"Mr. Boo...? What?" Simon could feel the anger rising in his cheeks as a red, hot flush. He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out slowly as if hoping it would take his annoyance with it. He grabbed hold of his daughter's arm and pulled to him, their noses almost touching. His voice was calm, an even monotone of implied repercussions.

"Where did the phone come from Rebecca?"

"

"I told you!" she said, her voice high. "Mr. Boogie gave it to me. He said I could keep it and play with it and not to tell you!"

A thought suddenly struck him. What if...?

"Where did you meet him, Rebel?" he asked, his irritation turning to fear. "Was he at the school? Is he one of your friends' dads? A teacher? Or is he a strange man who's been giving you presents?"

His daughter shook her head.

"No, Daddy. I know not to take things from strangers - you know that. It's like he's not real, but he is. I know Mollie and Melody aren't in the garden waiting for me to bring them some crisps, but I can pretend they are. It's fun. Nathaniel isn't like that. He's really not real. Or not really real. I don't know."

Simon sighed and shook his head. This was going nowhere.

"Please. I want to know where..."

"I told you! Now drop it! Please!"

Her hand dropped from his grasp suddenly. He didn't notice he'd let go. For a long moment he didn't know how to respond. She'd never spoken to him like that in her life. She'd never, as far as he knew, lied to him. There hadn't been any real disobedience. He was at a loss as to how to react. Then the anger took hold again and directed his response.

"GO TO YOUR ROOM!"

It was all he had. All many parents have. He bellowed it loud enough to leave him breathless. He was panting with his arms shaking and his fists clenched. Rebecca turned and, at the top of her own voice, wailed as she ran upstairs, her bedroom door slamming behind her.

"Well done, dad," said a voice behind him. He turned. Fey

"Yeah, I know." He sighed. "I have no idea what got into your sister. All over this stupid phone."

"Can I have a look?"

"Sure," said Simon, passing her the gadget. "Do you know anything about it?"

Fey turned it over, inspecting it. She switched it on and waited for it to be active.

"Do you know where she got it?"

He hoped she'd say she gave it to her younger sibling. Of course that raised the question of where Fey managed to get it. At fourteen, she only really had the pocket money he gave her and occasional bonuses for carrying out chores. Fey being Fey meant Simon didn't generally ask his eldest daughter to do any jobs around the house. She didn't particularly give her father any grief - she wasn't obnoxious and didn't tell him things were not fair. She didn't (often) raise her voice to him and, unlike many girls in their early teens bowing down to peer pressure, she didn't smoke.

She could be, he knew. He wasn't blind and he'd often tell his girls he was young once. They'd both groan and shake their heads. But he would smell it. He'd find cigarette packs or stubs. She wouldn't be able to completely hide it. Besides, she had 'tells'. When she was lying, she'd seem to develop a mild cough and would pull at her fringe. The cough was most likely to give her more time to think of the story she was making up. She didn't lie too much, thankfully. It was very occasional and over the stupidest things. She was well aware of her father's aversion to lying but, well, at her age it was almost in her genes. Simon forgave these mild indiscretions, though he did ensure Fey was punished. He was, however, understanding.

"I've never seen it before, Dad. I've got no idea."

Fey swiped the screen and flicked through a few screens and apps. She'd inherited Simon's natural affinity to all things electronic so had no troubles navigation the device. Simon could see what she was doing and let her. After a moment, she shook her head.

"It's clear."

"Clear?"

"Yes. It's unlocked and not linked to any account." She passed it back. "I don't know where it came from, Dad."

Simon imitated his daughter in moving through the screens and menus. There was nothing. It even lacked a SIM card. He held the power button and switched it off.

"What you going to do?" asked Fey.

"No idea. Throw it away?"

"Dad, as if you've ever throw away a phone, computer or anything that needed batteries."

He smirked. She knew him too well. He still had almost every mobile phone he'd ever owned. In the false roof of the garage was a large, covered box containing phones, chargers and batteries. They shared space with at least four laptops, a desktop tower, more than one monitor (including a CRT type) and myriad other obsolete thingamajigs.

