by Tim Meyer
“No. God, no. I was just... nevermind.”
“If you have a crush on the woman, you'll have to wait in line.” She put the book about mythical beasts back on the shelf, then continued scanning the row of literature in front of her. “From what I hear she has a husband. I'm under the impression that the guy she's always hanging around—Marcus, or Martin, whatever his name is—is just her little plaything. Pretty sure she's banging him. Don't recall seeing him with a ring on, so he's not married.” She looked back to me. “Sorry. Babbling again. I have a problem with that.”
“Doesn't bother me. I happen to like people who babble. They tend to be very entertaining.”
She squinted at me again, as if she had been reminded of something. “You know something? You don't seem like the kind of guy who practices the black arts.” She withdrew another book from the top shelf, something written by a guy named David Ralston. “You seem like... I don't know... different.”
“Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult?” I asked, displaying a goofy smile.
“Neither.” She began flipping through the Ralston book. “This is one of my personal favorites. You should check it out.” She got to the end of the book and handed it to me. I looked at the cover. It displayed an old painting. The scene depicted the heavens opening up, several angels cascading from the skies, all equipped with heavy body armor and swords. Demons were rising from an enormous hole in the ground, weapons in hand. They were snarling at the sky, as God's army descended upon them. The War for Heaven, The War for Hell, by David Ralston, the cover read.
“I'll give it a read,” I said, tucking the book under my arms.
“What's your name?”
“Ritchie Naughton,” I said, extending my hand.
“Aurelia Anderson,” she said, shaking mine.
“I hear you're going to be given some sort of ceremony next week. Excited?”
“Yes, considering that ceremony will officially make me a member of the Order. I've been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. I'm pretty nervous too.”
“I'm sure you'll do just fine.”
She smiled and nodded. “You coming?”
“Wouldn't miss it.”
“Good. Well I must be off. It was good running into you. I'll see you around.”
“Absolutely.”
I watched her walk away. A strange feeling overcame me. It was reminiscent to when I left an Atlanta club with Lynne's phone number. I didn't want to entertain the notion, but I think I had a crush on a Devil-worshiping witch.
I sure know how to pick them.
3
I arrived at Cameraland around a quarter to six. Little Chris wasn't behind the counter, propped in his usual position. Big Chris was also missing in action, although that was hardly a surprise.
“Chris?” I called out. No answer. He had to be in the back somewhere, probably finishing up the photos so he could go home. I felt like a dick taking up his entire Sunday afternoon.
I sauntered over to the counter and rang the service bell. A few seconds later, Chris emerged from the back room looking disheveled. He appeared to be at the end of a twenty-four hour shift.
“You,” Little Chris said, “come with me.” Then he disappeared behind the curtains which led to the back.
I followed him, reluctantly at first, hoping my impatience didn't cause him to fuck something up. “Chris?” I asked, as I walked through the curtain and noticed the hallway split in two directions. To my left there was small room that looked like an office. I couldn't exactly tell because the door was three-quarters closed. To my right, looked like the darkroom. I could tell because it was, well, mostly dark.
“In here,” Little Chris called from the darkroom.
I made my way to the door and peaked inside. The room was dim, the only light coming from several small desk lamps, soaking the room in dark amber light. Little Chris called them Safelights.
“Close the door,” he said.
“What's going on? Is there a problem?” I asked.
Several of my photographs were hanging from clotheslines, fastened by clothespins at each top corner, over small trays of chemicals. The place reeked like bleach and other cleaning products, except much more unpleasant. My nostrils were stinging.
“Look,” Little Chris said. He pointed to the two photographs that I snapped of Marty Olberstad. “See it?” he asked. I didn't. I shook my head which told him so. He sighed, and pointed to the picture again. All I saw was my aunt's lover leaving his middle-class apartment. “Look at his face.”
I leaned in, and then saw it. A tiny little black dot, about half the size of a dime. I didn't really think anything of it. The picture was pretty grainy to begin with, and I assumed it was just some imperfection in the photo. Just a blemish. No big deal.
“See?” Little Chris said. There was a nervousness in his voice I didn't care for. It was as if the black mark scared him.
“Yeah.”
“And here. Look at the next one.”
I looked and saw the same mark. Slightly bigger this time. I touched the photo where the black spot was. It felt smooth, like a normal photograph should be. “There's one more I took of him. Where is it?”
Little Chris pulled another photograph off the table. It was the third photograph I snapped of Marty before he entered his car. It was a profile picture of him opening the driver's side door. Only in this picture, the black dot was almost completely covering his head.
4
“I don't understand,” I said, not thinking much of it. “What's wrong with them?”
“It's weird right. I've never seen it before.” He scratched his head, completely flabbergasted. “It's almost like a cigarette burn you'd see in the corner of movies, signifying a reel change.” He shook his head. “I've never seen them on a still photograph.”
