I’m twenty-six, and I work at a marketing firm in Manchester. Boring job, basically. The kind where you spend most of your day answering emails and pretending to care about brand synergy. But the people are alright, I mean, we get on well enough. Which is why I actually looked forward to the Secret Santa thing we do every year.
The gift appeared on my desk Tuesday morning, three days before Christmas. I remember because I’d come in early to avoid traffic, and the office was still empty. Just the hum of the heating system and the smell of burnt coffee from the break room.
It was wrapped in brown paper, tied with red string. Old-fashioned, you know? My name was written on a tag in neat handwriting I didn’t recognize. I should have known right then. Should have trusted my instincts.
I pulled the string loose and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a leather photo album, the kind with those thick pages and corners that hold the pictures in place. Heavy. Expensive-looking.
The first photo stopped my heart.
It was me as a baby, maybe six months old, sitting in my mum’s lap. I knew this photo. Had known it. Mum kept it in a frame on the mantelpiece until the house fire when I was seven. We lost everything. All the baby photos, all the early childhood memories. Gone.
But here it was. Impossible.
My hands were shaking as I turned the page. More baby pictures. Me learning to walk. My first birthday. All photos I’d never seen, photos that shouldn’t exist anymore.
“Maybe they made copies,” I whispered to myself. “Maybe Mum gave them to someone.”
I flipped faster. School photos from primary. Me at age ten, standing in my bedroom—wait. That bedroom. I remembered that wallpaper, those exact posters. But there were no photos of that room. I was certain. My parents never took pictures inside the house after the fire. They were too traumatized.
The next page showed me at university. Sitting alone in the library at two in the morning, hunched over my laptop. I remembered that night—studying for finals, completely alone. Who the hell took this picture?
Something wasn’t right.
I kept turning pages, my breath coming faster. Me at my first flat. Walking to the shops. Having coffee at the café down the street. Mundane moments. Private moments. Moments I’d forgotten existed.
Then I reached the recent ones.
Me in my current flat. Last week. I was wearing my ratty grey jumper, the one I only wear when I’m alone. I was sitting on my sofa, eating takeaway straight from the container, watching Netflix. The angle was from the corner of my room, near the ceiling.
I felt my heart drop. I lived on the fourth floor. There was no way someone could have—
The next photo showed me sleeping. Same night, based on the jumper crumpled on the floor beside my bed. The camera must have been right next to me. Close enough to see the detail of my face, the way my hair spread across the pillow.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wanted to close the album, but I couldn’t.
More sleeping photos. Dozens of them. Different nights, different positions. Always from impossible angles. Always close enough to touch.
“Oh God,” I whispered.
About ten people had filtered into the office by then, but I barely noticed. I turned to the last page with photos.
It was from yesterday. Monday evening. I was walking home from the Tesco Metro, carrier bags in hand. The street was empty—I remembered thinking how quiet it was for that time of night. But someone had been there. Someone had been following me.
The final page was different. No photo in the corners. Just a date written at the top in that same neat handwriting: “Wednesday, 24th December.”
Below it, an empty frame.
And underneath, in red ink: “Merry Christmas.”
Tomorrow’s date. Tomorrow’s date with an empty frame.
I slammed the album shut. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might be sick. I looked around the office, searching faces. Who did this? Who the hell did this?
Everyone looked normal. Sarah was microwaving porridge. James was arguing with the printer. Dave was scrolling through his phone.
One of them had been in my flat. One of them had stood over me while I slept.
I grabbed my bag and the album. I didn’t care about seeming rude or crazy anymore. I went straight to HR, then to the police station down the street. The officer who took my statement was professional but skeptical. I could see it in his eyes. He probably thought it was a prank gone wrong.
“We’ll look into it,” he said, taking the album as evidence. “In the meantime, stay with family if you can. Change your locks. Be aware of your surroundings.”
I wish I had taken more photos of the pages before I handed it over. Looking back, I realize how mad the whole thing must have sounded without proof.
I didn’t go back to work. I called in sick, then I just… left. Gave notice by email, found a new flat, moved to London within a fortnight. I couldn’t stay in Manchester. Couldn’t sleep knowing someone had that kind of access to my life.
It’s been eight months now. The police never found who made the album. No fingerprints except mine. No leads. My old coworkers claimed no one knew anything about it, and the Secret Santa gifts were supposed to be under fifteen quid anyway. That album must have cost hundreds.
I still don’t sleep well. I’ve covered the corners of my bedroom where cameras might hide. I check the locks three times before bed. I never eat alone in my flat without checking the windows first.
And I’ll never know what was supposed to happen on Christmas Eve. What was meant to fill that empty frame.
To this day, I still wake up sometimes in the middle of the night, convinced I can hear breathing nearby. The sound of a camera shutter. I tell myself it’s nothing.
But I never really believe it.
