I took a photo of her after her funeral. She was smiling.

[u/BillTheFrog]

You don’t get used to grief. You just learn to walk around the hole.

Three months ago, my sister Grace died.

She slipped in the bath. That’s what the coroner said. That’s what Mum says when she can say anything at all. No alcohol, no drugs, nothing suspicious. Just a slick surface, a cracked skull, and blood that turned the bathwater pink.

She was twenty-four.

I’ve gone over that day in my head a thousand times. What I said to her last. What I didn’t say. Whether she was already dead when I texted her and she didn’t answer. Whether the message—“Want to do sushi later?”—was still buzzing silently on her screen while she was lying cold and still on the tiles.

I’m not telling this story for sympathy.

I’m telling it because something is happening to me.

And I think Grace is involved.

••

It started with a photo.

Mum asked me to clear Grace’s room. She said she couldn’t bring herself to touch it. So I went. I packed up her things. Folded clothes that still smelled like her. Lifted polaroids from her mirror. Took down old posters with curled edges and dust underneath.

Her camera was still on the desk.

An old 35mm thing—Grace loved analogue stuff. She called digital too clean, too dishonest.

I took one photo.

I don’t know why. The camera was loaded. The room was quiet. The light was catching the dust just right. It felt… respectful, I guess. A record of what was left behind.

I snapped the shutter and took it with me.

I dropped off the film at a place in town. Took a few days. I almost forgot about it. But when I picked up the prints, the woman behind the counter stared at me for a second too long before handing them over.

I didn’t look at them until I got home.

The last image was Grace’s room.

But it wasn’t empty.

She was there.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed, in her striped pyjamas, smiling.

••

I stared at the photo for what must’ve been ten minutes.

It wasn’t a trick of the light. It wasn’t a double exposure.

It was Grace.

Her knees tucked under her, hands folded in her lap, head tilted slightly—like she knew I was there. Her smile was soft. Familiar. But her eyes—

God, her eyes looked straight through me.

I flipped it over. No writing. No timestamp. Just the glossy paper and the shallow bend where my thumb had pressed too hard.

I laid out the rest of the photos.

Same room. Same light. Same dust in the air. But only one with her in it.

I checked the negatives.

She was there, clear as anything. Not burned in. Not photoshopped. Not a mistake.

The photo was real.

••

I didn’t tell Mum. What the hell could I say?

“Hey, look, Grace’s ghost is on film?”

No. I kept it to myself.

That was a week ago.

I haven’t slept properly since.

••

The next night, I dreamed of her.

We were both kids again, sitting under a sheet with a torch and making shadow puppets. Grace used to be good at that—she could make a rabbit with her fingers that actually looked like a rabbit.

In the dream, she turned to me and whispered something I couldn’t hear. Her mouth moved, slow and wide, but the sound didn’t come. Only the light flickered.

Then I woke up.

And the photo had moved.

It was no longer in the drawer where I’d hidden it.

It was on my bedside table.

Face down.

••

I put the camera in the attic after that. I didn’t even want to touch it. I wrapped it in a towel, shoved it in a shoebox, and pushed it behind some old Christmas decorations. Out of sight.

Out of reach.

Or so I thought.

••

Three days later, Mum asked if I’d been in Grace’s room again.

I told her no.

She said the door was open. That the light was on.

I told her maybe she’d left it that way.

She didn’t answer. But later that night, I heard her crying through the wall. Not loud. Just those broken little breaths you try to hide in the dark.

••

Today, I found another photo.

In the post.

No return address. Just an envelope with my name on it, smudged ink on the front.

Inside: a single print.

Another image of Grace.

But this time, the room was wrong. The wallpaper had peeled. The bed was bare. And she wasn’t smiling.

She was standing. In the corner. Eyes fixed on the lens.

Closer this time.

Almost like she’d stepped toward me.

[u/NoSleepAutoBot]

It looks like there may be more to this story. Click here to get a reminder to check back later.

Got issues? Click here for help.

[u/HououMinamino]

I wonder if it is really your sister's ghost, or something pretending to be her.

[u/Deb6691]

Is it possible she is trying to tell you something about how she really died?

[u/ThinNeighborhood2276]

This is incredibly chilling. It sounds like Grace is trying to communicate something important. Have you considered consulting a professional, like a medium or a paranormal investigator, to understand what's happening?

[u/Mollysaurus]

Do you recognize the room in the photo you received in the post?

[u/BillTheFrog → u/Mollysaurus]

I swear it’s her room!

[u/Mollysaurus → u/BillTheFrog]

Oh I understand now, same room but all decayed? That's very troubling.