"We'll see," he said. "Maybe I'll prove you wrong."

Fey laughed.

"Can I have £40?"

"What? You know the chances of that!"

"Yes, Dad. About the same as you getting rid of that phone. You may as well just give it to her. Neither of us is going to use it, and you can install some games on it for her. She can use it as a camera."

"Hmmm. Maybe. Anyway. DO you know anything about this Nathaniel or... what was it... Mr. Boogie?"

"No, Dad. Today is the first time I've heard of either of them - or him or whatever. It sounds like it's just one of her imaginary friends, she's just a bit overprotective about this one. Not a bad thing, maybe, seeing as she spends half the time arguing with the terrible twins.

'The terrible twins' was Fey's way of referring to two girls she'd never met and whose names she could never remember. It was also an effective way of annoying her younger sister.

"Ok. Fair enough. Now then. Fancy some breakfast?

"Considering it's almost lunch time, breakfast would be great, Dad."

Simon smiled and nudged past her.

"Yada, yada," he said. "I'll give you a shout when it's ready."

"What about the little devil?"

"Leave your sister for a few minutes. I'll be up and sort her out. Once she knows bacon is on offer, she'll soon cheer up."

"OK, Dad," she said as she opened the door to the hallway. "Love you," she added quickly, before he could make a point of picking up on it. She was too old for hugs and kisses from her dad. More than too old to be professing any emotional attachment to him. It just seemed the right thing to say and, just because she rarely said the words, that didn't mean she didn't feel it. It was just a bit... sort of... yuk.

Simon put the phone in the bottom drawer, amongst the chargers, spare batteries and 3D glasses for when they went to the cinema. He'd think about it tomorrow. For now, bacon was calling.

It was actually two days later when he remembered the phone. Rebecca hadn't mentioned it when she'd come back downstairs, nor had she raised the subject later or the next day. Simon was busy with being a father and keeping the house - and suffering from a lack of sleep due to a recurring nightmare he seemed to be having - and the incident and device became buried under the pile of mundanity which filled his time. He was a firm believer that, once an argument was done, it was left behind in the dirt highway of life and you just continued on your journey, letting all and sundry drive over it as they followed their own road. As such, he and his youngest daughter were back to normal. She was a delight and he was her favourite father once more.

He had been thinking about changing the photos on the walls. Since moving in, he'd simply put up the ones they'd had at their old house. Ones which were still up from before his wife died. He hadn't the heart to change them or take them down. They were family photos. Celebrations. Ghosts of a life gone by which, if the pictures were removed or changed, might disappear from memory. They had a new start here and photographs could be some of the building blocks needed to create the wall they'd use to ensure nothing could hurt them again. The old ones really made sure they clung on to the sadness and tears. They had been on the walls for so long, they had seemingly blended into the wallpaper, merging with the pattern to the point your eye forgot they were ever there. Then, when you caught a glimpse of a shadow or a reflection, you'd see the whole image and your heart would momentarily soar before sorrow dragged it back down into the abyss.

It was time for a change. It was time for new pictures. He'd still keep some of Leigh. There were some precious to them and they'd have to remain. Group ones with each or both of the children. A couple of 'action' shots where he'd set the timer and practically dived into frame. Otherwise, though, he'd snap fresh ones of the girls. Some with their knowledge and some natural pictures, where they were relaxed and their natural beauty was apparent.

He picked up his own mobile phone and swiped to gain access to the Gallery, his intention being to see if there were any already available. If so, he'd take them to the supermarket that afternoon and have them printed off. He had a decent enough printer attached to his PC, but he'd always preferred photos to be produced properly, on this paper with a professional finish. His hand hovered over the Gallery icon, finger pointing.

He slowly put his phone back down and pushed himself to his feet. He'd yet to check the mysterious object over. A cursory glance from Fey had indicated it was clear. Perhaps a factory reset had wiped any trace of the previous owner. He'd accepted her words and cast the phone aside. Perhaps he should check. See if she'd missed something.

