Invasion of Privacy
By
Peter Caine
16-year-old Josh Drumler was bored. It was 2:00 A.M. and he couldn’t sleep, and the storm raging outside didn’t help. Tomorrow would be his first day at a new school, and his head was full of the apprehensive thoughts known to plague people in similar situations. His parents were in bed, so he’d have to find something to distract him that was sure not to wake them up.
His phone buzzed. He reached over his desk, unplugged it from the cord, and squinted at the screen. His friend from his previous high school, Rory, had just sent a message.
It read, “Dude, I googled my name and found some pictures of a chef. I always knew I was destined for great things.” At the end he’d pasted an emoji, the one with the smiley face sticking its tongue out.
Josh suppressed a little laugh. That didn’t sound like a bad idea. He’d been photographed at soccer events--he was always the goalie--but there could be more pictures of him somewhere. Maybe if he searched his name, he’d find a pictures of an astronaut. Then again, he might find ones of a real loser sharing his same name.
He clicked on Google Images, then entered JOSH DRUMLER in the search bar. He hit the search button. He regretted his decision almost immediately.
There were pictures all over--pictures of him. He recognized his shaggy auburn hair, his lanky build. They filled the entire page. None of them had he taken himself, and no one could’ve possibly gotten close enough to him to take these without his noticing. As impossible as it was, he felt a very real chill slip over him.
The first showed him alone in the locker room he remembered from his previous school. His clothes were on (a white T-shirt with a soccer ball printed on it and black nylon shorts), but he didn’t look like he was aware of the photographer. He couldn’t make out his expression, as the picture only showed him in profile. There was no information about it, no text. The website was blank save for the picture.
“What the fuck?” he found himself saying loudly. His mind raced. Had Rory taken it? Was it a prank? Did he have some kind of secret stalker?
The next photo showed Josh sitting in a clearing. He recognized the place easily enough; it was the same place he went in the woods down by the train tracks. He was again alone in this one. He’d never told anyone about it. His suspicions of a stalker were growing less far-fetched. For a while he stared at the screen, immobile. He considered that the photographer was infatuated with him. These were pictures of him alone. Someone was intensely focused on him, and he had gotten plenty of female attention before.
What he saw in the next picture tanked his hopes of having a secret admirer. It was a bird’s-eye view shot of him in a Port-a-Potty, as if the roof had been removed. His head was over the toilet seat, apparently vomiting. Josh recalled having gone to Oktoberfest a few weeks ago, having gotten dangerously drunk from the beers his older brother had gotten him. But there were no cameras in the latrine. There couldn’t be; that would be illegal.
Josh was having a hard time remembering to breathe. He felt like screaming, but he’d been rendered mute. It didn’t make any sense. This wasn’t a prank. It’d crossed the line now. Now, he was sure that the person who took the pictures was going to kill him. He came to the conclusion that, not only did the person want to kill him, but that he wanted Josh to be terrified first. He (or she?) was doing a good job of it so far.
His eyes darted back and forth, examining each photo with widened eyes. They all depicted him alone. Fishing. Running. Eating. Playing video games. Even one of himself visiting his grandpa’s grave with not another soul in sight.
Josh clicked on the arrow icon to bring up another page, then wished he hadn’t. This page too featured dozens of photos of him. Now they were all in his house. Him in the living room watching TV. Him showering in the bathroom. Him having snuck into the kitchen at night to rummage for a snack. This was someone seriously deranged, Josh thought. No way would his mom or dad ever be this intrusive. If he had enemies, he wasn’t aware of them. He touched his brow, wet with cold sweat.
He was feeling dizzy, faint. This must be a nightmare, he thought. This can’t be real. This is the stuff of horror movies. I’ll wake up soon and laugh my ass off, realizing that everything was relatively perfect. He longed to return to the life he experienced before he searched his name.
He heard a soft knock at his door. For a few agonizing moments of silence, he waited. It came again, impatient. His parents were sleeping, but they were upstairs. They wouldn’t hear it.
“Mom?” he asked. No answer.
“Dad?” No answer.
Josh felt sick, too sick to carry on much longer. He reached under his bed as he heard another series of knocks, slightly louder. He pulled out his Swiss Army knife he’d kept there for a worst case scenario that in all likelihood wouldn’t happen--until now.
Walking with his knees trembling, his footsteps irregular, he came to the door. He touched the knob, feeling its coolness. For a long time, he did nothing. Then he slowly turned the knob, and, for the element of surprise, yanked open the door. Then he screamed.
“Jesus Christ!” Mr. Drumler shouted from his bedroom, “What the hell’s the matter with him now?” He put on his pajamas clumsily and headed out the door into the hallway. Mrs. Drumler followed. They swiftly descended the creaking stairs and stood by the entrance of their son’s room. What they saw made them scream just as Josh had.
Josh was lying lifeless on the floor face-up. His skin had gone unnaturally pale, his blue veins visible. His eyes looked as though they were about to fall out as large as they were. His mouth was open in an eternal silent scream.
Lying next to him was a picture showing him as he was now.
