The Golden KeyShaina TranquilinoSeptember 21, 2024

The Golden Key Shaina Tranquilino September 21, 2024

In the small, quiet town of Eldenford, nestled between misty hills and shadowed woods, stood the old stone church of St. Agnes. The townspeople spoke little of it, save to warn the children away. It was said to be the oldest building in the town, far older than any of the records could confirm. Its heavy wooden doors were always shut, and the gargoyles perched above seemed to watch the streets with their hollow, knowing eyes. Laurel was not like the other children. While most her age ran through the fields or played by the river, she found herself drawn to St. Agnes with a fascination she couldn’t explain. Every day after school, she would pause on the way home to gaze at the church’s weathered stones, her eyes tracing the intricate carvings that adorned the arched entrance.

One rainy afternoon, as she walked by the churchyard, a flicker of gold caught her eye. Buried half in the mud at the base of an ancient oak tree was a small key. Laurel knelt and picked it up. It was cold to the touch, heavier than it looked, and engraved with symbols she didn’t recognize. A sense of importance buzzed around it, as though it hummed with some forgotten power.

Her heart raced. Could this be the key to the church’s locked door? She had never seen anyone go in or out, and no one seemed to know where the key to St. Agnes was—or if there even was one.

That night, long after her parents had gone to bed, Laurel slipped out of the house with the golden key clutched tightly in her hand. The rain had stopped, leaving the streets slick and gleaming under the pale moonlight. Her breath fogged in the cool night air as she made her way to the church. The ancient stones loomed before her, and the gargoyles seemed to tilt their heads ever so slightly as she approached.

With trembling hands, Laurel inserted the key into the door’s heavy lock. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a slow, creaking groan, the door swung inward, revealing the dark interior of the church.

Laurel stepped inside, her heart pounding in her chest. The air was thick, not with dust as she had expected, but with something else—something old, something forgotten. She glanced around. The nave was dimly lit by the flickering remnants of long-burnt-out candles, but everything else seemed untouched by time. The pews stood in perfect rows, the altar gleamed faintly at the far end, and the stained glass windows glowed with muted colours in the moonlight.

But it wasn’t the sanctuary that drew Laurel forward. There was something more, something hidden. Her feet seemed to move on their own as she walked deeper into the church.

Behind the altar, in a shadowed alcove, was another door. It was small, barely noticeable, as if the stone walls themselves were trying to swallow it. It had no handle, no visible lock—except for a small, circular indentation near its center.

Without hesitation, Laurel pressed the golden key into the indentation. The door clicked softly and swung open, revealing a staircase that spiraled down into the earth.

Her pulse quickened, but curiosity overcame fear. She descended, the stone steps cold beneath her feet, the air growing thicker and warmer with each step. Faint sounds reached her ears—whispers, like a distant chant, though the words were unintelligible.

The stairs ended in a vast chamber, far below the church. Torches flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows across the floor, and in the centre of the room stood an ancient altar, surrounded by strange, twisting statues. They were not like the saints or angels Laurel had seen in pictures. These figures were distorted, their faces wild and terrifying, their bodies frozen in unnatural poses.

And yet, they seemed alive.

Laurel took a hesitant step forward. The air felt electric, as if the chamber itself was breathing. Before the altar lay a pool of black water, perfectly still, its surface like glass. Above it, suspended in the air, hung a golden thread—thin and delicate, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

The whispers grew louder. Laurel could almost understand them now—names, maybe, or prayers in a forgotten language. They beckoned her forward, urging her to touch the thread.

Her fingers hovered above it. As soon as she made contact, the room shifted. The statues’ eyes glowed with life, and the water in the pool began to ripple. Slowly, impossibly, figures began to rise from the water—shapes of gods long forgotten, their forms vast and incomprehensible.

They were not like the gods of the stories Laurel had heard. These were beings of shadow and light, of stone and flame, their faces both beautiful and terrible. She could feel their presence pressing down on her, ancient and powerful.

