In the quiet town of Ash Hollow, where the streets were lined with crooked trees and the fog clung to the earth like a shroud, there lived a man named Elias Crane. Elias was a photographer, not the kind who snapped weddings or smiling families, but an artist of the obscure. He chased shadows, abandoned places, and the fleeting moments where light and darkness seemed to blur into something unnatural. His work was haunting, and though he sold little, those who saw it swore it lingered in their minds long after they’d turned away.
Elias had recently acquired an old camera from a dusty antiques shop on the edge of town. It was a bulky, black thing, its lens scratched and cloudy, its body etched with strange symbols he couldn’t decipher. The shopkeeper, a wiry man with eyes like chipped marbles, had warned him: “That one’s got a history. Take a picture, and you’ll see more than you bargained for.” Elias laughed it off. He liked a good story to go with his finds—it made them feel alive.
That night, alone in his cluttered studio, Elias loaded the camera with a roll of film he’d found tucked inside its leather case. The air felt heavy as he adjusted the lens, the faint hum of electricity buzzing in his ears despite the room being silent. He decided to test it on something simple: the view from his window. The street outside was empty, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of a single lamppost. He pressed the shutter. Click.
The next morning, Elias developed the film in his darkroom. The photo emerged slowly in the chemical bath, the outlines sharpening like a memory clawing its way back. The street was there, the lamppost, the fog—but something else caught his eye. In the shadows near the edge of the frame stood a figure. It was vague, a silhouette, tall and thin, its head tilted as if watching. Elias frowned. He hadn’t seen anyone out there. A trick of the light, perhaps, or a smudge on the lens. He tossed the photo aside and forgot about it.
But curiosity gnawed at him. The next night, he took another picture—this time of his studio. The room was a mess of tripods, old prints, and half-finished projects, lit only by a dim bulb overhead. Click. When he developed it, the figure was there again. Closer this time. It stood near the back wall, its form more defined: long limbs, a tattered coat, a face obscured by shadow. Elias’s stomach twisted. He checked the locks on his doors, convinced someone had slipped inside while he worked. But the house was empty.
He couldn’t stop. The camera called to him, its weight in his hands both thrilling and dreadful. Over the next few days, he took more photos: the woods behind his house, the cracked mirror in his bathroom, the alley beside the grocer’s. Each time, the figure appeared—closer, clearer. In the woods, it lurked behind a tree, its fingers curling around the bark. In the mirror, it stood just over his shoulder, a dark smear where its face should have been. In the alley, it was halfway down the frame, its head tilted upward as if it knew he was watching.
Elias stopped sleeping. His hands shook as he held the camera, but he couldn’t put it down. He started talking to it, whispering questions into the dark: “What are you? What do you want?” The figure never answered, but it grew bolder. One night, he photographed his bedroom doorway, the hall beyond swallowed by shadows. In the print, the figure stood in the threshold, its body filling the frame, its head brushing the top. He could make out the texture of its coat now—ragged, wet, like it had crawled out of a river. Its hands were too long, the fingers bent at odd angles.
Panic set in. Elias locked the camera in a drawer, swearing he’d destroy it. But the next morning, it was back on his table, film loaded, waiting. He hadn’t touched it. That night, he heard footsteps—slow, deliberate—circling his house. He didn’t dare look outside. Instead, he grabbed the camera, hands trembling, and aimed it at his front door. Click.
The photo took hours to develop, as if the chemicals resisted revealing it. When it finally surfaced, Elias screamed. The figure was inside. It stood in his living room, mere feet from where he’d taken the shot. Its face was visible now—not a face at all, but a hollow, gaping void, a blackness that seemed to pull at the edges of the paper. Its body was wrong, too tall, too thin, its limbs stretching like they could reach through the frame.
Elias burned the photo, then the camera, smashing it into pieces and tossing it into the fireplace. The flames roared, but the footsteps didn’t stop. They grew louder, closer, until they were right behind him. He turned, but nothing was there—only the faint smell of damp earth and a coldness that seeped into his bones.
Days later, a neighbor found Elias’s house empty. His darkroom was a wreck, photos scattered across the floor. Every single one showed the figure, closer and closer, until the last—a self-portrait—where it stood beside him, its void-face inches from his own. Elias was gone, and so was the camera, though the ashes in the fireplace still smoldered.
The antiques shop closed soon after, the wiry shopkeeper vanishing without a trace. But in Ash Hollow, they say if you find an old camera with scratched symbols, leave it be. Because every click brings it closer—and once it’s in the frame with you, there’s no escaping the curse.