by Amy Cross
Climbing carefully out of bed, making sure that I don't make too much noise, I creep to the bedroom door and then out into the kitchen. I know there's no chance I could ever get back to sleep, so I might as well stay up and get the day started. It's mornings like this, when I can be alone in the silence, that I really feel alive again. There are a few photos on the kitchen table, showing the ruins of the hotel. I haven't been back there since the night of the fire, but I made a few inquiries and was able to get hold of these images. The place was completely destroyed, and in this economy it's unlikely that anyone's ever going to rebuild. Juliet, the only remaining member of the Bannister family, has apparently decided she's not interested, so it looks like the ruins will be reclaimed by nature. One day, hopefully, the Heights will be completely forgotten.
For the first few months after it all happened, I carefully avoided any reminders of the Heights. Eventually, however, I decided that I might as well try to face what happened. I've been easing myself back into the saddle slowly, starting by taking a look at these photos. I've got no desire to dwell on those events, but at the same time I don't want to hide either. I want to get over those terrible events, to face them without feeling scared. It's all over, and I keep reminding myself that there's no way the Heights can ever claim another living soul. When Edward Bannister's mangled body was recovered from the foot of the cliffs, that chapter of my life ended for good. I didn't go to the funeral, but I read every news report I could find. There's no doubt about it: Edward Bannister is dead, and so's his brother Luke.
"Hey".
Turning, I see that Cole is standing in the doorway, rubbing his sleepy eyes. I guess my attempt to quietly get out of bed didn't go quite as well as I'd hoped.
"It's okay," I reply. "You can go back to sleep".
Shaking his head, he wanders across the kitchen and kisses me on the cheek.
"Bad dreams?" he asks, filling the kettle.
"I don't remember," I reply, which is true. I never remember my dreams these days. Maybe my mind is consciously suppressing them, or maybe they just don't matter. Regardless, I haven't had one nightmare about the Heights, or about Edward, or about any of the things that happened. I'm living in the present, and I wouldn't change a thing.
"I'm gonna jump in the shower," Cole says, "and then I want to head into town later. I need to take another look at that bar and work out whether it's worth the money. The last thing I want to do is pay top price if there's a ton of renovation work that needs doing. I swear to God, that place hasn't been decorated since before the Beatles made it big". He pauses. "You want to come with me? I really want you to see it before I make a decision. This is a joint venture, remember".
"Sure," I say. "If I'm going to own half the damn thing, I should probably at least set eyes on it and make sure you're not buying some kind of hideous carbuncle".
"Leave at eleven?" he asks, placing a hand on my waist.
I nod.
He stares at me for a moment.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing. Just... I love you".
"I love you too," I reply, leaning closer and kissing him gently on the lips. "Now get in that shower".
"Hang on," he replies, kissing the side of my neck. "There's no rush, Ms. Kingston, is there? Why don't you come back to bed for a couple of minutes?"
"A couple of minutes?" I reply. "Is that all you're offering me?"
"Did I say minutes?" he says, pressing himself against me. "I meant hours".
"Sounds better," I tell him, as he moves his hands onto my hips. After six months, there's still a kind of raging passion between us. When we first got together, I was worried that it was just a reaction to everything else that had happened, and I resisted for a while before realizing that, through the whole ordeal, Cole had been the only man who'd really made me feel like a whole person. "Just..." I stare into his eyes, looking for the answer to a question I haven't even asked yet. I've wanted to ask him this for so long, just to make sure that I'm not making the same mistake I made before, and I figure now's as good a time as any. "When you say you love me," I continue eventually, "who are you talking to? Do you mean you love Elizabeth, or do you mean you love Laura?"
"Do you still need to ask that question?" he asks.
I pause. I guess I just have to keep reminding myself that Cole was the only person who truly saw through everything that Edward did to me. When he left the Heights, it wasn't because he'd given up on Elizabeth; it was because he'd recognized me, and he had to go and find out if his suspicions were true.
"I love the woman who's standing right in front of me," he says with a smile, "and I wouldn't change a thing about you. Not even a hair on your head". He pauses. "You haven't changed your mind, have you? Do you want me to start calling you Elizabeth?"
"No," I say. "Laura's fine".
"If you need more time," he continues, "I can wait. You know that, right?"
"You've waited long enough," I tell him. "We both have".
Grabbing his hand, I lead him toward the bedroom door. He doesn't know it yet, but today's the day when we're going to say 'yes' to the bar we've been contemplating buying for weeks. Sure, it's not perfect, but I figure we can do some work on it and fix it up, maybe give it a bit of a facelift. Not too much, though. Just enough to make it ours. That way, we can start making new memories together, and it's thanks to those memories that I'll eventually feel whole again.
Bonus
The Church
(The Devil's Photographer 1.1)
Prologue
The photo is old. At least ten years, maybe a little more. The edges are frayed, and there's a crease down the middle where it appears to have been folded up. Each corner has some damage, suggesting that the photo was once mounted somewhere but has since been removed. The colors are still bright and vivid, though, so it's clear that the photo hasn't been kept out on display for too long; if anything, it seems to have been hidden away for much of its existence.