"Who calls us?" one of them spoke, its voice a rumble that seemed to shake the very foundation of the earth.

Laurel's mouth went dry, but she could not speak. The gods’ gaze fell upon her, their eyes burning with a hunger for recognition, for worship.

"You have the key," the voice continued. "You have unlocked what was meant to be forgotten."

The weight of their words crushed her. She wanted to flee, to escape back to the safety of the town above, but her legs would not move.

Another figure spoke, its voice softer, more insidious. "We are the gods before gods. The ones the world has turned away from. But you, child—you can bring us back."

The key in Laurel's hand pulsed with warmth, as if urging her to make a choice. The gods awaited her answer, their forms rippling with barely contained power.

Laurel took a breath, steadying herself. Her mind raced. She had found something wondrous, but it was also terrifying. Could she release these beings back into the world? Could she bear the consequences?

Slowly, she turned and ran.

The golden key fell from her hand, clattering to the floor as she fled up the stairs, through the door, and back into the cold night. Behind her, the church door slammed shut with a thunderous boom, sealing the hidden world once again.

Laurel never returned to St. Agnes. But every now and then, she could feel the pull of the golden key, the weight of what she had uncovered. The gods still lingered beneath the church, waiting for another to find them.

The Phantom Train Shaina Tranquilino September 6, 2024

It was a chilly autumn evening, the kind where the mist rolled in from the hills like an ethereal blanket, cloaking the world in a thick, silvery haze. Sophie and Kent, a young couple on their way back from a weekend getaway in the countryside, stood at the edge of the old, dilapidated platform. The station, seemingly abandoned, had an eerie feel to it. The rusted sign above them creaked in the wind, and the distant hoot of an owl sent a shiver down Sophie's spine.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" Sophie asked, glancing nervously at her husband.

Kent nodded, though he seemed unsure himself. The small, crumpled ticket in his hand was their only proof that they were in the right place. It had been given to them by an old woman at the inn where they’d stayed, who insisted that they take this particular train.

"It's a local secret," the old woman had said, her voice raspy with age. "A special train for special travelers. But it only comes on misty nights like this one."

Now, as they stood on the deserted platform, the mist swirling around them, Sophie began to wonder if they had made a mistake. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant sound of rustling leaves and the faint whistle of the wind. No lights, no people—just the two of them and the cold, creeping fog.

Just as Sophie was about to suggest they leave, a distant rumble reached their ears. It started as a low vibration, barely noticeable, but quickly grew into the unmistakable sound of an approaching train. The mist thickened, and suddenly, the silhouette of a locomotive emerged from the fog, its headlights cutting through the gloom like knives.

The train was old—much older than any Sophie had ever seen. Its once-polished metal was tarnished and covered in grime, the windows were clouded with age, and the entire train seemed to exude a ghostly aura. Yet, it was undeniably there, solid and real, as it came to a smooth stop in front of them.

The door of the nearest carriage creaked open with a loud, mournful groan. Kent glanced at Sophie, and she could see the unease in his eyes. But curiosity outweighed fear, and together they stepped aboard.

Inside, the train was strangely luxurious. Velvet seats lined the carriages, lit by dim, flickering gas lamps. The air was thick with the scent of old wood and something else, something Sophie couldn’t quite place—like a distant memory of something sweet, long forgotten.

They walked down the aisle, noticing the other passengers. Men and women dressed in old-fashioned attire sat quietly, staring straight ahead, their faces pale and expressionless. None of them seemed to notice the young couple's presence.

"Hello?" Kent tried to speak to one of the passengers, but there was no response. The man he addressed, dressed in a suit from another era, continued to stare out the window, his eyes hollow and empty.

Sophie felt a growing unease, her heart pounding in her chest. "We need to get off this train," she whispered urgently to Kent.

But when they turned to go back, the door they had entered through was gone. In its place was a solid wall of dark wood.

