"The Light Beyond"

The Light Beyond

Emma was a photographer with a fascination for the forgotten—abandoned houses, decaying factories, and desolate, long-forgotten cemeteries. Her portfolio was filled with images of places that time seemed to have swallowed whole, and she reveled in capturing the haunting beauty of the empty, the decayed, the lost. Yet, beneath her passion for photography, there was an unease, a constant niggling feeling that something was watching her, waiting for her to take the next step.

One crisp autumn evening, she ventured out to a remote location—a crumbling mansion on the outskirts of the city. Local legends spoke of it being haunted, of strange lights appearing in the windows at night, but Emma was unshaken. It was perfect for her work. The old estate was isolated, its rotting wood and cracked windows whispered stories of neglect. The very essence of abandonment seemed to pulse from its bones, and Emma couldn’t resist.

She spent hours inside, clicking away, her camera capturing the decay. As night fell, she felt a strange shiver run through her. The house seemed to shift, as if it were alive, groaning under its weight. There was a certain stillness that gripped the air, too silent for comfort. She tried to push the feeling aside, focusing on the shots, on the perfect composition.

When she finally left, she was exhausted but satisfied. The images she had captured were haunting, beautiful even in their desolation. She couldn't wait to get back to her apartment and begin editing. Something about the mansion had felt different, though—like the shadows had followed her out.

That night, when Emma opened the file to review her photos, she noticed something unsettling. In one of the shots, a pale figure appeared in the doorway of the mansion. It was faint, translucent, barely visible against the shadows. She zoomed in, narrowing her eyes. The figure was tall, with long, matted hair obscuring its face. Emma’s heart skipped a beat. She had been alone in that room, she was sure of it.

But there it was.

She clicked on another photo, then another. In every image she had taken that day, a figure appeared, lurking in the background—always different, always shifting, but undeniably present. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she zoomed in on one of the figures. This one was closer, standing right at the foot of a staircase, its body rigid and unmoving, yet somehow, it felt as though it was staring directly at her.

Emma’s breath hitched, her fingers frozen over the keyboard. She couldn't look away, but she also couldn’t bring herself to delete the photos. There was something magnetic about them—something she couldn’t explain. The figures in the shots felt familiar, as though they were waiting for her, as if they had always been there.

The next day, she tried to forget about it. She continued editing other photos, went to work, and spent her evenings reading or watching TV. Yet, as the days passed, strange things began happening.

It started small. A fleeting shadow in the corner of her eye. She’d walk past her hallway mirror, and for just a moment, she thought she saw the tall figure from her photo standing just behind her. But when she turned, there was nothing there. She blamed her tired mind—long hours editing photos, late nights spent in front of the screen.

Then, it grew worse.

One morning, after a particularly sleepless night, Emma woke to find a photograph placed face down on her kitchen table. She didn’t remember putting it there. Her heart raced as she flipped it over. It was one of the photos from the mansion. The figure was closer now, standing at the top of the stairs, its face obscured by dark hair. Its posture was stiff, unnatural—almost like it was waiting for something.

But she had never printed it.

The same day, she thought she saw the figure outside her apartment window. She rushed to the glass, but it was gone, vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Over the next week, the figures began to appear more frequently, not just in her photos but in her waking life. In one photo, a woman stood in the corner of the abandoned kitchen, her back turned to the camera. The next morning, Emma swore she heard footsteps behind her while walking through her own living room, only to turn and find nothing. The following day, she saw a tall, shadowy figure at the edge of her street while walking to the grocery store. It was the same figure from her photo, but this time, she could see its hollow eyes, dark and endless, watching her.

Her heart pounded in her chest, but she refused to let herself believe it. She tried to rationalize it—stress, exhaustion, paranoia—but deep down, she knew it was something more.

It was the house. It had done something to her. It had released something.

Her obsession grew. She went back to the mansion, searching for answers. The air was thick with a chilling stillness, the light fading in the thickening dusk. She moved through the rooms, clicking her camera, trying to capture whatever she had missed before. And then, as if the mansion itself was alive, the door slammed shut behind her.

The camera fell from her hands.

Suddenly, the figures in her photos were no longer ghosts confined to the edges of her images. They were there, in the room with her—tall, dark silhouettes with hollow eyes that burned with malice. One of them stepped forward, and Emma screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the walls, as if the house itself was closing in on her.

She scrambled to her feet, but it was too late. The figures surrounded her, their hands reaching out, their cold, ghostly fingers brushing against her skin. She tried to run, but the house had shifted again, twisting into a maze of dark hallways that led nowhere.

And then, as the figures closed in on her, she realized the terrifying truth.

The light beyond the lens was not a way out—it was the doorway. It was the way they had crossed over.

And now, it was too late to escape.