by Tim Meyer
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 that always took place at two o'clock.
But what I really wanted to do was snap a few more photos. There wasn't anything in particular I wanted to photograph. I was going to put off my surveillance on Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica until next Saturday, when I would attend Aurelia's ceremony. What I wanted to do was take few pictures of random buildings, and maybe some people.
But most of all, I really wanted to see them developed.
3
Over dinner, I was asked multiple questions about the meeting I had to attend, as I got asked every Monday. I told them it was boring and nothing important got accomplished. I did get to complain about my boss, Sheldon Daniels, and tell the family what a complete fool he was. He was an “imbecile” when the kids were there and a “fucktard” when they weren't. Anne laughed at that.
When dinner was over, and the kids were off in their rooms playing video games or with their dollies, Anne and Robert joined me for a drink. It was rare that the three of us sat down together. Robert worked long hours, and Anne was working many hours of her own, in between taking care of the kids and maintaining the house. I poured them each a glass of wine and sat down.
“So, how's the job going?” Robert asked. “You seem like you're enjoying it. Except for—you know, the fucktard,” he said, snickering.
“Eh, it's not very fulfilling, if that's what you're asking.” I shrugged. “Doesn't pay very well either, but it's a job.”
“Well, I have to say, I'm quite proud of you.”
“Ah, thanks, Bob,” I said. Calling him Bob had become awkward for me and I still slipped up and called him Robert from time to time. He made sure to correct me on such occasions.
“How's the other job going?” Anne asked.
“Other job?” I asked.
“You know...” Anne said, as if I did. “The one you're doing for Uncle Bernie.”
“Really? Mom told you that?” I asked. I knew I couldn't trust my mother to keep her flapper shut. I would be surprised if Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica hadn't heard about it yet. Just once I thought the woman would have the sense to keep something confidential. Just once.
“Did you really think she wasn't going to tell me? Come on, Ritchie. The woman hasn't changed since you left. Same old, same old. Could never keep a secret.” She took a sip from her wine, pinky finger extended. “So, how's it going?”
“The stakeout? Fabulous. I have a camera that—” I stopped. I wanted to choose my next words very carefully, because if I were to tell them exactly how my pictures were turning out, they'd probably want to have my head examined. “I have an old camera that is being very temperamental of late.”
“You can borrow ours,” Anne offered. “We still have that digital one.” She turned to her husband. “The one your mom bought me for Christmas a few years ago. We still have it, right?”
Robert nodded.
“It's yours if you want to borrow it,” she added.
“What's happened to yours?” Robert asked.
“Some of the pictures are just coming out... weird, I guess.” I tried to think of the best way to explain it, without giving details. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. It's old.”
“I know. I saw it on the couch a few days ago when I went into the basement to do some laundry. I have to tell you, Ritchie, I think it's about time to upgrade.” Anne giggled. “Go digital. So much easier.”
“I know, but—” But what? I thought. This one likes to photograph things that aren't really there? It likes to change things? It likes to take pictures of things that can't possibly exist in our world—like an old man with claws? “There's something about this camera... I don't know. It's growing on me.”
“Okay then. Offer is still on the table. You can borrow my camera any time you like.”
“Thanks, sis.”
Robert jumped out of his seat. “I almost forgot!” he yelled. “All this talk about pictures just reminded me. I was taking the garbage out this morning...” he said, walking over to the kitchen counter.
Oh no, I thought. Please don't.
“I found these laying on top,” Robert said. “I'm assuming they're yours.” He plopped the manila envelope down on the table. Some of the pictures slid a quarter of the way out when they hit the counter. “I have to say, I was a little creeped out.”
I slid the first picture out. My mouth dropped.
“Surely there are better, more attractive subjects to photograph,” Robert stated. I agreed with him. But I couldn't respond. I was too busy looking at the pictures I had taken of Carter Boone's reclusive home. My brain was too confused to process words. “Where was that taken?” he asked, but I barely heard him.
Boone's house was in the picture, in desperate need of an expensive makeover as it had been yesterday. However, the old man was not.
4
I dreamed that night.
I was on a busy street corner, with cars zooming by at top speed. Uncle Bernie was standing across from me, smoking one of his cigarettes. We were both garbed in long trench coats and sported fedoras. We looked like two characters out of a movie from the 50's—where everyone talked real fast and ended every sentence with “meh, see.” The dream itself was in black and white.
You saw him? Uncle Bernie asked. You saw him didn't you? His mouth wasn't moving, but I heard him loud and clear. We were communicating telepathically. The old man with the claw? He was there, see. He was in the house. In the House of Mirrors, see.
I saw him, Uncle Bernie. You're damn right I did. I too, was talking like one of Al Capone's wise guys. And I'll tell you what I'm going to do when I see him again, see. I'm going to wring his little good-for-nothing neck! I screamed.
Now hold on, champ. Don't go and do anything stupid. You're no match for him in the House of Mirrors! Uncle Bernie told me, without speaking a single word.