He pulled the drawer open. Pushing aside the various wires and USB plugs that were crammed in with all the other items, he delved for the phone, frowning as his search drew a blank. Letting go of the drawer handle, he searched using both hands, emptying out chargers and spent batteries onto the floor.

Nothing.

Simon replaced the bits he'd taken out and pushed the drawer shut, standing with gritted teeth. He hoped he was wrong, but he had a good idea where to look. Rebecca was at school so he could hunt for the phone without being disturbed and, if he found it, decide what punishment was suitable.

Normally, he would only really go into his daughters' rooms to put clean clothes on their beds for them to put away. With Rebecca, he also checked on her at night, kissing her forehead and reminded her he was meant to be able to see the floor. Fey was different. She was older. He'd make sure she was covered at night but years of being told to clean her room or having belongings which were out of place unceremoniously dumped in the middle of the floor without a word had trained her well. It wasn't often that her room was anything less than tidy.

Standing in the centre of Rebecca's bedroom, he felt like an intruder. He was here for purposes other than the usual 'dad' things. Even though this could show that his baby girl had broken his trust, he felt he was doing that to her just by being in the room.

Still. He couldn't ignore the fact that it wasn't where he'd left it. He had to look.

Scanning over the room, he realised the phone could be anywhere. There were plenty of hidey-holes where a resourceful girl could hide something she didn't want found. He turned and pulled open the wardrobe, squeezing the tops and dresses hanging up and shoving the ones which had dropped to the bottom to be piled in with odd shoes, books and dolls. It wasn't there.

The chest of drawers was next, with four drawers of underwear, leggings and pyjamas (Rebecca loved her pyjamas and had so many pairs, Simon had given up counting). There was an unopened chocolate bar in the third drawer down, tucked under some skinny jeans. He didn't agree with her hiding sweets, but it wasn't really a punishable offence.

He stood again and surveyed the room. Rebecca had a small desk she liked to draw and play at. There were shelves with a variety of sea related ornaments (mirroring her love of mermaids and dolphins). Then there was the bed. She'd want it close to her, if she had taken it. She wouldn't want to have to rummage for it and would need to be able to hide it quickly. The most obvious place would be the bed. Simon pulled the quilt back and shoved his hand under the pillow. Immediately, he felt something hard and removed it.

The mobile phone.

He turned it on, his stomach churning at the abject deceit. It didn't make sense! Rebel would never even dream of behaving like this. Firstly, he went into the call logs, though he was aware there was no SIM card. The logs were empty. No phone calls. That was good - it meant she hadn't somehow managed to buy a SIM card to talk to whoever was causing her to act this way. He went through the menus to see if an account had been logged in but, again, it was empty.

He shook his head. Why hide the phone if you're not even using it? Ah. Of course. The gallery. What else would a six year old want to do other than take photos and capture video? A couple of swipes and he was in - and he was correct. He couldn't really remember a time when his daughter hadn't been with him over the past couple of days. Apart from sleeping and going to the toilet, they'd be in and out of each other's' company constantly. It had been a normal weekend. He couldn't think how she'd retrieved the phone without his knowledge. He also couldn't see how she'd managed to take almost 100 photos in such a short time! Many were selfies. Variations on a pose, some with the typical 'trout pout' and others gazing away, past the camera. Smiles, frowns, softly blank expressions.

Then there were others. Him. Fey. Next door's dog. The old guy along the street who cleaned his car every other day and was rumoured to have been having an affair with his mother. In amongst the images were short videos. Again, they were similar subjects to the photos, but how had she taken them? When? And without being seen?

He remade the bed and went back downstairs. It would be another three hours before she'd be home, Monday being 'travel with Kieran and his mum day', with Fey following behind by thirty minutes or so. He set the phone down, switched off, on the kitchen table and went about his business, putting the dilemma out of his head. Why stew on it? What would it achieve other than either working him up or calming him down? He could become more wound up with each passing minute or he could work through his anger and be smiling by the time she came home. No. Think about something else. His car needed cleaning. That would do.

