The Photograph: A Story

October 13th, 1886. The Dickerson family gathered together every year on the anniversary of the family patriarch, Josef Dickerson’s, death. Victor had done well for himself, and he and his wife invited his sisters and brothers, their children, his mother, aunt and cousin to his Connecticut estate. Vanessa, his wife (yes, they have had the alliteration of their names pointed out before, thank you) arranged for the kitchen staff to put on a heaping spread of delightful foods, and everyone gawked in awe at their electric lights and fine original paintings on the walls. One time Vanessa had caught her brother-in-law, Phillip, trying to pocket a carved marble paperweight, and she put a gentle hand on his shoulder, gesturing to the table where it belonged while he sheepishly pulled it from his jacket pocket.

This year, Victor had hired a photographer to capture an image of the whole family. He told them about the surprise at dinner, and was amused to see all of the ladies surreptitiously smooth down their hair, the men sit up a little taller. Victor’s nephew, James, cried out with excitement. “How is it done, Uncle Victor?” he asked. “Can the photographer show me?”

“Certainly, my boy,” said Victor. “But first we’ll take care of the photograph.”

They tucked in their chairs and moved into the parlour, where the photographer waited with his camera, a mysterious large box contraption that looked similar to the magic lantern Victor had sent James for his last birthday.

“Will it capture our souls?” James asked. The family chuckled a little nervously.

“What an odd thing to ask! No, the photograph will capture a moment in time only,” Victor replied.

The photographer gestured to the chairs, instructing everyone where to sit. When Phillip and his wife were seated in front, Phillip loudly insisted that his wife sit on his lap. Victor’s lips grew thin as he frowned, annoyed, but he didn’t say anything.

James sat in front at the far right, eager to be able to see as much of the process as possible. And of course Victor and Vanessa stood at the center of the back row, the hosts of the photography session. The photographer, a pale, thin man with a chronic cough and a rasping voice (Victor had never seen him before, but he had said he was from the studio when he arrived at their door earlier this evening) called out for everyone to hold very still. And he opened the front of the camera to take the photograph.

Suddenly James screamed, and pulled his hands over his ears. Everyone was startled, but struggled to maintain their frozen positions until the photographer shouted out “all clear!”

“James, what on earth!” his mother cried out to him, exasperated. But the child was inconsolable.

“I saw it! There was a wispy pale grey light that traveled out from the camera and over to Uncle Victor and Aunt Vanessa. It pulled at their bodies and then retreated back into the box. It stole their souls!” He broke into sobs and pulled his hands over his ears again, curling up on the floor in a ball.

The evening ended shortly thereafter. It was not exactly the experience Victor had been anticipating when he hired the photography company. But hopefully the photograph would still end up looking decent, and the family would have a record of their gathering.

A week later the photograph arrived in a smooth brown envelope stamped with the label of the studio. Victor called Vanessa into his study and they opened it for the first time.

There was James, his hands over his ears, looking distressed. There was his ridiculous brother Phillip, his wife Jess in his lap. And in the back row…

Vanessa and Victor dropped the photo in shock. They had been facing the camera, small smiles on both of their faces, when the photographer had told them to stand still. And yet in the photograph, they both faced away, into the corner of the room, as if they were children who had been naughty and had been told to think on their sins for a while. Victor’s hands shook as he picked up the photograph again. He wordlessly tucked it back into the plain brown envelope. They looked at each other but said nothing, and Vanessa walked back out of the room.

A half hour later, Victor closed the front door of his house, bowler hat on his head and envelope tucked under one arm. He called a cab to the address listed on the stamped envelope.

When he arrived at the studio, it was empty.  

*****

I was intrigued by this photograph ever since I came across it on a vintage photography Tumblr. And I had to try my hand at writing a short story about it. So I gave myself an hour and wrote this out, telling myself not to worry about editing it or going over it too many times. I hope you enjoyed it as well. Happy Spooky Season!

PS: I suspect the photo is probably from a different time period, but hey, it works for the story.