The notification buzzed on my phone, shattering the tense silence that had settled over my cramped apartment. It wasn’t the usual chime, though. This one was different, a low, almost mournful drone that sent shivers down my spine. I hesitantly unlocked my phone, the knot in my stomach tightening with every passing second. The Tinder notification wasn’t the unsettling part. It was the picture.
It was me. But not the way I saw myself in the mirror every day. This me was older, etched with lines I didn’t recognize, a weariness in my eyes that spoke of battles fought and lost. It was a version of me that sent a jolt of terror straight through me, a feeling so primal it hijacked any rational thought.
Below the picture, a single line of text: “It’s later than you think.”
My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum solo in the quiet of the night. I stared at the picture, willing it to disappear, to be some kind of cruel prank, a morbid joke. But it remained, a spectral image mocking my disbelief. Panic clawed at my throat, making it hard to breathe. Who sent this? How did they get this picture? More importantly, what did the message mean?
My mind raced, searching for any explanation, any connection that might shed light on this chilling message. I scanned through my recent matches, a growing sense of dread filling my chest. None of them seemed familiar, none of them sent any messages recently. The only message in my inbox was this one, this horrifying glimpse into a future I didn’t recognize.
Sleep, a distant memory, became a desperate hope. I tossed and turned all night, the image of my older self burning into my retinas. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside my window sent fresh waves of terror crashing over me.
As dawn painted the sky a pale orange, exhaustion finally claimed me. I drifted off into a restless sleep, only to be jolted awake by another notification. This time, it wasn’t a picture. It was a video.
I clicked on it with trembling fingers, the previous night’s terror a dull ache compared to the icy dread that gripped me now. The video showed a bustling street corner, the kind you’d see in a hundred different cities. But as the camera panned, it focused on a particular storefront - a small bakery nestled amongst towering buildings. A bakery I knew all too well. It was the one I frequented every morning for my coffee and croissant, the one just a block away from my apartment.
The blood drained from my face as I saw myself walk into the bakery. The older me from the picture, the one with the haunted eyes. My breath hitched as I saw myself order a coffee and a croissant, the same routine I followed every single day. But this time, as I reached for my wallet, a hand clamped down on mine.
The video cut abruptly, leaving me staring at a frozen frame of the hand. It was a man’s hand, rough and weathered, with a single, chilling detail - a ring on his finger. A ring I recognized all too well. It was my grandfather’s ring, a family heirloom passed down for generations, the one I always wore.
The world spun. My grandfather, the kindest soul I knew, had passed away a year ago. The ring, I thought lost, had been a constant reminder of him, a comfort in my grief. Now, it was a chilling symbol of something far more sinister.
With trembling hands, I dialled my best friend, Sarah. She was the only one who knew about the Tinder message, the one confidante I could share this bizarre, terrifying experience with. Her voice, laced with concern, calmed me down a little. We decided to head down to the bakery, hoping to find some answers, some explanation for the unsettling events.
The walk to the bakery was surreal. Every familiar landmark seemed to hold a hidden threat, every face in the crowd a potential danger. As we approached the bakery, my heart pounded in my chest. The bell above the door chimed as we entered, and a warm, yeasty aroma filled the air.
The bakery was bustling with customers, the usual morning crowd. But my eyes darted around, searching for the older me, for any sign of the man with the ring. Relief washed over me as I realized there was no one who looked remotely like the person in the video.
We approached the counter, a young woman with a bright smile greeting us. Sarah ordered her usual latte, while I, unable to stomach anything, simply asked for a glass of water. As the barista turned to get my water, I noticed a framed picture on the counter. It was a picture of the bakery staff, taken a few years ago. My eyes widened in disbelief.
There, in the corner of the picture, stood the man with the ring. He looked younger in the picture, his face less weathered, but the piercing gaze and the scar beneath his left eye were unmistakable. My breath hitched in my throat and I pointed, my voice barely above a whisper, “That man, who is he?”
The barista followed my finger to the picture, her smile faltering slightly. “Oh, that’s Mr. Davis,” she said, her voice soft. “He used to co-own the bakery with my grandfather. He retired a few years ago.”
Relief flooded my system, warmth replacing the ice that had encased my heart. A retired co-owner, not some sinister stalker, explained everything. The picture, the video - they were just a creepy coincidence. The message, “It’s later than you think,” probably referred to Mr. Davis being older than he appeared in the picture.
I shared my story with the barista, the fear and confusion I had experienced. Her eyes widened in understanding as she listened intently. When I finished, she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Mr. Davis,” she said, “had a habit of collecting things. He would, uh, borrow things from customers sometimes. Little things they wouldn’t miss, like a scarf or a hat. He never meant any harm, just a bit eccentric.”
My blood ran cold once more. Borrow things? Eccentric? The explanation didn’t sit right. Borrowed? Or stolen? And how did he get a picture of me, a picture that seemed to age me years? The coincidence was too overwhelming, the fear too deeply ingrained.
Sarah, sensing my unease, placed a comforting hand on my arm. “Maybe we should talk to the police,” she suggested gently. I nodded, the lingering fear pushing aside any remaining doubts. We needed answers, and the police, however unnerving the prospect, were the only ones who could offer them.
The following days were a blur of police reports, interviews, and a gnawing sense of unease that wouldn’t fade. They confirmed Mr. Davis was indeed retired but couldn’t find any evidence of criminal activity. The picture, they said, could be anything - a mistake, a deepfake. They offered reassurance, but their words couldn’t erase the unsettling feeling that something was still lurking just beneath the surface.
Evenings were the worst. Every shadow seemed to hide a menacing figure, every creak of the floorboard a potential threat. I stopped going to the bakery, unable to shake the image of Mr. Davis’s eyes from the picture, the unsettling feeling he was watching me.
Then, a week after the encounter, another notification buzzed on my phone. It wasn’t Tinder this time, but an anonymous email. The subject line was simple: “Look closer.” Attached was a single picture.
It was the same bakery staff picture, but this time, something was different. A red circle was drawn around Mr. Davis’s face, and an arrow pointed to a name tag I hadn’t noticed before. It read: “John.”
John. My grandfather’s name. The world spun once more. The “borrowed” items, the picture, the message – it all clicked into place. Mr. Davis wasn’t just eccentric; he was delusional. He believed he was my grandfather, come back to claim what he saw as rightfully his – me.
I finally understood the message, “It’s later than you think.” It wasn’t a warning, but a plea. A plea from my grandfather, trapped in the mind of a stranger, reaching out across time and memory.
The police took my story seriously this time. Armed with the email and my earlier concerns, they visited Mr. Davis. He was found confused and disoriented, claiming the bakery was his, that he was waiting for his grandson to come help him out.
Mr. Davis was placed in a care facility, the fear he instilled in me fading with each passing day. However, the memory of that chilling experience remains, a constant reminder of the darkness that can lurk beneath the surface of seemingly ordinary encounters.
And sometimes, when I walk past a bakery on a quiet morning, I swear I see a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye, a fleeting glimpse of a worn hand with a ring, and the faint echo of a voice whispering, “It’s later than you think.”
https://youtu.be/mKGJY7Jm-YY