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
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
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