It was nearly 90 degrees when I saw him—red-faced, crying, pounding on the window of a locked car. No adults around.

I dropped everything and ran. The boy looked about five. Brown hair, white shirt. He screamed louder when he saw me.

I called 911.

The dispatcher cut in, calm but firm: “That car was cleared fifteen minutes ago. The child’s safe.”

“No,” I said. “I’m looking at him right now.”

A pause. Then: “Ma’am… there shouldn’t be anyone in that car.”

Suddenly, the boy stopped crying and held up a phone. On the screen—a photo of me. Taken just minutes earlier.

I backed away. “He has a picture of me.”

“Step away,” the dispatcher said. “Officers are en route.”

But when they arrived, the boy and the phone were gone. They said the real child, Josh, was home. Alive. Safe. Called it stress.

That night, a photo appeared on my phone: me, beside the car. Shot from behind.

I hadn’t taken it.

The next day I went back. Same car. Same plates. Empty—except for a stuffed bear and some trash. Inside the store, I found a still-warm white shirt. Then came a soft knock. A freezer door opened slowly. Inside, a juice box… and a sticky note:

“You saw me.”

That night, another photo: me, asleep. Taken from the foot of my bed.

No intruder. Just more photos. Every day.

So I fled. Moved overseas. Started fresh.

Until I saw the car again.

Same boy. Just watching.

Later, a journalist told me the truth: the real Josh died five years ago. But sightings of the car—and those eerie photos—kept happening.

“One woman said it stopped,” he told me. “After she went back… and said goodbye.”

So I did.

I returned. Sat beside the car. Whispered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

He appeared. Smiled. Touched my arm. Then vanished.

The photos stopped. The car disappeared.

Some stories don’t need answers. Just someone to finally see them.

If you’ve seen him too… maybe now, he’s finally at peace.