By
Peter Caine
16-year-old Josh Drumler was bored. It was 2:00 A.M. and he couldn’t sleep, and the storm raging outside didn’t help. Tomorrow would be his first day at a new school, and his head was full of the apprehensive thoughts known to plague people in similar situations. His parents were in bed, so he’d have to find something to distract him that was sure not to wake them up.
His phone buzzed. He reached over his desk, unplugged it from the cord, and squinted at the screen. His friend from his previous high school, Rory, had just sent a message.
It read, “Dude, I googled my name and found some pictures of a chef. I always knew I was destined for great things.” At the end he’d pasted an emoji, the one with the smiley face sticking its tongue out.
Josh suppressed a little laugh. That didn’t sound like a bad idea. He’d been photographed at soccer events--he was always the goalie--but there could be more pictures of him somewhere. Maybe if he searched his name, he’d find a pictures of an astronaut. Then again, he might find ones of a real loser sharing his same name.
He clicked on Google Images, then entered JOSH DRUMLER in the search bar. He hit the search button. He regretted his decision almost immediately.
There were pictures all over--pictures of him. He recognized his shaggy auburn hair, his lanky build. They filled the entire page. None of them had he taken himself, and no one could’ve possibly gotten close enough to him to take these without his noticing. As impossible as it was, he felt a very real chill slip over him.
The first showed him alone in the locker room he remembered from his previous school. His clothes were on (a white T-shirt with a soccer ball printed on it and black nylon shorts), but he didn’t look like he was aware of the photographer. He couldn’t make out his expression, as the picture only showed him in profile. There was no information about it, no text. The website was blank save for the picture.
“What the fuck?” he found himself saying loudly. His mind raced. Had Rory taken it? Was it a prank? Did he have some kind of secret stalker?
The next photo showed Josh sitting in a clearing. He recognized the place easily enough; it was the same place he went in the woods down by the train tracks. He was again alone in this one. He’d never told anyone about it. His suspicions of a stalker were growing less far-fetched. For a while he stared at the screen, immobile. He considered that the photographer was infatuated with him. These were pictures of him alone. Someone was intensely focused on him, and he had gotten plenty of female attention before.
What he saw in the next picture tanked his hopes of having a secret admirer. It was a bird’s-eye view shot of him in a Port-a-Potty, as if the roof had been removed. His head was over the toilet seat, apparently vomiting. Josh recalled having gone to Oktoberfest a few weeks ago, having gotten dangerously drunk from the beers his older brother had gotten him. But there were no cameras in the latrine. There couldn’t be; that would be illegal.
Josh was having a hard time remembering to breathe. He felt like screaming, but he’d been rendered mute. It didn’t make any sense. This wasn’t a prank. It’d crossed the line now. Now, he was sure that the person who took the pictures was going to kill him. He came to the conclusion that, not only did the person want to kill him, but that he wanted Josh to be terrified first. He (or she?) was doing a good job of it so far.
His eyes darted back and forth, examining each photo with widened eyes. They all depicted him alone. Fishing. Running. Eating. Playing video games. Even one of himself visiting his grandpa’s grave with not another soul in sight.
Josh clicked on the arrow icon to bring up another page, then wished he hadn’t. This page too featured dozens of photos of him. Now they were all in his house. Him in the living room watching TV. Him showering in the bathroom. Him having snuck into the kitchen at night to rummage for a snack. This was someone seriously deranged, Josh thought. No way would his mom or dad ever be this intrusive. If he had enemies, he wasn’t aware of them. He touched his brow, wet with cold sweat.
He was feeling dizzy, faint. This must be a nightmare, he thought. This can’t be real. This is the stuff of horror movies. I’ll wake up soon and laugh my ass off, realizing that everything was relatively perfect. He longed to return to the life he experienced before he searched his name.
He heard a soft knock at his door. For a few agonizing moments of silence, he waited. It came again, impatient. His parents were sleeping, but they were upstairs. They wouldn’t hear it.
“Mom?” he asked. No answer.
“Dad?” No answer.
Josh felt sick, too sick to carry on much longer. He reached under his bed as he heard another series of knocks, slightly louder. He pulled out his Swiss Army knife he’d kept there for a worst case scenario that in all likelihood wouldn’t happen--until now.
Walking with his knees trembling, his footsteps irregular, he came to the door. He touched the knob, feeling its coolness. For a long time, he did nothing. Then he slowly turned the knob, and, for the element of surprise, yanked open the door. Then he screamed.
“Jesus Christ!” Mr. Drumler shouted from his bedroom, “What the hell’s the matter with him now?” He put on his pajamas clumsily and headed out the door into the hallway. Mrs. Drumler followed. They swiftly descended the creaking stairs and stood by the entrance of their son’s room. What they saw made them scream just as Josh had.
Josh was lying lifeless on the floor face-up. His skin had gone unnaturally pale, his blue veins visible. His eyes looked as though they were about to fall out as large as they were. His mouth was open in an eternal silent scream.
Lying next to him was a picture showing him as he was now.