Panic began to set in as they moved through the carriages, searching for an exit. Each door led to another carriage, identical to the last, with the same silent, unmoving passengers. The mist outside grew thicker, pressing against the windows like a living thing.

Finally, they reached the end of the train—a luxurious parlor car, empty except for a grand, ornate mirror on one wall. The air in this carriage was colder, and the strange, sweet scent was stronger here. It was then that Sophie noticed the small plaque below the mirror:

“In memory of those lost to time, bound forever to the journey they never completed.”

As Sophie read the words aloud, the mirror began to shimmer. The mist outside the windows seemed to seep into the room, swirling around them. And then, slowly, the mirror's surface began to change.

Reflected in it was not the empty parlor car, but a scene from another time. The train was alive with people—men and women laughing, talking, their faces full of life. But as Sophie and Kent watched, the image in the mirror shifted. The train lurched violently in the reflection, passengers were thrown from their seats, screams filled the air—and then, fire. The train in the mirror was engulfed in flames, the reflection showing a disaster that had taken place decades ago.

Sophie gasped as the horror unfolded before their eyes. Kent pulled her close, his grip tight. "This train," he said, his voice trembling, "these people—they're all... they're all..."

"Ghosts," Sophie finished, her voice barely a whisper.

Suddenly, the door at the far end of the parlor car opened with a loud bang. The old woman from the inn stood there, her face somber.

"You shouldn't have come," she said, her voice carrying a note of sorrow. "This train is cursed, forever bound to relive that night. The passengers are souls trapped between worlds, never able to reach their destination."

"But why us?" Kent asked, his voice filled with fear and confusion.

The old woman sighed. "The train calls to those who are at a crossroads in their lives. Those who are lost, unsure of the path ahead. You were drawn here, but you don't belong. Not yet."

"How do we leave?" Sophie asked, desperation in her voice.

The old woman stepped aside, revealing the open door behind her. "You must leave before the journey ends, or you will be bound to this train forever."

Without hesitation, Sophie and Kent ran through the door, the mist enveloping them as they leaped from the moving train. They tumbled onto the cold, damp ground of the platform, the sound of the train's whistle echoing in the distance as it disappeared into the fog.

When they looked up, the train was gone. The platform was empty, silent, and the mist began to dissipate, revealing the night sky dotted with stars.

Breathing heavily, Sophie and Kent clung to each other, shaken but alive. The phantom train had vanished, leaving no trace of its eerie presence.

As they made their way back to the village, the old woman's words echoed in their minds: "The train calls to those who are lost..."

But now, having faced the ghostly specter of the past, they knew exactly where they were headed. And with each step away from the haunted platform, they felt the weight of the past lifting, replaced by the certainty of their future together.

The Silent Town Shaina Tranquilino September 14, 2024

The traveler came upon the town at dusk, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and purple. He had been on the road for days, weary from his journey and looking for a place to rest. The town, nestled between two hills and surrounded by a forest, seemed like the perfect refuge. A thin mist clung to the cobblestone streets, softening the edges of the world, and the houses were old but well-kept, their windows dark and empty.

He wandered into the heart of the town, expecting the usual hum of activity—a shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, children laughing, the murmur of conversation. Instead, the town was silent.

The traveler frowned, feeling an unsettling stillness in the air. He saw people—dozens of them—standing in front of their homes or sitting on porches. They watched him with blank, almost expectant expressions, but no one greeted him. No one spoke. There were no footsteps, no whispers, not even the rustle of fabric as they moved. It was as if the town held its breath.

He approached an old woman sitting on a bench, her eyes fixed on him. "Excuse me," he said. "Can you tell me where I might find an inn?"

The woman only stared, her lips pressed into a tight line. The traveler waited, expecting her to speak, but she remained silent. He glanced around, noticing the other townsfolk had turned their heads toward him, all with the same vacant, unmoving expressions. A chill ran down his spine.

Something was wrong.

