Jack placed the mahogany camera on the kitchen table. Its brass fittings caught the lamplight like old coins. Rain tapped steadily against the window above the sink. For a moment, he just stared at it, tracing his fingers along the wood grain and the faint groove where a century of hands had opened and closed the folding bed.
He turned toward the darkroom. It was barely the size of a small closet, a converted pantry filled with shelves of bottles and trays. The air smelled slightly of fixer and aged wood. He had kept it sealed off for years, only using it to restore prints. This would be the first time he used it to capture something new in a long while.
Jack took the box of Ilford HP5 Plus 4×5 film from the small fridge. He closed the door, plunging the room into complete darkness.
The work was second nature: his thumb found the notched corner to locate the emulsion side, feeling the cool acetate against his fingers. He slid the sheet under the retaining rails of the film holder until it stopped, fitting snugly. He closed the flap and placed the dark slide, black side out. He turned it over and loaded a second sheet. When he finished, the holder was back in the light, its two silent frames waiting.
He unfolded the camera's bed and moved the brass lens forward on the rails until it clicked into place. The ground glass on the back was dim but clear under the kitchen light. He focused on the cluttered table—a coffee mug, a stack of unpaid bills, his grandfather's pocketknife lying half-open—then adjusted the aperture until the image was sharp.
He closed the shutter and slid the loaded holder into the back, feeling the snug fit of wood against wood. The click of the latch echoed unnaturally in the silence. He pulled the dark slide halfway out, paused, then removed it completely. The exposed rectangle lay still.
He took a deep breath. With his thumb on the shutter lever, he pressed it. The sound was quick and final. He slid the dark slide back in, this time showing the white edge, marking it as exposed.
Inside the darkroom, the tray of developer rippled as he lowered the sheet into it, rocking gently. The sharp chemical smell filled his nose. Under the amber safelight, faint outlines began to appear—the table, the mug, the knife. Ordinary. Too ordinary.
Still, the old lens was sharper than he had expected. Every nick in the wood grain and every crease in the unpaid bills looked etched. He felt a strange satisfaction but also a hint of disappointment.
Maybe the alley scene had just been a trick of the light after all.
or perhaps …
Jack decided that the kitchen was too familiar, and he needed a place with more bones and more history. This apartment complex was old even by the standards of most buildings around the Boston area. The hallway would be perfect. The walls were old brick and patched over in many places. The hardwood floors creaked in complaint when stepped upon. And the air smelled of dusty radiator.
Jack decided to set up his tripod in the center of the hallway and attach his camera facing down the hall. He unfolded the camera and extended the bellows until the brass lens was set at the correct location. Looking through the lens, everything was dim and dreary but otherwise a normal hallway.
Jack closed the shutter, slid a fresh film holder into place, and pulled the dark slide with a smooth motion. The bellows made a faint sigh, as if taking a breath. He tripped the shutter, snick, and reinserted the slide, white edge out. In the darkroom, the silence felt heavier than usual. He worked by the amber light, the chemical smells wrapping around him like an old coat. The exposed sheet slipped into the tray of developer, rocking gently as he nudged it with the tongs. At first, it only revealed shadows and outlines—the geometry of the hall emerging like something coming up from water. Then came the details: wallpaper he didn't recognize, a bold floral print curling at the seams. Gas lamps adorned the walls instead of modern sconces. And there, two women stood near his apartment door. One wore a long, high-necked dress with her hair piled into a severe knot. The other held a folded letter, her head turned toward the camera. Her eyes were fixed on him. The breath caught in his throat. He leaned closer, convinced he'd imagined it, but the expression was there—surprise mixed with curiosity. It was as if she'd heard the click of the shutter in whatever time she lived and wanted to know who was watching her. CLICK FOR PICTURE ---->
Jack could hardly contain himself as he stepped outside. The rain has slowed down to a drizzle, so if he were careful, he could get a picture out here. This was the spot the market photo was taken; he tried to get the same angle and area. The buildings have seen better days as the decades took their toll on them. But it was the same spot. He unfolded the tripod, mounted the camera, and racked the lens forward until the edges of the ground glass glimmered. In the dim light, the scene was ordinary: a wet street, a passing bus groaning past, and two teenagers huddled in a doorway with coffee cups.
He closed the shutter, slid in a fresh holder, and pulled the dark slide with a slow, steady motion. The snick of the shutter was barely audible over the hiss of tires in the rain. Back in his little cave of chemicals, he lowered the sheet into the developer and stared to shake it with his tongs, not expecting much, until the shadows start to form and swirl and the chemicals burned a familiar scent in his nostrils. Needless to say he was not disappointed.
A bustling scene of 1920s life forms before his eyes. People out and about all dressed in business attire, 1920s-style suits, and fedoras. The women in cloche hats. The cobblestones are dry, and the painted signs are now all faded or nonexistent. CLICK FOR PICTURE --->
But perhaps most disturbing or exciting of all … The young girl from the market photo had the same bobbed hair and the same dark dress, with her hands still clasped in front of her, but now she was closer to the camera and sharper, staring right at Jack. This causes Jack to drop the photo.
Soon Jack's table was covered with photos. He had the first market photo that started all this and, of course, the second market photo. He also had the control photo taken in the kitchen and the photo in the hallway downstairs. Jack sat with a pen. What does this all mean? He was like a man trying to figure out the rules to a game he did not know existed. After a while he managed to jot down some rules or observations that he had figured out so far.
1.) The older the location is, the older the scene will be.
2.) The scene changes with every shot; there is no control over what year or subject will pop up.
3.) Sometimes the subject will look directly at the camera like they know you are there.
Jack circled the third line twice. Was it just coincidence? Or did they see him as well? This really nagged at Jack. Her gaze was not hostile but aware It was almost like she wanted something. or needed help. And there was just something in her posture and the way she held herself that said she was waiting for him to do something.
It was late, but Jack decided on one last test before bed. A controlled shot, something close. In the living room, there was no history there beyond his own.
He set the camera near the bookshelf, focused on the couch and the window behind it. Exposure, dark slide back in, holder on the counter.
In the darkroom, the print bloomed slowly in the developer. At first, it was what he expected. Everything is normal: the couch, the window, and the faint glow from the streetlight outside.
Then the figure appeared.
A man stood by the window, hands in his pockets, face obscured by the brim of a hat. His coat was wide-lapelled, 1970s style, the fabric grainy but distinct. The blinds behind him were drawn. Jack had left them open. The man's head tilted ever so slightly toward the camera. This was new and quite disturbing. He was not expecting anything to happen and then this happened throwing a wrench in all his theories.
Jack stared at the print, the chemical smell sharp in his nose, the red light humming faintly overhead. For a moment, the apartment seemed colder. He set the photo down, turned off the safelight, and stood in the dark. Somewhere, outside the closed darkroom door, a floorboard creaked.