He took my girl, see! And I have to stop him!
He's a bad man, Ritchie-my-bitchie. Uncle Bernie's face began to change. This is what he does. He takes and takes, until there's nothing left. You'll see. They all see. IN THE HOUSE OF MIRRORS THEY ALL SEE! My uncle was no longer my uncle. He turned into the same species of inhuman filth that Lynne and Buster had changed into during my previous journeys into the dream-lands. The thing grabbed my neck and pulled me closer to its face, which was riddled with open sores that oozed thick puss. When it opened its mouth, my dream-self smelled the foul stench of human decay. “YOU WILL BE MINE!” it bellowed.
Then I woke up.
Light poured in through the small basement window. It was morning and I was safe again.
5
I collected my camera and drove to a small park on Weston Street, about ten minutes away from my sister's place. I stopped at a convenience store to pick up a disposable camera on the way. I decided that if I was going to buy into the weirdness that my camera had produced, then I needed to know the truth; that it was, in fact, the old camera's doing. There was a thought in my mind that Boone's creepy house in the woods was causing all of this. But if that were true, then what was with the black marks over Marty Olberstad's face? Was he intertwined in this somehow? Maybe his connection to the house was enough for the camera to incorporate him into this peculiar puzzle that I was now determined to solve.
The simple fact still remained that I knew nothing of the camera and how it worked. I was convinced the camera was haunted, or possessed. In order to get to the bottom of things I needed to understand how the instrument worked. I picked up the disposable in hopes to capture the same images with both cameras. I could then decipher whether the camera was responsible for photographing ghostly images, or if the images were simply there and my camera was picking up on them.
It scared me to think maybe it was a little of both.
I arr
ived at the park a few minutes after two o'clock. School was just getting out and soon kids would be out and about, playing basketball or using the swings, or whatever kids did these days. The weather was still cold, but today happened to be a very warm day. It was pushing sixty degrees and the sun hung high overhead, melting most of the whiteness that previous storms left behind. To my surprise, there were more people in the park than I had expected. There were a few teenagers throwing wet snow at each other at the far end of the recreation center. A five-on-five basketball game had begun and was in full swing by the time I found a cozy seat on a nearby bench. A few children, probably Alice's age and slightly older, were on the playground's massive jungle gym, running around and screaming gleefully. Their parents were watching them closely, occasionally taking their eyes off of them to engage in casual conversations with each other.
I scanned the area briefly and saw her, Aurelia. She was sitting on a bench near the edge of the sandy area which contained the massive jungle gym. Her head was craned forward, her eyes glued to a book which undoubtedly carried a supernatural theme. I briefly thought about going over there, but running into her twice in one week (two days apart) would probably make her think I was stalking her. As it seemed, I was doing a better job tailing Aurelia than I was my Aunt Danica.
I decided to hang back, photograph the basketball court, and some of the trees that stood on the other side of the park. I pulled the trigger on the Denlax five times on both accounts. There was a group of houses just beyond the park, which I also snapped a few pictures of. I figured if there was something wrong with the camera, and it was taking pictures of another world perhaps, it would change the way all the houses looked and not just Boone's.
I laughed at how ridiculous my thoughts were. Taking pictures of other worlds. How crazy was I? I felt very uncomfortable with myself. I'm apt to lose my mind if I continue thinking this way.
After much dilly-dallying and shifting uncomfortably on the bench, I decided to go over and talk to Aurelia after all. It'd be rude of me not to. Besides, I liked seeing her outside of Satanic ceremonies. And yes, I wanted to see her outside of our random run-ins too.
I went over to her with the intentions of asking her out on a date. As I walked toward her, I thought of Lynne. I hadn't even thought about another woman since her. It was kind of weird. Thinking about taking someone else out. Kissing them. Sex. It was something very foreign to me, something I assumed would pass with time. Time as they say, heals all wounds.
“Studying for Saturday night's exam?” I asked, as I approached Aurelia.
She looked up from her book, somewhat startled.
“Jesus Christ. You scared the shit out of me.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, faintly smiling. “Are you stalking me?”
“Don't flatter yourself,” I said playfully. “I'm here taking a few pictures of the landscape. Photography happens to be a hobby of mine. Actually it started off as a job and it became more like a hobby. All boring stuff you probably don't want to hear. May I sit down for a minute?”
She slid over and patted the bench, inviting me to join her.
“Photographer, huh?” she said.
“Yup. You sound surprised.”
“Didn't peg you as the photographer type.”
“And what type did you peg me as?” I asked.
She touched her lip for a moment with her pointer finger, as if she was rummaging around in her brain for the answer. “Disc Jockey.”
I burst out laughing.
“What?” she asked.
“Me? A DJ? That's hilarious.”
“You do. You're very... I don't know... sarcastic?” she said, as if she was asking me a question. “Don't laugh,” she added, smiling. “Okay, do me. What do I look like?”
“Besides someone who likes to practice black magic?”
She hesitated, squinting her eyes. “Besides that.”