“Strange, I guess.” I really didn't have a clue what this meant, or why there was a look of fear on Little Chris's face. Surely it was a mistake. I took close to a hundred other photos, none of which came back scarred. The camera was old and from the looks of it, it was most likely on its way to Camera Heaven. “I've been developing film here for a while. Nothing else has had these little black dots on them. It's probably just a freak thing.” I chuckled heartily. “No big deal, Chris. Thanks for—” The look on his face startled me. It was as if he'd seen something that haunted him. A ghost perhaps. “Chris? Are you okay?” The color was beginning to run from his face. “Chris!” I yelled.
He snapped out of it. “Uh, sorry.”
“I was just saying it's no biggie. Just a blemish on the photo or something.”
“I haven't showed you the other thing,” he said, his voice trembling.
5
“The other thing?” I asked. Just then I wondered where the pictures of Boone's house were. I looked around. They were hanging in the same fashion Olberstad's were, only on the other side of the room. I crept over to them.
“They freaked me out, man,” Chris admitted.
I looked at the first one. Normal. The second one appeared normal as well. Only the little black spot that tried to cover Olberstad's face was now on the front door. It was very noticeable, about the size of a nickel. The third one looked a little different than the other two. Yes, the black spot was still there; this time it was about the size of a poker chip and covered the front door completely. The picture was awfully hazy, as if someone had blown smoke in front of the camera when I snapped the picture. I knew that wasn't the case.
Suddenly the tiny hairs on my neck and arms became erect. A feverish chill ran throughout my body. An uncontrollable quiver attacked my body in short bursts.
“Look in the window,” Chris uttered from the other side of the room, keeping the maximum distance between him and the photos.
I saw what he meant. In the second-story window, there was a shadow. It looked like a person pulling the curtains back to have a peak outside. Little Chris urged me to look closer. I did. I noticed the figure's hand pul
ling apart the curtain, a hand that in no way resembled anything human; its nails were the size of a hawk's talons and its skin was a sickly green color.
“The hell...”
“Weird right? Look at the next two.”
I did. They were completely blank. It looked as if I had taken the pictures from inside a cloud. “I don't get it,” I told him. “What happened to these two?”
“I don't know. That's what was on the negatives,” Little Chris said. “I'm guessing those were pictures of the same house.”
I nodded.
“Look at the last one,” he said. “It's going to blow your mind.”
I moved over to the sixth and final picture. I almost didn't recognize it as my own work. Boone's house looked the same but also very different. Structurally, it was identical. The huge discrepancy was that Boone's house now appeared as if it were under construction. The dirt lawn was still there, but the color of it was battleship gray rather than the peachy sand I had parked my car on. The second-story window was there, only the shadow and the claw-like hand was missing. Instead, the glass was broken, as if someone had been thrown through it. The balcony on the second story remained, only it was severely damaged. Someone had kicked the spindles, reducing them to splinters. The front door was there, and there was no black mark to speak of. There were, however, several two-by-fours barricading the entrance.
As if the picture wasn't bizarre enough, the quality of it was something that really irked me. It looked distorted, like an old television that was on the fritz, the kind you'd have to use your fist to make it viewable again. Also, instead of the house being a midnight blue color, it was a deep purple. There were pieces of siding missing, revealing a black emptiness where concrete or plywood should have been. The shed—which I really hadn't noticed when I originally snapped the picture—in the backyard was completely demolished.
“I don't understand,” I said to Little Chris. “How did this happen?”
“I didn't believe it at first. So I did them over again,” he said. “I called all of my customers and pushed their orders back a day, just so I could do these over again.”
I nodded.
“They all came out the same. The ones with that dude getting into his car, all had the same black dots on his face. So I thought it was just some freak thing I'd never be able to explain. Right?”
“Sure.”
“Until I did those over again,” he said, nodding to the pictures of Boone's house. The fear was back into his voice. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn't. He took the envelope that was sitting on his desk and held it out in front of him. He looked down at it. I could see the manila envelope wavering in his trembling fingers.
“And?”
He looked at me. “Maybe you should open these in your car. You should be sitting down for this.” He walked over and handed me the envelope. “Besides,” he said, “I never want to see them again.”
CHAPTER NINE
I sat in my car, motionless, for a good five minutes, debating whether or not to open the envelope. Curiosity got the better of me, as it always had in the past.
I watched Little Chris exit his father's store, lock it up for the night, and hustle to his car. He looked like a penguin scurrying across the ice, fleeing from predators. I wondered what exactly spooked him so much. Seeing the marred photographs had been peculiar, but nothing to get chills over. The figure in the window, whom I hadn't photographed originally, was cause for concern. The same went for the alternate version of Boone's house. But there had to be some logical explanation for these events. There just had to be. Perhaps, I was the victim of an elaborate hoax? Surely with today's technology, Little Chris could've concocted this farce. But why? It didn't add up. What would be his endgame? Why waste his time? If this was true, and Little Chris was playing games, then he was a hell of an actor. I thought he was going to throw up in the darkroom. What did I do to piss him off?