There are two people in the photo. One of them is a man, in his late twenties or early thirties; he's smiling as he holds a baby in his arms. They're in a park, their features picked out by bright sunlight. The baby is very young, perhaps only a couple of weeks old. Judging from the proud and happy look on the man's face, it would be reasonable to assume that he's the father. The baby's eyes are barely open, and one of its hands is reaching up to clasp the man's thumb. It's a moment of connection between father and child.
It's a perfectly ordinary photo. On the surface, there's nothing that would make anyone suspicious. But if you look closer, and if you know a little of the context in which the picture was taken, the photo changes. Suddenly it becomes one of the most terrifying images ever caught on film.
For example, there's the matter of the other individuals who are part of the picture. Depending on your point of view, there might be two other people in the photo. One of them is the person holding the camera; this person casts a shadow across the grass in the background, and her face is dimly reflected in the sunglasses that hang around the man's neck. She might not be the focus of the photo, but this woman is arguably the dominating presence: she's the one who chose the framing; she's the one who decided to take a picture at all; she's the one who put the photo in a frame, and who later removed it, folded it up, and hid it away.
Then there's the other person in the photo. Slightly out of focus, there's a man in the distance, looking as if he just happened to be walking through the park at the moment the photo was taken. A middle-aged man with scraggly black hair, he doesn't seem to have noticed the family at all. Again, there's nothing particularly menacing about the man, unless you know the context. Context is everything.
So far, the photo might still seem fairly normal. However, there are two other things that make this particular image stand out. For one thing, the older man in the distance doesn't seem to have a shadow; it's easy to see the shadows of nearby trees, and the general direction of the sun, but the man casts no shadow whatsoever. The o
ther unusual thing is that the baby's face seems strangely blurry, almost as if there are two faces staring up at the father. Taken in isolation, these things aren't particularly odd; even together, they could be deemed a coincidence. But, again, it's all about the context: if you know the context of the photo - if you know when and where it was taken, and what happened next - these things suddenly take on a life of their own. Suddenly it's as if the photo is a snapshot of impending disaster, and a distillation of a moment in time that would rapidly disintegrate. When the button on the camera was pressed, everything was okay. Within seconds, three lives had been destroyed forever. It's that moment - a moment of happiness on the cusp of tragedy - that is the true subject of this tatty old photo.
Most people, having taken such a photo, would never pick up a camera again. But this woman did the opposite.
Chapter One
Taking a step back, I raise my camera and take a couple more shots of the church's columns. Rising high above me, its roof picked out by the mid-morning sun, St. Abraham's looks surprisingly bare and inconspicuous; it's the kind of church you could walk past every day for a year, without really noticing it's even there. In fact, the only sign of activity is a small board by the main door, displaying the times of Mass. Still, despite its lack of fame, I figure St. Abraham's is as good a church as any to add to my list; I mean, why should only the well-known New York churches get included in this little project? The smaller ones often hide the more interesting images, although it's hard to tell for sure until the images have been developed. Besides, I've already done all the big ones, some of them multiple times. To be honest, I'm starting to run out of churches.
As I walk around the corner to get a view from the side, I briefly make eye contact with a passing man. Dressed in an immaculate suit, he betrays no expression on his face, and he quickly continues on his way. I know what he was thinking, though; he was wondering why I'd bother to take a picture of a crumbling old building, especially on a Tuesday morning when most people would be at work. He probably sees my leather jacket and scraped-back hair and thinks I'm some kind of artist or journalist. Fortunately, I'm sure he'll have forgotten about me by the time he reaches the next corner. Like the church, I prefer to fade into the background whenever possible. The camera is a shield; as long as it's raised to cover my face, I feel invisible.
I take a few more photos, before lowering the camera and realizing that there's an old man watching me from a small door in the side of the church. It takes me a moment to realize that under his large, padded blue anorak, he's actually dressed as a priest.
"It's okay," he calls out, smiling. "Take as many pictures as you want. Frankly, we're grateful for the attention".
"I'm done," I mutter, quickly putting the lens cap back on my camera. To be honest, I would have liked to have got a few more shots, for completion's sake, but I can always come back some other time. The last thing I want is to get involved in a conversation.
"Might I ask why you're interested in us?" he continues, wandering out from the doorway. "It's not as if we're very architecturally satisfying, as you can see. We're actually one of the more uninteresting buildings in the city. Sometimes I feel as if our church is rather invisible".
"It's for a project," I say, barely making eye contact with him. I fumble with the camera as I frantically try to stuff it into my shoulder bag as quickly as possible. Damn it, I hate the way I start panicking when I'm nervous. After a moment, the box of filters spins out of my hand and hits the sidewalk, scattering its contents far and wide.
"Allow me," says the priest, leaning down and starting to pick up the filters.
"It's fine," I mutter, trying to gather up the filters as quickly as possible.