"Is there an inn?" he asked again, louder this time, hoping someone—anyone—would respond. But the silence was absolute.

His footsteps echoed unnaturally loud as he made his way deeper into the town. He spotted a faded sign swinging gently in the breeze that read, The Weary Traveler. Relieved, he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The inn's common room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth barely flickering. A tall man stood behind the counter, his face gaunt, his eyes sunken but alert. The traveler approached.

"I need a room for the night," he said, his voice tentative now.

The innkeeper didn’t speak, merely nodded and handed him a key, his hands trembling slightly. The traveler accepted it, watching the man closely. There was a strange sadness in his eyes, a weariness that seemed deeper than exhaustion.

"What is wrong with this town?" the traveler asked. "Why won't anyone speak?"

The innkeeper flinched, his face paling. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but he quickly shut it, glancing nervously around the room. Without another word, he turned away, retreating into a back room.

The traveler felt a creeping unease. He climbed the stairs to his room, the silence thick around him. When he reached his door, he heard something—a faint whisper, barely audible, coming from behind him. He turned, but the hallway was empty. The sound wasn’t quite human. It was as though the air itself was whispering.

Inside the room, he locked the door and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to shake the growing sense of dread. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps a religious vow or a tradition he didn’t understand.

As he lay in the dark, sleep came slowly, interrupted by uneasy dreams of shadowy figures watching him with hollow eyes, their mouths open in silent screams.

The next morning, the traveler set out to find answers. He wandered through the quiet streets, the townspeople still watching him in silence. He tried to speak to several of them—children, shopkeepers, even a priest standing outside a small chapel—but none of them made a sound.

Finally, he found himself in front of the town’s only church, an old stone building with a tall, weathered bell tower. Something about it drew him in. He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped inside.

The interior was dim, the only light coming from a few flickering candles. At the far end of the room, a single figure knelt before the altar—an elderly man dressed in a long, tattered robe. He didn’t turn as the traveler approached.

"Are you the priest?" the traveler asked, his voice echoing in the vast space. "Do you know why no one here will speak?"

The man didn’t answer, but he rose slowly to his feet. His movements were stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in years. He turned, revealing a face lined with age and sorrow. His eyes, like the innkeeper’s, held a deep sadness.

"They cannot speak," the priest said at last, his voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."

The traveler’s heart quickened. "Why?"

The priest’s gaze drifted to the altar, where an ancient, worn book lay open. "A long time ago, this town made a pact. A bargain with something... not of this world. The harvests had failed. The children were sick. People were desperate. A creature came to them in the night, offering salvation."

The traveler felt a cold knot form in his stomach. "What did it ask in return?"

The priest’s voice trembled. "Their voices. Their words. The people would never speak again, but in exchange, the town would prosper. The crops grew rich, the sickness vanished, and the town thrived."

"But at what cost?" the traveler asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"The creature feeds on their silence. It lingers in the shadows, watching, waiting. If anyone breaks the silence—if they utter even a single word—the creature returns. It takes more than just their voice."

The traveler stepped back, horror dawning in his mind. "How do you speak, then?"

"I am the last who remembers," the priest said, his voice fading. "But my time is ending. Soon, I will be silent too."

The traveler turned to leave, but something stopped him. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow shift in the far corner of the room. It was darker than the rest of the room, a shape that didn’t belong, and as he looked at it, the air around him seemed to thicken.

The priest's voice was barely a whisper now. "You must leave. Before it knows you’ve heard."

But it was too late.

The shadow moved, stretching toward him with unnatural speed. The traveler ran, his heart pounding, the silent screams of the town echoing in his mind. He fled the church, down the cobblestone streets, and into the woods, not daring to look back.

Behind him, the town remained still and silent. Forever cursed, forever watched, bound to their pact with the darkness that thrived in their silence.