Kieran was in Rebecca's class and Simon and the boy's mum occasionally took the other child to school. It happened two or three times a week, with Thursday being Simon's turn to take Kieran. Julia, his mum, dropped Rebecca at the front gate as usual. Simon waved and smiled at his daughter.

"Hi Rebel. You had a good day?"

Rebecca ran past him and straight up the stairs to the toilet. It was a daily ritual. He walked into the kitchen and sat at the table, waiting. He heard the toilet flush and footsteps lead into the front bedroom before, after a long pause, coming downstairs. The young girl entered the room looking shocked and very nervous. Her hands were locked together and her bottom lip was caught between her teeth. Her eyes fixed onto the phone and her shoulders slumped.

"Hi, Daddy," she said quietly.

"Hello, Rebecca."

She looked up sharply at the use of her name. Her eyes were wide and he could almost see steam coming from her ears as she struggled to come up with an excuse for taking and hiding the phone.

"Have you... had a good day?" she asked. He could hear the tremor in her voice.

"Very good, thank you. How about you?"

"Erm... Yes, Daddy."

"Rebecca, we could pretend that there isn't a mobile phone sitting on the table. We can pretend I didn't take it off you and put it in the drawer and we can pretend I didn't find it tucked under your pillow. We can pretend all that and chat about how nice our days were."

Rebecca's eyebrows raised in hope, and she breathed in sharply.

"But we're not going to," Simon said. A murmur escaped her lips. It sounded like a cat in pain. Well, young lady, there's more to come, he thought. "I'd like you, please, to explain yourself."

His daughter didn't say anything. Her eyes were darting between her father and her prize. Her mouth opened and closed a few times as if she was trying to say something but the words were stuck in her throat and were refusing to come out.

"I..." She stared at the floor, not daring to look on the table and feeling as if she might burst into flames if she looked at her father.

"You what?" asked Simon. "You took it?"

She nodded slowly.

"Would you like to tell me why?"

A shake of the head.

"I'd like you to tell me."

"I don't know," she said sheepishly.

"Of course you know. You didn't take it for no reason at all, because you knew you'd get into trouble."

A nod.

"Look," he said. "Just tell me. What's the deal with the phone? I just want to know."

Sensing a softening in her father's voice, she looked at him.

"I had to, Daddy. He told me to. He said I could take lots of photos and it'd be fun."

"He?" Simon dreaded the answer. Not this rubbish again.

"Nathaniel, Daddy. Mr. Boogie."

"Rebel, please." He took her hand and held it between both of his. "Stop with all the 'Boogie' nonsense. It's not real. I don't know what's wrong. Just tell me."

Rebecca took a deep breath. She didn't say anything for a long time, then:

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I found it. I didn't think you'd believe me. I found it when we were at the park after school and there was no-one around so I picked it up."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you'd take it off me. I thought you wouldn't let me have it and I wanted my own phone. I wanted to play games and take pictures. I thought I could take pictures of you so, if you went to see Mummy, I'd never forget what you looked like. Sometimes I have to look at the photos of Mummy because I think I'm forgetting what she was like and I don't want that. I want to remember her. And if I take pictures, I can remember you too."

Simon gasped. Tears pricked at his eyes but he held them back, though it was an effort. He pulled her close, holding her tightly, not knowing quite what to say.

"Take the phone," he said, finally. "Take all the pictures you want, ok Rebel?"

"Yes, Daddy. Thank you."

Simon kissed her on the forehead. She sniffed, wiped a tear and gently picked up the phone. She held it close to her and gave a sad smile as she turned and left the kitchen. Simon sighed to himself and, once she was gone, let the tears flow.

Rebecca closed her bedroom door behind her.

"You were right," she said quietly, looking at the screen in her hands. "I didn't like lying, but it worked!"

She giggled and pressed the power button, looking in the mirror as she practiced her best selfie smile.

