my phone where the photos used to be. My mouth went dry. I told myself there had to be a logical explanation—maybe the heater was too close, or I’d forgotten to water them. But I knew better. Something was wrong.

Terrified, I drove to the local pet store and bought a few white mice. I took photos of them, then deleted the pictures.

My hands shook as I carried the little box home, the mice huddled together in a nervous pile. I set up a small cage in the corner of my living room, snapped a few photos, and deleted them just like before. The click of the delete button echoed in my ears. That night, I barely slept, tossing and turning, haunted by the feeling that I’d done something terrible.

By morning, they were dead too.

I found them cold and unmoving, their tiny bodies curled in the bedding, fur mussed and eyes glazed. My heart hammered in my chest. I dropped to my knees, feeling the world tilt beneath me. The guilt pressed down, heavy and suffocating. I stared at my phone, horrified, the realization finally sinking in. This wasn’t a coincidence. This was real.

I didn't dare take random photos anymore.

From then on, I kept my phone tucked away, afraid to even open the camera app. I avoided looking at my gallery, afraid of what I might find. Every time I reached for my phone, my fingers hesitated, as if the device itself had become something dangerous. I found myself jumping at every notification, every buzz, as if the phone might bite.

It was like I had a camera that could kill.

The thought was absurd, but I couldn’t shake it. The camera felt like a loaded gun in my pocket. I started seeing the world differently—every face, every living thing, suddenly fragile, as if one careless snapshot could erase them forever. I wondered if I was losing my mind.