Click

Our story begins with a girl, just 19 years old. She’s beautiful—at least that’s what people tell her—with long red hair that rivals the fiery colors of autumn and dark chocolate eyes. She’s beautiful, but she keeps her head down, buries her nose in books or hides behind her camera. She doesn’t like attention and she doesn’t like to be looked at. Isn’t it interesting though, how those who hate to be watched tend to be the watchers.

She’s much more comfortable looking through the lens of a camera than being in front of one. Like today, she’s in the park, observing, catching snapshots of the visitors. Click. A moment between a grandparent and grandchild. Click. An argument between spouses. Click. A loner, drawing the trees. Click. Click. A runner. She sees all, documents all the seemingly insignificant moments. Click. She does this often—sits in the park and takes pictures, but there’s something different today: the camera. It’s new, well new to her. The shutter is loud and slow. It takes more handling, more precision. The antique lens is scratched and she knows that the photos will come out strange. There’s something about this camera though. She’d swear that it hummed in her hands—whispered even.

The camera was an interesting find in a second hand shop. The man behind the counter seemed wary to sell it to her. He did anyway. Money is money and he told himself that she’d be fine. A teenage girl couldn’t want an old camera like that for anything more than decoration, with the cameras available on phones these days. But she was different, that much he could tell. Whatever the worries of the man, she walked out of the store with a new camera.

The girl peers through the grainy lens. All of the features she’s used to are absent. Frustrating as that is, she can’t stop snapping pictures, horrible grainy pictures. Swiftly she stands up and ventures away from the crowds, fiddling with the mechanisms of the camera, and snaps a few more pictures: pictures of the trees. She thinks nothing of the heavy shadow obscuring the scenery. The girl merely assumes that it’s a blemish on the lens. She inspects the camera once more, but gives up trying to fix it and curses herself for buying the piece of junk.

She leaves the park. Even though she knows they won’t turn out very well, she’s filled with the urge to develop her pictures. She needs to see them. So she’s going home, to the small apartment she shares with her sister, who’s rarely there so it’s more like living alone. Not that she minds being alone, when she’s truly alone. With solitude comes the creeping suspicion that the shadows hide figures. She unlocks the front door, which opens with a groan and a whine. Slipping inside, she lets the door swing back into place as she makes her way to the back room she converted into a darkroom. She drops pieces of clothing as she goes—a scarf on top of a pile of books, a hat hung on the lamp, jacket tossed over scattered photographs and papers for school. It’s a mess.

Her darkroom is really only a closet, cramped and difficult to move around in, but it’s all this struggling artist can afford. She starts developing the film, it’s not her favorite part of photography but the low glow of red light and the soft sloshing of the liquid over the photo paper calms her. At least it does today. The pictures aren’t good. She knew they wouldn’t be, but they’re strange. Everyone’s faces are blurred except for one person, a young man around her age. He’s clear and sharp in every image, but…she doesn’t remember seeing him. She must have, he was in her pictures. How strange.

She goes to change, still pondering how she could have missed him when his face is all she can see. Shivers run up her bare arms as she slips into a tank top and wonders how he made it into every one of her pictures. His sharp jawline, dark eyes, and smirk that seemed to speak to some unspeakable thing. Impossible to miss, but no matter how hard she tries she can’t remember. In fact, when she really thinks about it, the spot he was standing in was empty. The girl goes to retrieve her photos and crawls into bed. Her hands shuffle through photo after photo of the mysterious man. Eventually, her gaze lands on the pictures of the trees that she took while trying to fix the camera. She would have sworn on her life that there was no one around, but there he is—the only thing in focus.

Hands shaking ever so slightly, she picks up the pictures. He must have been there. She tries to convince herself that she was just too preoccupied with the quality of the camera. He must have ventured into the view of the lens and she just didn’t see him. But the way that he peers out of the picture as if he’s staring into her soul churns her stomach. Her heart races in her chest and the silence that she normally enjoys becomes paralyzing. Her hands push the pictures away and her eyes squeeze shut. She doesn’t want to think of the strange figure that lurks in her pictures. She doesn’t want to think about anything. She just wants to sleep. Sleep comes, with the pictures of the boy sprawled over her comforter and the lens of her camera watching her from across the room. And her dreams are plagued with him.

You’re pretty when you sleep. Picture perfect really. I’m so glad you found my camera. Say cheese.

Click.

The girl wakes up in a cold sweat. Her mind echoes dreams, dreams of the boy but this time standing over her with a camera—her camera. His leering smile causes a chill to spread through her body and his dark eyes were filled with evil. The harshness of reality shakes her from her fear but she can’t lose the horrible feeling of being watched. All throughout her day she finds herself looking over her shoulder. Strange that she doesn’t notice the camera that moves with her from room to room, black lens glinting like the eye of a raven.

She snaps the TV on. Desperate for noise, for distraction, but it does nothing for her nerves and eventually she turns it off and recedes to her room. It’s now that she finally notices the camera which sits on her bed, though sits isn’t the proper term, more like hovers, as if being held by invisible hands. She creeps toward the camera but it moves away. Her breath catches in her throat and her first thought is to run. She doesn’t though. The camera moves again to eyes level now. It, or whatever is holding it, whispers. This time there’s no doubt in the girl’s mind.

Slowly the thing holding the camera comes into focus. First, translucent grey hands followed by arms clad in a dusty jean jacket, the collar of a flannel, a familiar jawline, leering smile, and evil eyes. The apparition winks at the girl, who is frozen in fear. He points the gleaming black eye of the camera at her and

Click.

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A boy struts into a vintage shop, bell chiming to announce his entrance. There’s a camera thumping against his leg, and his hand pats it tenderly. Dark hair shadows dark eyes. The man at the counter looks up.

“We’re clos…” All color drains from the old man’s face. And his eyes shake with fear. “You’re out. How?”

“It doesn’t matter how nephew. What matters is I’m out and it’s your fault. Who sells a family heirloom? Especially one with such a rich history,” the boy taunts. The man lunges past the counter at the young man, but he just raises his camera, smiles and...

Click

The boy lets the door swing close on the now empty shop and walks away whistling.