"What's Beck doing with that phone, dad?" Fey asked her father later.

"I've let her use it," he answered. "She likes to take pictures."

"What about all that Boogie rubbish? She still hasn't told you where it came from."

"I know." Simon shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She just has an active imagination. An interest in photography will be good for her, anyway."

Fey muttered something he couldn't quite hear, but he realised the meaning.

"Don't worry. I'm not just caving in. I'll keep a check on it. She's not totally getting away with lying to me."

"OK, Dad. Whatever you say."

Simon had to admit, by the end of the week, he was enjoying his daughter being so interested in snapping away. He'd bought her a charger and, when she wasn't at school, eating or asleep, the mobile phone seemed to be permanently attached to her hand. She was always asking him to smile or he'd catch her sneaking up on him or her sister. Fey would moan and tell her to stop and to leave her alone, but there was usually a faint smile playing across her lips as she said it and she'd never turn away. Simon was convinced Fey was getting as much pleasure from Rebel's new hobby as he was. He left her to it. If it made her smile and made Fey almost smile, things may well be changing for the better in their house.

It might finally be becoming a home.

Saturday night. Fey was in her room, playing on her Xbox whilst chatting to her friends. Simon had been to the toilet and had heard laughter as he walked past. It was late and Rebecca had been in bed for a good hour or so. He quietly went in, as he did every night and couldn't imagine a time when he wouldn't. Her quilt had been kicked down so he pulled it back up to her neck, kissing her forehead lightly. He switched off her lamp and was about to leave when he saw the mobile phone on her chest of drawers. He paused. She'd been using it for most of the evening, now having downloaded some music to it so she could sing along whilst photographing anything and everything. It would, doubtless, need charging. He'd do it for her. She'd like that. He picked it up and walked downstairs, collecting the charging lead. He pressed the power button, expecting it to be in the red but being surprised to discover it was almost fully charged. He could take it back up later, when he went to bed. She wouldn't even notice it was gone.

He put the phone beside him and returned his attention to the television. He was watching a comedy. The main character was a man dressed as a old woman. He's seen the episode before, but it still made him laugh. A half hour later, the show finished and he turned it off, yawning. His hand dropped to his side, onto the phone and he was startled to realise it was there. He'd forgotten he'd brought it down. Oh well. It was bedtime, so he could return it now. He picked it up, his hand catching the power button, the screen lighting up.

It wouldn't hurt. He'd just have a look. He was Rebel's dad, it was his job. Anyway, she'd have nothing to hide. After the events of the previous weekend, Simon had intended to pretty much act as if the phone wasn't there. It was hers. She was capturing him and her sister - their life, so as to always have it if anything happened. Just like he'd decided not to touch the old photos on the walls so he could keep the memories and the people in them strong and real, Rebel was taking new ones so, when she grew up, they'd all still be tangible and unaffected by the passage of time - even if Death had visited and taken him away. But, as her parent, he should take a look. He should be aware.

He opened the Gallery and started to scroll, shocked that there were over seven hundred photographs. He'd just have a quick look. He had neither the time nor the inclination to look at every single one. He left the display on thumbnails as he scrolled. The pictures were small, with the display being a good inch or more less than his own, but he could easily make out the contents of most of them. Occasionally, he'd open one up fully to see Fey smiling or Rebel puckering her lips to the point she resembled a fish. He saw himself cutting the peppers for the curry he made the other night. He saw himself bent over in the bathroom, washing his hair. He saw Fey lying on her bed with her eyes closed and her earphones on. There were photos he hadn't realised she'd taken (how had he not noticed her photographing him whilst he was painting the garage door? How had Fey not gone crazy when she'd been snapped with no makeup on and her hair and torso wrapped in towels after a shower. Simon smiled, laughed and frowned in equal measure.

To scan through them faster, he flicked the screen upwards. They were all generally the same sort of thing. He didn't need to examine every single one.

Wait.

What was that?

He moved his finger slowly back. Fey. Simon. A tree. Rebecca. Fey again. A red car. Simon.