The Midnight Library Shaina Tranquilino September 12, 2024

In the heart of a forgotten town, where the streets whispered secrets and the wind carried the scent of old memories, stood a library unlike any other. Its doors, carved from dark mahogany and etched with ancient symbols, only creaked open at the stroke of midnight. The townsfolk called it The Midnight Library, a place spoken of in hushed tones, where the brave—or the foolish—ventured in search of forbidden knowledge.

Rumours swirled that the library's shelves were filled with books that foretold the future. Some claimed to have seen visions of their destiny unfold between the pages, while others spoke of ominous warnings best left unread. But no one could resist the pull of curiosity for long.

Ethan Caldwell had heard the stories all his life, passed down from his grandfather who had once dared to cross the threshold. The old man had returned with wild eyes and a shaking hand, clutching a small, leather-bound book. He had never spoken of what he saw, but Ethan knew the terror in his grandfather’s eyes had come from that place. Yet, on the night of his twenty-ninth birthday, with the weight of unsolved mysteries pressing on his shoulders, Ethan found himself standing before the library.

The clock tower in the distance chimed midnight, each strike reverberating through the deserted streets. The doors of the library groaned open, revealing a dimly lit interior. Ethan hesitated for a moment, the air thick with anticipation, before stepping inside.

The air was cool, filled with the musty scent of ancient pages. Shelves towered above him, lined with books of every shape and size. Some were bound in rich leather, others in cracked, faded covers. There was no librarian in sight, no one to guide him. The library seemed to breathe, alive with the secrets it held.

Drawn by an invisible force, Ethan wandered deeper into the labyrinth of books. His fingers trailed across spines as he passed, feeling the pulse of the future within them. Then, as if guided by fate, his hand stopped on a book that seemed to glow with a faint, eerie light. It was unremarkable in appearance, a simple black cover with no title. But when Ethan opened it, he saw his name etched on the first page.

His heart raced as he flipped through the pages, each one filled with his life story. There were moments he recognized, memories that seemed distant yet vivid on the paper. But as he reached the final chapters, his breath caught in his throat. The words told of a future he had not yet lived, a future that seemed to be set in stone.

The book spoke of a night not far from now, where Ethan would find himself alone in his home, a storm raging outside. The lights would flicker, the windows rattling with the force of the wind. And then, as the storm reached its peak, a shadowy figure would emerge from the darkness, a figure Ethan would recognize as his own reflection. But this reflection would not be him—it would be something darker, a twisted version of himself, come to claim his life.

Ethan slammed the book shut, his hands trembling. He could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, his breath shallow and quick. The prophecy was clear—he was destined to die by his own hand, or rather, by the hand of a version of himself that had been corrupted by something evil, something he couldn’t yet understand.

He stumbled out of the library, the book still clutched in his hand. The doors slammed shut behind him with a finality that echoed through the night. As Ethan fled home, the book’s words burned in his mind. Was this his fate? Was there no way to escape the future that had been written for him?

Days passed, each one filled with a growing sense of dread. Ethan became obsessed with the book, reading and rereading the prophecy, searching for any detail that could change his fate. He stopped sleeping, his eyes sunken and bloodshot. He avoided mirrors, fearing the moment when his reflection would turn against him.

Then, on a stormy night, just as the book had foretold, Ethan found himself alone in his home. The wind howled outside, the lights flickering ominously. He felt a chill creep down his spine as the shadows in his home seemed to lengthen and twist, taking on a life of their own.

And then, in the dim light of his living room, he saw it—his reflection in the window. But it wasn’t him. The figure stared back with hollow eyes, a sinister smile playing on its lips. It moved when he didn’t, tilting its head as if mocking him.

“No,” Ethan whispered, backing away. “This can’t be real.”

But the figure stepped closer, emerging from the glass as if it were stepping through a doorway. It was him, yet not him—an embodiment of every dark thought, every fear he had ever harbored.

“You can’t change what’s written,” the doppelgänger whispered, its voice a twisted echo of Ethan’s own. “The future is set. The book never lies.”

