“Look If You Can’t Handle It (21 Pics)” — A Story in 1000 Words
They say curiosity killed the cat, but for Jenna Cole, it sparked the beginning of a day she would never forget.
It all began with a message. Just a link. No caption. No warning. Sent by her best friend Marla at 2:13 a.m., it was titled:
“LOOK IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE IT (21 PICS)”
Jenna rolled her eyes. Marla was always sending bizarre memes or dark web rabbit holes. Half the time it was clickbait. But tonight, something felt off. The thumbnail was blurry, a strange shape barely visible behind a red filter. Jenna hesitated… then tapped it.
The page loaded slowly, as if the internet itself was resisting.
Picture 1: A cracked mirror in an abandoned hallway. Light flickered overhead. In the reflection, a woman stood—but there was no one actually in front of the mirror.
Picture 2: A playground at night. The swing was moving on its own. A child’s laughter echoed faintly in the background.
Jenna’s skin prickled. Still, she scrolled.
Picture 3: A family portrait with everyone smiling—except the baby, who stared directly at the camera, eyes glowing white.
“Okay, Marla. You’ve outdone yourself,” Jenna muttered, half creeped out, half intrigued.
But as she kept scrolling, she realized something was wrong.
Each picture wasn’t just eerie—they were familiar.
Picture 4: A rusty gate in front of a decrepit mansion. She’d seen that gate before. On Elm Street, just a few blocks from her childhood home.
Picture 5: A girl sleeping in her bed, a shadow at the foot. The poster on the wall was one Jenna had designed herself in college—her old dorm room.
Her breath caught.
She wasn’t just looking at spooky pictures.
She was being watched.
By Picture 6, her heart pounded. It was her. At the gas station two days ago, wearing her green hoodie. Taken from a low angle.
Picture 7: Her apartment door. Wide open.
She jumped from the bed, heart in her throat. Ran to the door—it was closed. Locked.
But when she turned back, the screen had changed.
“Do not look at Picture 8 if you’re alone.”
She froze.
A warning? Now?
Curiosity surged, overtaking fear.
She scrolled.
Picture 8: A selfie of her—taken right now.
Same clothes. Same expression. Her bedroom lights on behind her. But she hadn’t taken it.
Chills rippled down her spine. She slammed the laptop shut.
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: “Look at Picture 9.”
She screamed. Grabbed her phone, threw it across the room.
Breathe, Jenna. Breathe.
But it didn’t stop.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Buzz.
Each time, a new number. Same message: “Picture 9.”
Against her better judgment, she opened her laptop.
The site had changed.
Now it was just one picture on the screen: Picture 9.
Her living room.
Live.
She walked slowly toward her couch, phone flashlight trembling in her hand. The room was empty.
But on the screen, the camera feed shifted—following her.
“Who’s doing this?” she whispered.
No response.
Picture 10: Her bookshelf. One book pulled slightly out.
She turned. The same.
She reached for the book—Wuthering Heights. Inside, taped to the back cover, was a USB stick.
Her hands shook.
She plugged it in.
It auto-played a video.
Grainy, jumpy footage. A masked figure walking through her apartment. Pausing by her bed. Touching her pillow. Watching her sleep.
She vomited into a trash bin.
Picture 11: A list of names. Crossed out. Except one.
Hers.
Picture 12: A gloved hand holding a knife.
Picture 13: Her calendar. Tomorrow’s date circled in red.
Picture 14: A hole dug in the woods. A name carved into a stone.
“Stop,” she begged.
But the pictures kept coming.
Picture 15: A baby monitor, static hissing. A face appearing for half a second.
Picture 16: Her in the shower last week.
Picture 17: The alley behind her building. Blood on the bricks.
Each image tighter. Closer. More suffocating.
Picture 18: A note scrawled in red: “You shouldn’t have looked.”
Picture 19: A mirror again. But this time, her reflection was smiling—though she wasn’t.
She grabbed her phone and dialed Marla.
Straight to voicemail.
Then a text arrived:
“Picture 20 is the last thing you’ll ever see.”
Tears blurred her vision. She didn’t want to know. She wanted it to stop.
But the image loaded anyway.
Picture 20: A figure, hooded, standing outside her window.
She turned slowly.
Nothing there.
She backed away. Slid to the floor, sobbing.
And then, the screen went black.
For a moment, there was peace.
Until—
One final image.
Picture 21:
A black screen with one line in white:
“Uploading Picture 22… please smile.”
The webcam light blinked on.
And Jenna Cole was never seen again.
