White Room

Retirement is the best step my life has taken. My profitable job as a stockbroker allowed me to retire in my mid thirties. Since then, I have moved to my own flat on a private section of beach on the coast of southern California. The neighbors here were few and those that were around kept to themselves. Sometimes this lack of social activity was a boon, but most of the time, the privacy was appreciated. I've never been married, but have had my share of women. The occasional social drink and late night partying filled any gap in my social life that I felt present. Upon reaching my fortieth birthday, I had everything that any man could want.
Entering my home from my usual evening jog, I showered and didn't bother to dress in any more than my underclothing as I was not planning for guests this night. I ate my dinner on my large, leather couch so that I could watch the evening news on the large television that filled a large portion of one wall. I watched several news spots on the agony and suffering in the world and considered myself self-blessed. My hard work early on in life had given me a lifestyle of which I was very content. My satisfaction with myself and knowing that all was well was relaxing. So relaxing that I placed my plate of food on a side table next to my couch and lay down, eventually drifting to sleep.
I was woken harshly by a loud clamor in the living room in which I had fallen asleep. I jerked up, waiting to defend myself from any assailant who thought himself bold enough to break into my home. I looked around, seeing nobody, and hoped that a friend of mine had decided to play a prank on me. The room was empty and silent, aside from myself and my furnishings. I walked around my large sofa and saw no signs of any trespassers. My front, back, and side doors all remained locked. I returned to the sofa, thinking that perhaps a poorly placed picture in the room had fallen from its place and I would take care of it when I woke in the morning.
Upon sitting on the sofa, I grabbed my remote to turn my television back on, but muted to help me relax once more. I was startled once more to find that the place which my television once stood was bare. I jumped up once again to the now empty space. The carpet was pressed in where the television once was and in its place was an undeveloped Polaroid photograph. It was the sort of photo that is ejected from a camera once the shot is taken, with a wide white border around the outside of the photo itself. Infuriated that someone had somehow broken into my home and stolen my television, I scarcely paid attention to the photo as I picked it up.
I rushed outside, chilled by my lack of outer clothing in the dark night, and frantically searched for any sign of the criminal. Barely able to see in the night, I resolved to phone the police in the morning. Before returning to the interior of my home, I procured my spare key from underneath one of the stones in my yard, just in case the perpetrator had used it to enter my home.
As I reentered my now seemingly bare living room, I looked at the photograph still in my hand. The picture had now almost entirely developed and was clear enough to see. It was a clear photo of a television, identical to mine in every way, sitting in the corner of a plain, white, padded room, like the kind that would be seen in a mental institution. Thinking little on this, other than it being a bad joke by the thief, I put the photo on my side table and left it.
Tired, and feeling dizzy from my excited exertions, I retired to my bed for the night. The remaining hours of the night were restless as my anger towards the gutsy criminal brewed inside me.
The police arrived promptly the next morning to investigate the crime. Their investigation infuriated me further towards the criminal. The officers found no sign of breakage into any entrance of my home, no unusual tire tracks, nothing out of place. Everything was as it should be, without the addition of my television. The police left, giving me a case number, and the name of a detective to contact in one week.
I retold the story of the offense to one of my friends at a local bar. Strangely, he was very sober at this time and was able to help analyze the crime. I told him about the photograph of the television I found and his interested become really piqued. It then occurred to me that I had forgotten to show the photo to the police that had investigated my home. I described the photo to my friend, telling him about the room in which it would seem my own television was depicted in once the photo had developed. He then asked to clarify that the picture was not yet developed when I picked it up. I had not thought much of this detail before now. My friend proceeded to explain that in order for the picture to have not been developed yet, it would have to have been taken only seconds before I found it. This would require for the photo to be taken in my living room and would be depicting whatever the camera was pointed at. If it was of my television which would have to have been in the room at the time the photo was taken, there would be no way anyone could move my property that quick. This photo I described to my friend was clearly of my television, but not of my living room.
I returned to my home after a few more drinks and being so frustrated, and now confused about the photograph, I declined to go on my regular evening jog. Before I entered my home, I walked around my property, making sure each door was securely locked and no windows were open. I then unlocked one door and proceeded to my kitchen to acquire something more substantial than the few beers I had earlier. I sat on my couch, as I was so accustomed to doing, to watch the evening news. I sighed in defeat as the pain of the loss of my television sunk into me. Being unnerved by the quiet, I turned on my radio and went about some routine activities, such a reading a magazine article and lifting a few weights.
As the sun set, I showered and while wrapped in a towel, began shaving. As I was halfway through shaving, my home became unusually silent. I realized the radio had stopped playing and being apprehensive from the previous night's theft, I ran to the location of my radio to find it missing. In the place of my radio was a Polaroid picture, not yet developed. With little hesitation, I ran out the nearest door of my home to pursue any possible criminal nearby. In the light of the sunset, I could see nobody nearby and no vehicles on the road. It did not seem possible for any person fleeing any scene to make such a quick escape. Especially if someone had been carrying something as large as the stereo which I owned, they would be moving quite slowly. The lack of any presence anywhere nearby caused much anger in me to be replaced by confusion. It did not make sense that my television and stereo could be removed so quickly and without evidence.
I looked at the new photo in my hand and my mind become further entangled in the impossibilities presented to me. The picture was of my stereo, with the custom mixer, two-hundred disc changer, and amps that had all been purchased separately. It was also pictured in the same, identical room in which my television had been displayed.