Ethan’s mind raced, desperate to find a way out. But the prophecy had already begun to unfold, and he realized with horror that every action he took only brought him closer to the inevitable.

As the figure lunged, Ethan closed his eyes, bracing for the end. But in that final moment, a thought struck him—what if the book was wrong? What if the future wasn’t set in stone?

With a surge of defiance, Ethan reached for the book, still lying on the table where he had left it. He tore it open to the final page, where the prophecy ended, and with a shaking hand, he grabbed a pen. As the doppelgänger loomed over him, Ethan began to write, scrawling new words over the old ones, changing the story.

The figure paused, its form wavering, as if reality itself was unraveling. Ethan wrote furiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He wrote of a different ending, one where he survived, where he defeated the dark version of himself.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the storm outside died down. The figure let out a final, piercing scream before it dissolved into shadows, vanishing into the night. The room was silent, save for Ethan’s ragged breathing.

He dropped the pen, staring at the book in his hands. The pages were filled with his own messy handwriting, a new story written over the old. He had changed his fate, rewritten his future.

As the first light of dawn crept through the windows, Ethan knew that The Midnight Library had given him not just a glimpse of the future, but the power to change it. He had confronted his darkest fears and emerged victorious. But the memory of that night would linger, a reminder of the thin line between destiny and choice.

And somewhere, deep within the shadows of the forgotten town, The Midnight Library waited for its next visitor, the doors silently creaking open as the clock struck midnight.

The Vanishing Portrait Shaina Tranquilino September 20, 2024

Draydon Cunning, a reclusive artist, stood before his latest work, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had no idea where the inspiration had come from, but the face of the man he had painted felt strangely familiar. He hadn’t met him in real life—at least, he didn’t think so—but the figure had haunted his dreams for weeks, compelling him to paint.

The painting, now completed, stared back at him. It was a man in his late thirties, with piercing green eyes, dark hair, and a strong jawline. His expression was one of melancholy, like someone who had seen too much of life’s darker side. Every stroke of Draydon's brush had brought the man to life, and now, he stood framed in silence in the centre of Draydon's studio.

Draydon felt uneasy. The dreams were always the same. The man would appear in a dense fog, walking toward him through a forest at dusk. He never spoke, but his eyes—those same green eyes—were filled with desperation, pleading for help. Draydon would wake each morning, drenched in sweat, and rush to his easel, compelled to finish the portrait before it faded from his mind.

As he stepped back to admire his work, the air in the room felt heavy. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the man in the painting was trying to tell him something. The sensation was so intense, it bordered on paranoia. Draydon shook his head, laughing at himself. He needed fresh air.

After stepping outside for a cigarette, he returned to the studio only to be struck by a strange detail. The painting had changed.

The man’s eyes, once gazing downward in melancholy, now stared directly at Draydon, wide with terror. His lips, previously set in a solemn line, were parted slightly, as if frozen mid-sentence. Draydon's heart raced. He hadn’t altered the painting himself—he was sure of it.

He blinked, convinced he was overtired. But the sense of urgency in those green eyes wouldn’t leave him.

Unable to sleep that night, Draydon scrolled through the news on his phone. A headline caught his eye: "Man Missing for Weeks: Police Offer No Leads." He clicked the article, and his blood ran cold. Staring back at him from the screen was the same face he had painted.

The man was real. His name was Adam Marrow, a local history professor who had vanished a month ago while hiking in the nearby woods.

Draydon's pulse quickened. How could he have known? The image from the dream and the real man—there was no mistaking it.

The next morning, he contacted the police. At first, they were skeptical, dismissing his claims as coincidence or a product of his overactive imagination. But the detective assigned to the case, Detective Serrano, took a lingering look at the painting.

"Let’s say you didn’t meet him," Serrano said, scratching his chin, "but you say you saw him in a dream? That’s hard to swallow, Cunning."