I thought of the camera that Dana found in the basement of The Treebound Tribune. Maybe there was a reason it was buried beneath a bunch of garbage by my predecessor. Maybe the camera was the trickster. Maybe it was to blame.
It seemed to be the only logical explanation, although it brought on more questions than answers.
Little Chris sped away while I ran my thumb underneath the envelope's seal. I popped open the lip and slid the pictures out, six in all.
My heart thudded.
The pictures were all the same. They were of Boone's house, the old decrepit version I never photographed. Only this time there was a strange figure in all of them, a figure that had not been there before. The first one showed the figure on the porch, sitting down on a chair. He was difficult to make out considering the distance from which it was taken. There were no black spots. Just a peculiar-looking man sitting on the porch, staring directly back at me. He was mostly shrouded in shadows.
The next picture showed the man standing up from his seat. He was hunched over the railing, as if he spotted something on the front lawn. It didn't take very long to understand what had startled him.
Me.
The third picture showed the man walking down the stairs which led to the little path between the house and the dirt lawn. I could see him with clarity now. His hair was long, halfway down his back, and snow white. He was old. Really old. Still a good distance from the camera, I could see the creases in the elderly man's face, as well as several noticeable age spots. He was wearing an olive-green robe and used a cane to support his frail figure. A funny-looking hat rested on top of his head, reminding me of something a wizard might wear in some children's book. I noticed his skin had become greenish in color, which suddenly made me think about the nightmare I had my first night back in Jersey.
The old man did not seem happy about me spying on him.
The fourth picture showed him turned toward me. He looked like a bull ready to charge. The dents in his face were more distinct. His age was indecipherable. His body was sickly and fragile; without that cane, it'd probably be impossible for him to walk. I noticed the cane had a strange, unworldly topper. It was an animal I didn't recognize, something that looked like a lion with giant spikes for a mane. The old man's fingers nestled between the protruding spikes, which could probably be used as a weapon in close combat.
In the fifth picture, the old man was pretty much in the same position, only closer. I didn't spend a lot of time on this one; there was nothing new to report and picture number four was still sending chills up and down my arms and legs.
I slowly took picture number five and placed it behind the others. Picture number six was quite disturbing. The old man took up most of the picture, from his knees up. I could barely see the house behind him or the dirt lawn. His chilling gaze was upon me. It was as if he was standing right before me in crystal clarity. The picture did not seem like a picture, it was as if I could reach into the photo and touch him, if I dared.
But I didn't.
Instead I stared back, surveying every wrinkle and elderly blemish the man's face had to offer. His lips were almost as white as his hair. His skin was pale, a tinge of green. The man looked ill, both physically and mentally. He just peered at me through his dreamless eyes, and I couldn't look away. Then I noticed the topper to his cane. It wasn't a lion with spikes growing out the top of his head. The spikes were the old man's fingernails, the claw that Little Chris had pointed out in the window from one of the traditional-looking photographs.
Then the picture moved.
The old man's head cocked to one side, like an animal trying to comprehend human tendencies. His lips pursed into a ferocious snarl and I felt the strength in my legs flee from my body and grow warm.
I took the photos and threw them to the floor as if they had caught fire. They scattered. I felt my heart going a mile a minute. The inside of my chest quivered. I was suddenly reminded of the same sick, dizzy feeling I had when I intruded on Lynne's secret activity. Passing out seemed to be a viable option. Did I just see what I thought I sa
w? Did the old man in the picture actually move? I assumed it was possible that my eyes had deceived me, but my brain presented me with a different, more terrifying response; the picture had moved. The man in the picture fucking moved.
I took a deep breath and rested my head against the headrest. It took several moments to regain my senses. I was so scared that I nearly jumped out of my car, in fear that the old man in the photo was going to claw his way out. After a few minutes of realizing that this was not the case, I collected the photos and returned them to the manila folder. I didn't dare look at them again.
I put the car in drive and peeled out of the parking lot, hoping to get home as fast as I could.
When I arrived home—a place I would never consider home, not really—it was dark. I tucked the envelope underneath my arm and got out of the car. I did the only rational thing I could think of. I took the envelope and placed it in the garbage can on the side of the house. I thought briefly of setting them on fire, but it wasn't feasible. I'm pretty sure Anne and Robert would not appreciate me bathing their front lawn in flames.
I went inside and said a quick “hello” before heading off to the basement. I wanted to go to sleep more than anything. I feared I'd have terrible nightmares again, which would probably keep me awake for the better part of the night. But instead, I slept soundly.
The old man had stayed in the photo after all, and far away from my dream life.
The first thought I had waking up however, was the stupid pictures of Boone's house and the old man that apparently lived there.
2
The next few days were pretty low key. I called Cameraland several times to speak to Little Chris, in hopes we could talk about what we saw. I don't know if he had a similar experience, or a worse one. In any case, I think I handled the situation better than he did. He looked beyond freaked out. I thought if maybe I could reach him, we could talk it out and draw a rational conclusion; we could tell each other it was just our minds playing strange tricks on us.