"You saw something that interested you?" the priest asks.
"Not really," I say, grabbing the last of the filters and starting to put them back into the box.
"You just like taking photographs of old churches?"
"Something like that".
"Well, I suppose that's a pleasant enough hobby. One never knows how future generations will view the modern age. Perhaps, one day, people will change their minds and be interested in our humble little church".
"Yeah," I say, trying to remain polite as I struggle to get the box of filters into my bag. This usually isn't much of a problem, but my trembling hands are making it much more difficult.
"You're welcome to come inside," the priest continues. "Technically, we're closed right now, but I could make an exception". Reaching into his pocket, he produces a set of keys and jangles them. "It's so rare to have someone show interest in our humble home, I'd be happy to give you a guided tour".
"It's fine," I say. "I don't really do the insides".
"Or people".
"What?"
He smiles. "I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to lower your camera every time someone walked past. I came to the conclusion that you preferred to have clear shots, uncluttered by the presence of passing souls".
"Maybe," I say, trying to be polite. "I'm done. I need to go".
"Suit yourself". He turns to look up at the side of the building. "There's been a church on this spot for almost two hundred and thirty years," he says, "though this one is only from the 1830s. Before that, there was a smaller, more European-style building with a spire and a little bell-tower". Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pile of leaflets and hands one to me. "This has all the information you should require, but we also have a website".
"Thanks," I say quietly, finally managing to zip my bag closed. "I really should go. Thanks again". Smiling awkwardly, I turn to walk away, almost bumping into a trashcan.
"Let me know if you find anything interesting in your pictures," he says. "Something unusual, perhaps".
Stopping, I turn to look back at him. "What do you mean?"
"I saw you a few minutes ago from one of the windows," he continues. "You seemed to be taking a lot of pictures from different angles, almost as if you were using your camera to search for something. It's a plain old building, but if you spot anything that's worth a mention, I'd love to know". He smiles, but there's something about his expression and his tone of voice that makes me wonder if perhaps there's a more serious undertone to his words.
"I wasn't..." I start to say, before my voice trails off. "I mean, I wasn't looking for anything in particular, I..." Again, my voice trails off. I really, really hate it when I get interrupted like this, but I'm usually much better at avoiding contact. I fucked up today.
"Okay," he replies, "I guess I should shut up now. I thought maybe you were interested in the spot at the top of the front steps".
"You did?" I ask.
"It seemed you were taking a lot more photos there than anywhere else". He stares at me. "I thought maybe there was something there that caught your attention".
"Should there be?" I ask after a moment.
"Oh, you know," he continues, "people talk over the years. One person says one thing, someone else hears it and adds their own interpretation, and impressionable people take it from there and start imagining things. Little ideas build up, and before you know it, there are all these superstitions in the air".
"I didn't notice anything," I say, which is kind of a lie. Although I tend to focus on the front door, I never feel any particularly unusual sensation. It's just that I've learned, over the years, where to train my camera if I want to pick up anything strange.
"Like I said," he continues, "it's just superstition. Some people claim they feel something unusual at that particular point, like a kind of presence on the steps, but I've never noticed it myself. I must admit, I've tried standing there, but I suppose I'm just not as impressionable as the average person. I didn't mean to make a big thing of it; I just thought it was an odd coincidence that you seemed to be so interested".
I pause for a moment. "Like you said," I reply eventually, "it's just a coincidence".
"I'm sure you're right". He pauses, before shrugging and turning to walk bac
k to the little doorway. "Enjoy developing your photos," he calls back to me as he reaches the door, pushes it open and disappears back inside the building. I'm left standing on the sidewalk, almost trembling with nerves after that little conversation. I came to accept, long ago, that I'm terrible when it comes to personal interaction, and even by my usual standards I must have seemed a little vague and disorganized while I was talking to that man. Hopefully he'll just forget all about me, though. That's what I want. Over the past year, I've successfully avoided a situation where someone asks me what I'm doing; I guess it was inevitable that it'd happen eventually.
Walking back around to the front of the church, I look up at the top of the steps. I don't remember noticing anything particularly interesting in that spot, and I don't remember taking any more photos there than of the rest of the building. Still, it's odd that the priest seemed to notice something; it often seems to be the case, when I'm developing my images back at home, that I find I have been subconsciously focusing on a particular area. In a number of cases, it turns out that the area that attracted my attention happens to be the area where any anomalies show up. It's something I've noticed before, so it's strange that the priest seemed to pick up on it. This is the first time that anyone else has ever even hinted that they've picked up on the things I've seen. It's almost as if a link has been created between my private obsessions and the rest of the world.
I pause for a moment, before double-checking that my camera is safely zipped away in my shoulder bag. Finally, I turn and hurry along the street, walking as quickly as possible as I head home. I need to get to my dark room as soon as I can, because the development process takes a few hours and I want to have an answer before the end of the day. It's been fifty-four days since I last caught the man in one of my photos; he's long overdue another appearance.
