Happy Halloween!

In my grandmother’s house, there is a photograph.

It is my favorite photograph. As a child, when I would visit her during the summers, my grandmother would sit me in her lap and let me look through all of her old photo albums. Of all the hundreds and hundreds of pictures, this one remained my favorite. Yes, it was faded, and sure, it was a bit blurry, but none of that mattered to me. The image of my grandmother, just a carefree teenage girl, is suspended in time as she runs to catch a football thrown to her by my grandfather. Her head is thrown back in laughter, her joy so palpable that this laughter would ring out in my own ears whenever I looked at it. When I looked at my grandfather in the photo, the way he gazes so adoringly at her, I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t help but hope that one day, I, too, would find a lover that looked at me the way my grandparents looked at eachother. When I looked at this photograph as a child, I liked to close my eyes and pretend I was there. All of a sudden, this black-and-white image would come to life in vivid color around me. The birds around me began to sing a beautiful love song, the trees in the park would sway in the warm breeze, and I would join in this football game, laughing and playing with my young grandparents. Nothing could ever go wrong when I was in this world. Until the day I found it.

In my grandmother’s house, there is another photograph.

This one was not found so easily. It did not sit inside the small photo album perched atop the coffee table in the living room. Nor did it sit in one of the albums at the foot of my grandmother’s bed. I’d been through those too many times to count. It could not even be found in with the photos in the dusty old cupboards in the basement.  

No, this photograph was tucked far away, for it was not to be seen by anyone. As it turns out, I just so happened to stumble upon this photograph one dark and rainy afternoon. Hungry for adventure, but discouraged by the relentless rain, my twelve-year-old self began to wander my grandmother’s house in search of something to do. As I passed by the door leading the the attic, a thought occurred to me as I examined its peeling paint: was it possible that I had really never been in my grandma’s attic? My curiosity rapidly overpowering any other senses, I pried open the creaky door and climbed up the steep wooden steps.

The smell of damp, decaying wood hung heavily in the air as I ascended into the attic. All was dark except for a single strip of light streaming in from a dingy skylight on the ceiling. As I peered around, I noticed that there was something like a small wooden chest slightly illuminated in the dull glow. After blowing off a thick coating of dust from the box, I was able to examine the cracked painted antique-style flowers that decorated the lid. I gently lifted the latch, careful not to inflict any further damage, and found inside just two photographs.

Although I had never seen this picture before, I immediately recognized the scene. I could tell it was the same day as the photo I had loved so dearly. My grandparents could be seen wearing the same outfits, and my grandmother still held the same football in her hands. In fact, it was so similar, it seemed as if this photograph was taken only seconds later. But there was something unmistakably different about this picture.

My grandmother’s face no longer smiles. My grandfather’s face no longer adores. Instead, their widened eyes are fixed intently on some spot outside of the frame. Both of their mouths are agape with horror as they gaze upon some unseen force. As I examined their faces, a chill ran down my spine. What could they have possibly seen that would have provoked such a reaction — and only seconds after such a picture-perfect moment?

As I shifted my attention onto the second photograph, I felt my blood run cold. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the blurry, black-and-white image of what can only be described as a creature, standing just visible in the surrounding trees. Surely it wasn’t human, but not an animal either. Its features were humanoid, but grossly exaggerated. Impossibly tall and slender, this being — whatever it was — had arms reaching almost to the ground. Its featureless face gazed back at the camera.

Suddenly, I could hear my heartbeat rapidly thumping against my ribcage. I hastily shoved the dark photos back into the chest, closed the latch, and bolted out of that attic as quickly as I could. Later, when my grandmother asked me why my face had gone so pale, I wondered whether to ask her about the photos in the attic. However, when I thought back to what I had seen, the haunting images permeating my mind, I decided against it. These photos were much better forgotten, tucked far away, not to be seen by anyone. I would much rather look at the ones in the album perched on the coffee table.