The Devil's Photographer

by Amy Cross

  The Devil's Photographer

  by Amy Cross

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  First published: April 2013

  This edition published: May 2017

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  Table of Contents

  Part One: The Church

  Part Two: The Book

  Part Three: The Doctor

  Part Four: The Letting

  Part Five: The Promise

  Part Six: The Touch

  Part Seven: The Moment

  Part Eight: The Fall

  The Devil's Photographer

  Part One

  The Church

  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 other 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.

  Today

  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 d
ifficult.

  "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 back 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.

  Twenty-five years ago

  "Here," she says, beaming a huge smile as she sets the brightly-colored box on the table. "This is from your Dad and me. We hope it's the one you wanted."

  Reaching forward, I begin to untie the bow on top of the box, before carefully lifting the edges of the wrapping paper. I'm nervous, because I know without a shadow of doubt that my parents can't really afford to give me such an extravagant gift. Medical bills have gouged out our family's finances, and I already feel responsible for all our hardships. Now, as my trembling fingers carefully undo the wrapping, I'm worried they've broken the bank.

  "My God," my father says with a grin as he watches, "when I was your age, I used to rip the paper off like a maniac."

  "Let her open it how she wants!" my mother says, slapping his knee.

  Ignoring them, I continue to pull the paper away slowly and carefully, folding each piece once I've removed it. My heart is racing as I desperately try to keep my expectations in check. I overheard my parents talking the other day about cameras, and I'd half-expected them to get me something. All I really need, though, is a bottom-of-the-barrel little device, something I can use to take a few snaps. This box, however, is way, way bigger than I could ever have expected, and -

  And -

  I pull the last of the paper away and stare in stunned silence at the illustration on the front of the box. This is no bottom-of-the-range model; this is a modern SLR camera, the kind I've seen in magazines and movies but never dreamed I might actually own. For a moment, unable to quite process what I'm was seeing, I just sit and stare, and finally I realize that something is horribly wrong. The family's finances are in ruins, and I know damn well that my parents have no spare money to spend on lavish gifts.

  "You guys can't afford this," I say, turning first to my father and then to my mother. "No way can you guys afford this!"

  "Let us worry about that," my mother replies with a faint, pained smile. "Just tell us it's the one you wanted. Please?"

  "The one I wanted?" I pause, my mouth hanging open. "It's more than the one I wanted! It's the most amazing thing ever, but..." I pause again as I realize that I'm actually scared to open the damn thing. My heart is in my mouth as I imagine herself dropping it, or breaking it, or losing it somewhere... I feel as if I've been given the most amazing gift imaginable, and yet I also feel totally unprepared for the responsibility.

  "There are a couple of rolls of film in there too," my mother continues tentatively. "But honey, the look on your face... Are you sure this is the one
you wanted? We can take it back and exchange it if you -"

  "No," I reply, forcing myself to smile. "It's..." I pause again, this time with tears in my eyes. "I just never expected it," I continue, getting to my feet and hurrying over to give my mother a big hug. "I never ever thought I'd be able to have something like this. Are you completely sure we can afford it? I don't want to cause problems. I can use a basic little thing. I don't even need a camera at all."

  "Yes you do," my mother replies. "We've seen the way you are, Kate. Trying to get you away from a camera is pretty much impossible. And who knows? No pressure, but maybe some day you'll turn out to be this amazingly successful photographer, but... That's not the point. This is what you love doing, and we just wanted to put a smile on your face. You've had such a tough year."

  "Yeah," I reply, heading over to my father and giving him a brief hug, "but I'm okay now. I mean, you guys didn't need to go nuts."

  "That's what I said," my father mutters, before flashing a smile. "Just kidding."

  "Are you going to open it?" my mother asks.

  Approaching the box, I can't shake the feeling that I'm unworthy of such an amazing camera. I cautiously lift the edge of the box, opening one of the flaps, but my hands are already starting to tremble. It takes a couple of minutes of careful maneuvering to get the camera out, but finally I hold it up, stunned by its beauty. I know that most people like cameras because they want to take beautiful pictures, and I feel that impulse too, but to me a camera is a work of art. I place it carefully on the table and pull away the pieces of packaging, until finally I can see it in all its glory.