In a white sedan’s passenger seat, he pounded his fists at the glass, blushing and crying. The windows were sealed. No adults were around.
Nearly 90 degrees. I ran to the vehicle after leaving my goods in the parking lot. Locked doors. He screamed louder when he saw me.
Shaking hands, I phoned 911. A automobile has a youngster trapped in. He looks five—white shirt, brown hair, perhaps overheating.”
Dispatcher cut me off. How about the manufacturer and model?
Told her.
Silence.
Then: “That vehicle was cleared 15 minutes ago. Child is secure with mother.”
I looked at the child, still shouting and banging.
No, he’s in the vehicle. I’m watching him.”
Line quietened again. Slower, the dispatcher continued, “Ma’am, step away from the vehicle. Avoid approaching again. Officers are coming.”
Stepping back, I looked. The same car. The same license plate. Same white shirt.
The youngster was quiet.
Staring at me, he put his face to the glass.
His hand lifted something.
A phone. Turned toward me.
A snapshot of myself appeared on screen. Taken 10 minutes earlier. In this parking lot.
I felt dizzy, maybe from the heat or the situation. I dropped the 911-connected phone and shakily retreated. I yelled into the line, “He’s holding a phone and it has a photo of me. How would he—?
Dispatcher voice altered. Move away from the car, ma’am. Avoid approaching again. Officers are coming.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me and staggered back to the pavement. Passing shoppers were unaware. The kid left the window. An vacant seat, like if I dreamt everything.
But I didn’t. It was what I saw.
I recognized the picture from when I parked and got out—the blue outfit, tote bag, and unkempt hair. My heart hammered like it was trying to escape.
The cops arrived five minutes later. Two vehicles with lights out and doors slamming came slowly, like police. I pointed at the automobile. “He was there. He vanished.”
Officer Drayton questioned, “Disappeared how?”
“Gone. Screaming, he showed me the phone, then poof.”
Even with the daylight shining, they used spotlights to search the automobile. No child. No phone. Nothing on seats.
“It’s locked,” replied the second cop, a younger shaved-head. Registered to a lady two streets away. She phoned earlier to report her son’s lockdown. A paramedic opened the vehicle. Got the boy. Mum drove home. Case closed.”
Who did I see? Asking in a whisper.
A delayed response from Drayton. He faced his buddy. “Call mother. Confirm everything.”
I trembled as they left to make the call. A lady passed me with a watermelon and said, “You okay, hon?”
I wasn’t. Not even close.
Police responded minutes later. “Mother agreed. A boy named Josh. He’s home safe. Popsicle eating.”
“But the photo,” I repeated. “My face on the phone. Think I dreamt it?
My eyes were ignored by Drayton. “Sometimes trauma tricks us.”
No argument. I nodded, thanked them, and went home with melting ice cream and wet vegetables. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I continued browsing my phone’s images. For sure.
It was then I noticed it.
Photo I never took.
I stood near the automobile. Before dialing 911. It seemed like someone was observing from the lot’s trees. Ice formed on my flesh.
Not using iCloud. I don’t share phones. I didn’t take the shot.
Not told anybody. Not initially.
I returned to the grocery shop the following day.
The sedan returned.
Same place. Same plates.
Empty.
This time, I approached gently with my phone ready. Viewed via windows. Nothing. No child. No phone.
Fast food wrappers and a missing-eye plush bear filled the backseat.
Something told me I wasn’t alone. I surveyed the property. An elderly guy loaded packages. Woman fought with child. Near the bike rack, an adolescent lad watched me from his bike.
Or was he?
To calm myself, I took a snapshot of the vehicle and entered the shop. Disoriented, I traversed the aisles pretending to shop. As I grabbed for a box of cereal, I saw something that stopped me.
A white t-shirt.
Small. Back of the clothes aisle and hanging.
One like the kid wore.
Was moist.
I touched it without knowing why. Warm feeling. Fresh.
I heard it then.
Knock.
Faint. Repeating.
I glanced toward the sound—just an ajar freezer door. I approached. The only thing there was a juice box. A sticky note was inside the glass.
“You saw me.”
Legs buckled. Sitting on the floor, I hugged my knees like a terrified child.
Left without purchasing.
Back to my flat, I locked and lit everything. I slept poorly that night. My phone buzzed at 3:12 a.m. New picture.
It was I. Sleeping.
Or attempting. On my bed. From the foot of bed.
Screamed.
Police were called. They discovered nothing.
Break-in not detected. Fingerprintless. They blamed stress.
This wasn’t stress.
I changed locks. New curtains. Sleeping with a knife beneath my pillow.
Photos kept pouring.
I clean my teeth.
Me on the balcony.
I cried.
From various views. At different periods.
I was watched.
My patience ran out. Left my work. Packed. Left town. In a little North Wales community, no one knew me.
Somewhat, it worked.
I cooked bread and read at a seaside house. No pics. No signs.
Until last week.
I spotted the automobile again.
Make same. Same plates.
Parking outside the supermarket.
A boy in the backseat.
White shirt.
Brown hair.
No tears this time. His gaze was fixed.
I didn’t bother cops.
I didn’t approach.
I passed with my head down and heart thudding. I pretended it was fake.
I took another shot that night.
Me in front of the automobile.
Another rearward view.
I contacted a reporter. Told him everything.
He listened. Took notes. Promised to investigate.
Two days later, he phoned.
Said he discovered.
“There was a case,” he stated. “Five years ago. Same-age, same-description boy left in hot vehicle. Model same. Same plates. Same mother.”
“He died,” I muttered.
“Yes. The mother was exonerated. Claimed he was with her ex. Miscommunication. But the odd part? At least eight communities have seen the automobile since. Always empty. Sometimes not.”
“And the photos?”
He paused. “There are others. You’re not first.”
“What does it mean?”
“No idea. This ceased for one of the other ladies when she returned. Return to its origin. Said goodbye.”
So I did.
I returned to the grocery store lot in July heat.
Found the sedan.
Sat on the curb beside it.
And muttered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Air stilled.
The boy emerged.
Next to me, not in the automobile.
Real.
Smiling.
His hand stroked my arm.
And disappeared.
I never received another picture.
That car? Left the following day.
Possibly a haunting. Maybe guilt. A larger thing.
I just know that certain moments transform you.
Some kids need affirmation.
Share this touching tale. Maybe someone else saw the boy.