Draydon could only nod, feeling like he was falling deeper into something he didn’t understand.

That night, Draydon couldn’t rest. His dreams were more vivid than ever. He saw Adam standing in the same fog-filled forest, but this time, the landscape seemed more distinct. A twisted oak tree stood in the distance, its branches gnarled like reaching fingers. Nearby, a large, jagged rock jutted out of the earth.

When Draydon woke the next morning, his eyes flew to the painting. Once again, it had changed. Adam’s body had shifted in the frame. Instead of standing in an empty space, a faint background had emerged—a shadowy silhouette of the same forest from Draydon's dream, the twisted oak tree barely visible in the distance.

The realization hit him hard. The painting was showing him something—something real. A location. A clue.

Draydon grabbed his sketchpad and hurriedly sketched out the forest and rock formation from his dream, adding every detail he could recall. His heart pounded as he contacted Detective Serrano again, showing him the updated painting and the sketch.

Serrano, to his surprise, didn’t dismiss it outright this time. "There’s a place about twenty miles from here," the detective muttered, his eyes narrowing as he studied the sketch. "The rock, the tree—they match a spot near Timber Falls. It’s known for hiking trails. It’s possible Marrow went that way."

Against his better judgment, Draydon offered to go with Serrano to the location. They trekked into the forest, each step more unnerving than the last. The trees loomed above them, casting long shadows across the trail. The deeper they went, the more familiar the terrain became to Draydon. It was as if he had walked these woods a hundred times before.

After nearly an hour, they reached the twisted oak tree from his dream. It stood tall and sinister, just as he had seen it. Serrano gave Draydon a wary glance but pressed forward, toward the jagged rock.

Near the base of the rock, partially hidden by underbrush, they found something. A torn piece of fabric, stuck to a branch. It matched the description of the clothing Adam Marrow had been wearing when he disappeared.

Then, something else caught their attention—an old, shallow well, its stone edges crumbling with age. Draydon’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know how he knew, but something about the well was wrong. He could feel it.

Serrano leaned over the edge, shining his flashlight into the darkness below. His breath caught in his throat.

There, at the bottom, was Adam Marrow.

The man’s body was lifeless, but it was clear he had been alive until recently. Claw marks on the stones suggested he had tried to escape, but the well was too deep. The authorities later confirmed that Adam had fallen into the well while hiking and had been unable to climb out. He had survived for days, perhaps even weeks, before succumbing to dehydration.

Draydon stood silently as the rescue team pulled Adam’s body from the well. He felt a strange sense of relief but also an overwhelming sadness. The man who had haunted his dreams, the man he had unknowingly painted, had been crying out for help all along.

Back in his studio, Draydon stared at the now-empty canvas where the portrait had once been. The painting had vanished, as mysteriously as it had appeared. In its place was nothing but a blank white surface, as if the canvas itself had purged the tragedy it had borne witness to.

But Draydon knew the truth: the portrait hadn’t disappeared.

It had simply fulfilled its purpose.

The Forgotten Photograph Shaina Tranquilino September 3, 2024

The small, cluttered studio had the scent of chemicals and dust, a familiar blend that clung to the air as Cole Huber worked in the darkroom. The soft red light bathed the space in an eerie glow, casting long shadows as he meticulously developed a roll of film he’d discovered in an old, boxy camera.

The camera had been a forgotten relic from an estate sale, a clunky thing of metal and leather that caught Cole 's eye. It was the kind of piece that hinted at history, at stories long past, and he couldn’t resist adding it to his collection. The roll of film inside was a surprise, a forgotten memory waiting to be unveiled. Curiosity pushed him to develop it, to see what secrets the film held.

As the images began to take shape in the developing tray, Cole's casual interest turned to confusion, and then to a creeping unease. The photographs were clear, well-composed, capturing a sequence of events that seemed almost surreal. They showed an old house, nestled deep within a dense forest, the kind of place where silence hung heavy and time seemed to stand still. The house was unfamiliar, yet something about it tugged at the edges of his memory, a vague sensation that he should know it.

