In the House of Mirrors by Tim Meyer Page A

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