“Nurse?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Really? That's your best guess.”
“I don't know. I give up.”
She gave me a look that said, “okay, I'm done with you.” She shook her head. “I work at Dunkin Donuts.”
“Really?” I sounded more surprised than I should have. Which probably would have insulted her had she been telling the truth.
“No, not really. Now would you guess for real?” she asked, smiling again.
“Okay. You seem really smart. Well educated. But that doesn't mean you can't be pumping gas down the street.”
“Ohhhh, the analytical type. My favorite.”
I grinned, but I kept on going. “You're probably twenty-six, twenty-seven. So if you were a doctor you'd still be going to school. Most likely. Unless you were a genius, which don't get me wrong, I don't think you are one.”
“Don't you know you're not supposed to insult a girl on a first date?” She chuckled to herself.
“I'm guessing you're a bartender.”
“A bartender? A fucking bartender? That's your guess?” she asked. Her mouth hung agape. She wasn't mad, she just seemed surprised.
“What? You're personable and you're funny. That's my best guess.” She just sat there laughing, as if I had just said something hilarious. “What? Was I right?”
“Hell no.” She took the book she was reading and put it in her book bag. “But you were right the first time.”
I stared at her, this time my mouth hung open. “You liar...” I said. I didn't know it, but I was grinning from ear to ear. Deciding to approach Aurelia was definitely the best decision I made since coming back to New Jersey, which really shouldn't come as any surprise because there was a long list of piss poor ones. Becoming a photographer was on that list. Agreeing to become my uncle's private investigator was another. Oh, and not to mention deciding to infiltrate a cult meeting in the middle of the fucking woods. Yeah, with that list of candidates, approaching a pretty girl in the park is clearly the winner. “A nurse. I knew it. You look like a nurse.”
“You really shouldn't judge a book by its cover, Mr. Naughton.” She shot me a quizzical look.
“You remembered my last name. I'm impressed, Mrs. Anderson.”
“It's Miss Anderson, thank you very much,” she replied.
“Oh, Miss.” She giggled. “Say, you don't have an out-of-his-mind, steroid-abusing boyfriend running around here, do you?”
Smirking, she replied, “Uh, no.”
“Good. A brother?” I said, completely not expecting what came next. Instantly, her face transformed. Her smile faded within seconds. It was as if she remembered something she did not want to remember; a traumatizing memory leaked into her brain. The dam which kept it at bay had been broken. Was it something I said? Did I trigger the bad thought? I didn't know, but I immediately became concerned.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—”
“It's fine. Really. I just—” she stopped, losing herself in her own thoughts. “I just don't like to talk about family.”
I nodded. “Let's change the subject then. What hospital do you work at?”
“Ah... Benton. It's a mental health facility. Not far from here.” Something about her changed since I inquired about her brother. I felt awful.
“I know where it is. How long—”
“You know what, Ritchie? I think I'm going to go. I have a lot of chores. Places to go. People to see,” she told me. She wasn't smiling anymore. “I have to get them done before work. It was great running into you again.”
“We should do it more often.”
She smiled, but it was more like a wince. “Bye, Ritchie.”
“Oh wait, before you go.” I reached in my pocket and produced a pen. Out of the back pocket of my jeans came a small notebook. I kept it there out of habit. Any writer, whether working on a story or not, always carries one. That or a tape recorder. I was lucky, on this day, to have paper. I jotted my number down. “In case you want to talk, or meet in a completely random place again. Maybe it wi
ll be better for the both of us if we knew in advance.”
She took the paper and folded it up, tucking it in her pocket. “Thank you.” For a second I didn't think she had any interest of exchanging numbers. After a brief moment of awkwardness, she grabbed the notebook out of my hand. The pen too. She jotted ten digits down on the pad and handed it back to me. “Until next time,” she said.
“Until next time.”
She turned and walked away as I took her number and tucked it into my wallet.
I left the park with the pictures I wanted, but a part of me still felt unfulfilled.
CHAPTER TEN
There was no answer when I called Cameraland on Wednesday morning. They should have been open by the time I called. In need of film developed, as well as needing to discuss things with Little Chris, I decided to drive over there. I grabbed the Denlax, along with my disposable Kodak, and was out the front door around a quarter past ten.
I arrived at Cameraland in about twenty minutes, speeding the whole way there.
I hopped out of my car and jogged over to the front door. The lights were off and I peered through the glass to see if there was anyone inside. If they were open, they weren't letting anyone know.
“I think they're going out of business,” a voice said to my right. A woman, almost twice my age, was standing outside the neighboring hair salon, smoking a cigarette. She had a black smock on, so I assumed she worked there. “They haven't really been open in the past few days.”
“Have you seen anyone come in or out?” I asked.
“A few times. The owner never really comes at all. His kid mostly.” She took a drag from her cigarette. “He never really stays longer than fifteen minutes. Why you asking anyway? You a cop? You look like a cop. They in some sort of trouble?” She fired off these questions as if they were one sentence.
