In the House of Mirrors (9 page)

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 pulling 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 saw?
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.

Every time I called there was no answer.

I thought I'd take a ride over there, maybe on Wednesday. But until then I wanted to do some work on the website. I had to stop by the office later that day, for a Monday meeting that always took place at two o'clock.

But what I really wanted to do was snap a few more photos. There wasn't anything in particular I wanted to photograph. I was going to put off my surveillance on Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica until next Saturday, when I would attend Aurelia's ceremony. What I wanted to do was take few pictures of random buildings, and maybe some people.

But most of all, I
really
wanted to see them developed.

3

Over dinner, I was asked multiple questions about the meeting I had to attend, as I got asked every Monday. I told them it was boring and nothing important got accomplished. I did get to complain about my boss, Sheldon Daniels, and tell the family what a complete fool he was. He was an “imbecile” when the kids were there and a “fucktard” when they weren't. Anne laughed at that.

When dinner was over, and the kids were off in their rooms playing video games or with their dollies, Anne and Robert joined me for a drink. It was rare that the three of us sat down together. Robert worked long hours, and Anne was working many hours of her own, in between taking care of the kids and maintaining the house. I poured them each a glass of wine and sat down.

“So, how's the job going?” Robert asked. “You seem like you're enjoying it. Except for—you know, the fucktard,” he said, snickering.

“
Eh, it's not very fulfilling, if that's what you're asking.” I shrugged.
“Doesn't pay very well either, but it's a job.”

“
Well, I have to say, I'm quite proud of you.”

“
Ah, thanks, Bob,” I said. Calling him Bob had become awkward for me and I still slipped up and called him Robert from time to time. He made sure to correct me on such occasions.

“
How's the other job going?” Anne asked.

“
Other job?” I asked.

“
You know...” Anne said, as if I did. “The one you're doing for Uncle Bernie.”

“
Really? Mom told you that?” I asked. I knew I couldn't trust my mother to keep her flapper shut. I would be surprised if Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica hadn't heard about it yet. Just once I thought the woman would have the sense to keep something confidential. Just once.

“
Did you really think she wasn't going to tell me? Come on, Ritchie. The woman hasn't changed since you left. Same old, same old. Could never keep a secret.” She took a sip from her wine, pinky finger extended. “So, how's it going?”

“
The stakeout? Fabulous. I have a camera that—” I stopped. I wanted to choose my next words very carefully, because if I were to tell them exactly how my pictures were turning out, they'd probably want to have my head examined. “I have an old camera that is being very temperamental of late.”

“
You can borrow ours,” Anne offered. “We still have that digital one.” She turned to her husband. “The one your mom bought me for Christmas a few years ago. We still have it, right?”

Robert nodded.

“It's yours if you want to borrow it,” she added.

“
What's happened to yours?” Robert asked.

“
Some of the pictures are just coming out... weird, I guess.” I tried to think of the best way to explain it, without giving details. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. It's old.”

“
I know. I saw it on the couch a few days ago when I went into the basement to do some laundry. I have to tell you, Ritchie, I think it's about time to upgrade.” Anne giggled. “Go digital. So much easier.”

“
I know, but—”
But what?
I thought. This one likes to photograph things that aren't really there? It likes to change things? It likes to take pictures of things that can't possibly exist in our world—like an old man with claws? “There's something about this camera... I don't know. It's growing on me.”

“
Okay then. Offer is still on the table. You can borrow my camera any time you like.”

“
Thanks, sis.”

Robert jumped out of his seat. “I almost forgot!” he yelled. “All this talk about pictures just reminded me. I was taking the garbage out this morning...” he said, walking over to the kitchen counter.

Oh no,
I thought.
Please don't.

“
I found these laying on top,” Robert said. “I'm assuming they're yours.” He plopped the manila envelope down on the table. Some of the pictures slid a quarter of the way out when they hit the counter. “I have to say, I was a little creeped out.”

I slid the first picture out. My mouth dropped.

“Surely there are better, more attractive subjects to photograph,” Robert stated. I agreed with him. But I couldn't respond. I was too busy looking at the pictures I had taken of Carter Boone's reclusive home. My brain was too confused to process words. “Where was that taken?” he asked, but I barely heard him.

Boone's house was in the picture, in desperate need of an expensive makeover as it had been yesterday. However, the old man was not.

4

I dreamed that night.

I was on a busy street corner, with cars zooming by at top speed. Uncle Bernie was standing across from me, smoking one of his cigarettes. We were both garbed in long trench coats and sported fedoras. We looked like two characters out of a movie from the 50's—where everyone talked real fast and ended every sentence with “meh, see.” The dream itself was in black and white.