The first few images were unremarkable—shots of the house’s exterior, a wide front porch, a cracked windowpane. But as the sequence continued, the tone of the photographs shifted. The next image was of a woman, standing in the doorway, her face half-hidden in shadow. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes dark pools that seemed to stare directly into the camera—directly at him.

Cole frowned, peering closer at the developing image. The woman’s face was hauntingly familiar, yet he couldn’t place her. She seemed out of time, her clothes vintage, her hair pinned up in a style that belonged to another era.

He moved on to the next photograph, and his heart skipped a beat. The woman was now standing in the middle of a room—an old parlor, perhaps—holding something in her hands. It was the same camera that Cole had bought, the one he now held in his hands. The realization sent a chill down his spine. How could this be? He stared at the image, trying to make sense of it, but there was no explanation that came to mind.

The subsequent images grew stranger. In one, the woman appeared to be speaking to someone just out of frame, her face twisted in a look of anguish. Another showed a figure—a man, his features blurred and indistinct, like a shadow—standing in the corner of the room, watching her.

The final photograph made Cole's breath catch in his throat. The woman was lying on the floor, the camera still clutched in her hands, her eyes wide open and staring, but lifeless. The shadowy figure loomed over her, its form now clearer but still impossible to fully discern. The image was grainy, as if time itself had frayed the edges, but the horror it captured was palpable.

Cole stumbled back from the developing tray, his mind reeling. This wasn’t possible. He had never taken these photographs, never been to the house in the images, and yet… they were undeniably real. He could feel the weight of the camera in his hands, its leather strap cool against his skin, the very same camera from the photographs.

His thoughts spiraled as he tried to comprehend what he had seen. The woman, the house, the shadowy figure—they were all fragments of a nightmare he had never had, yet one that seemed deeply familiar. He felt an inexplicable connection to the events, as if he had been there, as if he had witnessed it all… but had somehow forgotten.

A sudden, sharp knock on the studio door jolted him from his thoughts. Cole turned, his heart pounding, but the knock was not repeated. The silence in the studio was deafening, pressing in on him from all sides. He hesitated, then moved towards the door, his steps slow, as if he were moving through water. His hand trembled as he reached for the doorknob, but when he opened it, the hallway outside was empty.

His eyes darted around, searching for any sign of movement, but there was nothing. Just the empty, dimly lit corridor.

He closed the door, his breath unsteady, and turned back to the darkroom. The photographs were still there, hanging to dry, each one a piece of a puzzle he couldn’t solve. The woman’s lifeless eyes seemed to follow him, accusing, pleading.

Cole knew he needed answers. He grabbed the camera, turning it over in his hands, searching for some clue. There was an engraving on the bottom, worn and nearly illegible, but as he tilted it towards the light, the words became clear: "Property of C. Huber."

His own name.

The world seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing as a rush of memories flooded his mind. The house, the woman, the shadowy figure… he had been there. He had taken those photographs. But the memory was fragmented, like a dream slipping away upon waking. He remembered the woman’s name—Lynne. His wife. His heart ached with a pain that felt both ancient and fresh, a wound reopened after years of being buried.

But the shadow, the figure in the photographs… that was the part that didn’t make sense. He couldn’t remember its face, couldn’t remember what it was. But he knew it was important, knew that it was the key to everything.

The camera felt heavy in his hands, and as he looked at it, he felt a pull, a compulsion to return to that house, to find it again. It was as if the camera itself was guiding him, urging him to uncover the truth.

With a final glance at the photographs, Cole made his decision. He packed his bag, the camera carefully placed inside, and left the studio. The answers were out there, waiting in the shadows of his forgotten past. And he would find them, no matter the cost.

As he stepped out into the night, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the echoes of a forgotten photograph—a moment in time that was never meant to be remembered, yet demanded to be uncovered.