Simon opened the photograph showing him shaving. He remembered it well. Rebel had quietly opened the bathroom door and Simon hadn't noticed her until he heard the shutter of the camera and his daughter giggling. It made him jump and he knicked himself with his razor. He rubbed his chin, a mild ache creeping back to where the blade had cut. The photo showed the back and side of his head. You could see the cream on his face and the razor against it. You could see the concentration on his face in the mirror's reflection. He hated shaving. His neck was too sensitive and he always bled, no matter how gentle he was or how expensive the blade.

You could see something else.

A... a smudge? A shadow where there shouldn't be one?

Simon zoomed in, though the phone's screen wouldn't go too far without pixelating the image. It was in the reflection, next to his head, but there was nothing in the bathroom to cause it. At first, Simon thought it was a mark on the screen, but realised his mistake instantly. The screen was clean and he had needed to scroll back to see it.

It was a smudge or dirt or a shadow.

It was a face... of sorts. He bent, squinting to try and pick out the details, but couldn't. It was as if his eyes didn't want to stay on the darker area. As if they were sliding over it. He blinked and shook his head. He slid his finger across to the next photo.

Fey doing her homework, head bent forward, nose almost touching the page, pen in hand. She was at the kitchen table. It was early evening. Still light. Next to her was a glass of water. Over her shoulder was the shadow that wasn't a shadow.

Next photo. Fey and Simon together. They were watching TV. It had been Thursday night, after Rebecca should have been asleep. He remembered Fey had been cold so they had pulled the large blanket from behind the chair in the corner and had shuffled beneath it. Past them was the bay window. In the window was the shadow, except, this time, Simon could make it out better. It was slightly clearer.

It was a figure. Tall. Dark. Lurking..

He dropped the phone onto the cushion next to him and it bounced and fell on the floor. He grabbed it quickly, suddenly scared in case the noise woke Rebecca and he had to ask if she knew what was in her photos. He was afraid to ask and afraid of her answer.

No. No. He was being ridiculous. As if Rebel, his sweet little girl would notice such things. It was a trick of the lighting. Or... yes! A mark on the lens! Of course! Stupid! For a self-proclaimed, loud'n'proud gadget geek, Simon felt suddenly foolish. He turned the phone over and licked his finger. He examined the lens but couldn't see anything. No matter. He rubbed his wet fingertip over the glass and then used his t-shirt to dry it. He moved it in different directions to see against the light of the lamp next to him.

Clean.

He fired up the camera on the phone and aimed it at the floor and his foot. Click.

Quickly, Simon went back into the Gallery, opening up the photo he'd just taken. Nothing. Just the laminate flooring and his right foot in a grey sock. He sighed and slumped back. He laughed at himself.

"Duffer," he said quietly.

He picked up the phone and pushed himself up. Time for bed. He'd been working himself too hard since his wife's death and moving into their new house so far away from their home town. He was getting stressed and starting to see things. He needed to lighten up. He had a thought, a surprise for Rebel. It'd put a smile on both their faces. Pursing his lips into the best 'trout pout' he could manage, he took his first ever selfie. He smiled as he tapped the screen to see what he looked like.

The colour drained from his face and his breath seemed to freeze in his lungs.

Next to his own face was another. Black. Elongated. Odd.

Simon fell to the side, looking around frantically. He dropped the phone again, but this time was too busy scrambling away until his back was to the opposite wall to worry about it. Once he was there and he was sure he was alone in the room, he used his foot to pull the phone towards him. He was panting and could feel sweat beading on his forehead. It ran down into his eye and he wiped it clear.

"Get a grip. Get your breath. Stop being a prat," he admonished himself.

It didn't work. His fist was clenched. His jaw was locked, his eyes anxiously scanning the room.

"Stop it!" he said. "Stop it, stop it, stop it!"

It was a stupid anomaly on the phone. A camera fault or something.