The next day, I called the detective who had been assigned my case. I relayed to him the story of my second theft and he arrived with another police officer. I did not fail this time to present to him both photographs which had been left in the place of my stolen objects. The story and idea behind the photos puzzled the detective and the accompanying officer so greatly, that they could not give any guesses to the method of thievery. The detective vowed to call me the next morning whether he had news or not. I had no choice but to believe that he would attempt to find the perpetrator.
The remainder of my day was used in shopping for a new television and stereo. Both units were very large and I was unable to carry them home myself, so a delivery crew would bring them by my house the next morning when they were next available. I had also purchased a smaller television, as large as would fit inside my car, and this I would place in my bedroom after rearranging some things to make a spot for it in front of my bed.
That night, I was extra careful to lock each door and window. As a precaution, I even shoved a chair at an angle under the knob of each door, so that it would be very difficult to force any door open. I also placed a couple pots on each chair, balanced in such a way, that if anyone tried to force a door open, such a loud noise would be made, that I would be able to reach the offender well before he was able to steal anything else.
I drifted off to sleep while flipping channels on the television in my bedroom. I was awoken by a harsh clamor coming from the weight room next to my bedroom. I jumped out of my bed and sprinted to my weight room. I was astounded to see my largest piece of exercise equipment gone and a photo in its place. Leaving the photo, I ran to each of the doors to see which had been broken in to. I was further astounded to see that not one of the piles of pans had been moved from their places on the angled chairs. It would not be possible for any trespasser to replace chair and pans they way they were on their way out. The only thought that went through my head was that the criminal was still in my house.
I walked quietly back to my weight room and examined it. I picked up the photograph to see a picture of my weight machine in a white, padded room. I was frustrated that not only was this thief persistent in taking my belongings in which I had worked so hard to earn, but was somehow forging these photos of what he stole in a strange room. I was also confused as to the method of removing my weight machine from the room it was in. It required large, clumsy tools to disassemble to the point that it could be awkwardly taken through the doorway. Even then, it would make such a noise and take so long that no person, especially one as light of a sleeper as I, would sleep through it. I walked through my home to find any trace of the criminal who must still be present somewhere.
I walked into my living room, searching for the thief and any sign of my belongings, to be shocked even further. The sofa from my living room was missing. No single person could move such an object and its sheer size prevented it from being carried through any entry way. The nearest doorway had to be temporarily widened just to get it inside. Only evidence of the sofa being present was the indentations in the carpet and a partly developed photograph of the sofa in a white, padded room.
I was very unnerved by this point. Logic seemed to have no place in these crimes as I searched every closet space and even every cupboard. I kicked one of the chairs away from one of my doors, causing the cacophony of the clattering pans to ring painfully loud in my ears. I rushed outside to my car, planning on driving to the nearest police station. The only thing that I found in the place of my car was a photograph. Similar to the pictures I've already found, this one showed a larger view of the white room to accommodate the larger size of the vehicle now inside it. I couldn't have been more angry and scared. The thief was not only obviously nearby, but was stealing them in a most unusual manner. I couldn't even begin to guess how these thefts could happen. Not only did they make no sense, but the pictures left in the place of each item were becoming unnerving.
I ran back inside to grab the cordless phone on my kitchen counter. It shouldn't have surprised me to find the phone missing and a photo of it sitting where the phone once stood. I could now not call the police, nor could leave my home. Any place worth going to for help was too far to walk or even run to in time. Nothing could be reached soon enough to make a difference and I wanted this unusual thief out of my house now and I wanted my property back.
I ran to my dresser in my bedroom and pulled out the top drawer. Underneath my pile of socks, I found my .45 revolver. A feeling of relief swept over me as I pulled it out. I had actually expected it to be missing with only a photo replacing it. I turned each corner of my house with my gun drawn, hammer cocked back. My adrenaline was running too fast to think clearly. I was so enraged and terrified that I would shoot any person I saw. If one of my friends had been playing a hideous prank on me, I would have been too blinded by my mixed emotions to have let them live.
Standing in my living room, I looked around with my gun pointed any direction my eyes traveled. I heard no sounds. No footsteps. No banging of stolen weights. No scrapings of the legs of my sofa across carpet. My house was eerily silent. The crook had to be here. There was no vehicle outside in which he could have fled, yet from the time I had gone out to get in my now missing car and came back in, things have been stolen. I noticed that one of my prized paintings on the wall was also missing. Taped to the wall in its place was a photograph of the framed painting leaning against a white, padded wall.
I saw a shadow. I'm not sure if it moved. I think it did. I walked closer to where I think I saw it and shouted for whoever was there to come out slowly and I wouldn't kill them. From behind me a sound came. A banging of some sort. I spun around and fired my gun before seeing anything. Only a hole in the wall across from me was seen. I lowered my gun. Perhaps the loud gunshot had shook some sanity back into me. I looked at the ground briefly to see another photograph at my feet. I had nothing in this spot to steal, so I didn't know what this photo would be. I turned around completely, aiming the gun at every shadow in the room. Not lowering the gun this time, I knelt down and picked up the photograph and continued to turn about the room searching while I waited for this photo to develop. I dropped the gun from my shaking hands as I looked at the picture, horrified. My fear reached a peak previously unknown as I gawked at the photo of myself, in the corner of the white, padded room.