No. It wasn't. He hurriedly stood and ran to the conservatory, taking the USB lead from the phone's charger. He switched on the wireless mouse and clicked the button. After a short moment, the screen was on and Simon could log on. His hands fumbled as he plugged in the lead and attached the phone, needing to click three times to be able to access the photos stored in its internal memory. He double clicked randomly on an image file and it filled the screen.

The park. The slide. A long, sweeping tunnel of silver metal which opened out at the bottom, ready to throw you off the end. Rebecca must have taken the photo on her way down. At the bottom, where you'd normally see the face of whichever parent was brave enough to look up to see if their child was coming down, wasn't a face, but was, instead, a mark on the top just before you were spewed out into the arms of your loved one. He zoomed in.

It appeared to be a clawed 'M' with a wide curve beneath it. Three jagged points stretched down from what he could only describe as the smile, and, at the top of the middle spike were a pair of rough circles.

Eyes.

And the next picture. And the next. Some had the symbol and some either the figure or his face. It had to be a mask. A person dressed up to frighten his daughter! But who? And why just hang around? Why, if he was going to hurt or take her, hadn't he?

Simon was panting in ravaged breaths. There were so many and, in almost all of the photos, the person appeared. Always in the background. Never quite close. Never where he could obviously be seen.

Except, of course, in the selfie Simon had just taken. He looked through the conservatory window, past the kitchen and into the lounge. It was empty. He switched on the printer and made hard copies of a dozen of the images. He had to look closer. Spread them out rather than endlessly clicking on the computer. He'd spread them over the table. He'd be able to examine them properly then.

Once the pictures had printed, he selected them all. He right clicked, the mouse hovering over the Delete command. Controlling his breathing with long breathes through his nose, he clicked. A warning appeared. Yes, he was sure. It took a few seconds for the photos to be banished into the digital netherworld, but, when they were gone, Simon yanked the cable from the USB port and leaned back, rubbing his forehead. What the hell was he going to do? Who was this guy? What did he want with his daughter?

He jumped to his feet and darted to the back door. He yanked it open and ran outside, triggering the security light, half expecting to see the person standing over by the garage wall, captured in the light as if by a camera flash. The garden was, however, empty apart from the patio furniture and oversized plastic chair in the corner. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. The stalker wasn't there, but he also couldn't bring him to bear - with a fist. He turned and re-entered his house, closing and locking the door behind him. He sat back down at the computer.

Who was he? Where had he come from and what was his interest in Rebecca? A thought, like the security light of the garden, sparked in his mind. Was this the Nathaniel or Mr. Boogie she'd been talking about? It had to be! That meant he'd approached her! They'd interacted and his daughter had been close to the bastard! But...

But...

But, what about the selfie. There had been no-one sitting next to him. He'd been alone on the sofa, he was sure. And he was alone after the photo had been taken. How could he explain that? Some man in a stupid mask and long coat with a paint brush in his hand was not going to be able to photobomb his picture and then vanish without a trace. It wasn't possible.

He picked up the printouts and started to page through them. The figure seemed to be more distinct now, in ink form. It was sharper, more real and less like a shadow. Simon looked at the next sheet. Whoever he was, the person seemed massive. All dark bulk and menace. He shuddered and moved on. The man was closer and Simon could make out vague details, as if the darkness was taking shape within the form. And the next page. Closer again. Long, lank hair clung to the skull. The eyes were deep, black sockets. Another photo. Still nearer.

Simon frowned. He couldn't remember such detail or proximity when he was looking at them on the PC. They were vague, more stain than stark. He looked at the next photo and then shifted through them faster. With each change of paper, the figure seemed to approach the camera. Finally, he reached the last and abruptly fell backwards, throwing the pages away from him, the chair tipping over and sending him sprawling.

It was no longer a tall, unsettling man with an unhealthy curiosity about his daughter. In the last shot, Simon couldn't see himself or Fey or the house or a slide. The face, the one which had appeared next to his when no-one had been there, had filled the page. And he couldn't help feeling - couldn't help knowing - it had been looking at him.