The Vanishing Photographer
- Pishaach
- Feb 20
- 5 min read
The forest was dense and quiet, save for the rustling of leaves beneath Daniel Reed’s boots. He adjusted his camera strap and glanced at the sky, there was a dull grey blanket threatening rain.
Perfect light for moody shots. His assignment was straightforward, capture images of the abandoned town of Black Hollow, long deserted and rumoured to be cursed.
Daniel didn’t believe in superstitions. Stories of ghosts and curses were local folklore, nothing more.
Still, the way the trees seemed to press inwards, their branches arching like claws, made his steps slower.
He reached the outskirts of the town just as the clouds thickened. Crumbling houses, swallowed by vines, lined the cracked road. Faded signs swung gently on rusted hinges.
Daniel raised his camera. Click. Click.
He paused to review the shots. His brow furrowed.
In each frame, someone stood in the distance. A figure in dark clothing, too far to make out the face.
He spun around. The road stretched empty. Not a soul in sight. Frowning, he shook it off. Probably a trick of the light.
But when he lifted his camera again, the figure was closer.
Shadows of Black Hollow
The town was a graveyard of memories. Weather-beaten houses sagged under the weight of years, windows shattered, doors hanging open. Daniel wandered deeper, each photo capturing the decay and forgotten lives of a place left behind.
Yet the figure appeared in every frame, sometimes at the edge, sometimes reflected in broken glass.
His pulse quickened. Was someone following him?
He called out, “Hey! If you’re messing with me, it’s not funny!”
His voice echoed down the empty streets, bouncing off dilapidated walls.
Daniel checked his phone but there was no signal.
He pushed into an old shop, dust swirling in the stale air. Shelves lay toppled, products rotted beyond recognition. The ceiling creaked ominously.
On the counter, a photograph lay beneath the shattered glass, a family, with faces faded. Except for the man at the edge. His face was clear.
It was the figure from his photos.
He stumbled back in horror, knocking over a display. His foot struck something hard. Looking down, he saw a camera identical to his own, old, battered, lens cracked.
A note was tucked under the strap.
"KEEP SHOOTING OR YOU’LL VANISH."
His breath hitched. "This isn’t happening."
But the camera, his camera, clicked by itself. His hands trembled as he checked the screen.
The latest photo showed him, standing exactly where he was now, but someone stood behind him.
He Turned slowly, but there was no one.
Fractured Frames
Daniel bolted from the shop, lungs burning. His boots kicked up dust as he ran down the street. The town seemed to twist around him, streets that shouldn’t connect forming a maze.
He stopped to catch his breath, chest heaving. Pulling up the camera, he scrolled through the photos.
His reflection stared back in one, except it was smiling when he wasn’t.
“No,” he muttered. “This is a trick.”
But whose?
Wind hissed through the streets, carrying a faint clicking sound, like camera shutters firing in sequence.
He turned a corner and froze.
Dozens of old photographs hung from the trees on frayed strings, swaying gently. Faces stared from the prints, distorted, eyes blacked out, mouths open in silent screams.
And in the centre of them all, his face, dozens of versions, each one closer, clearer.
A breeze stirred. One photo tore free, drifting down. He caught it. In it, he stood in front of a house he hadn’t seen yet.
His legs moved before his mind caught up. Following the road, he found it, a two-storey house, paint peeled away, windows boarded up. Just like the photo.
Against every instinct screaming to run, he entered.
Dust choked the air. The furniture lay rotted. On the wall, photographs formed a collage, a timeline of the town’s visitors.
The final spot was blank.
But tape waited there, ready for one last picture.
Captured Moments
The house felt alive, with floorboards creaking with every step. Daniel’s camera swung from his neck, feeling heavier with each breath.
On a table sat a single photograph, fresh, still glossy.
He lifted it. It was him, inside this very room, holding the same photograph.
Panic clawed at his chest. “What do you want from me?”
His skin prickled. Shadows shifted at the edges of his vision, moving when he wasn’t looking directly at them.
His camera beeped and the floor upstairs creaked. Against all reason, he climbed.
At the top, a door stood ajar. Inside, cameras lined the walls, all aimed at the centre where a chair waited.
Empty. For now.
He should run. He knew that. Instead, he sat.
His camera beeped again.
Photo after photo rolled in, each one closer. His breathing quickened, sweat beading on his brow.
Then, a figure stepped from the shadows, face blurry yet familiar.
The man spoke, voice dry as dust. “You took the shot.”
Daniel’s mouth went dry. “What—what is this?”
“A record,” the man said. “Every visitor. Every soul. One-click at a time.”
“I didn’t agree to this!”
“You looked through the lens,” the figure said, stepping closer. “Now you’re part of the collection.”
Daniel tried to stand.
The cameras all clicked at once.
Fading Exposure
Darkness swallowed him. He opened his eyes. Sunlight poured through broken windows.
Had he passed out?
Staggering to his feet, he grabbed his camera. Maybe he could get out.
He glanced at the screen. His heart stopped. Every photo now showed empty streets. Empty rooms. Not Him.
Panic surged. He bolted outside. The town seemed… cleaner. Less decayed.
Then he saw it, a figure, camera in hand, walking down the street.
Himself. But older. Different.
Daniel screamed, “Hey!”
He ran after him, but the figure vanished around a corner.
Breathless, Daniel reached it, and found nothing.
His camera beeped one last time.
Hands shaking, he checked it.
The final image showed him standing where he was now, except faded, translucent. Like he was already gone.
He dropped the camera. Footsteps approached from behind.
Turning, he saw the figure from the photographs.
“You’re part of it now,” the man said. “Smile for the next visitor.”
And as Daniel opened his mouth to protest, everything dissolved.
Months later, Emma Clarke, an urban explorer, found Black Hollow. Her camera clicked as she captured the eerie, abandoned streets.
In one photo, she noticed something odd.
A man stood in the background, camera around his neck. She frowned. Turned to look.
Nobody there. Shrugging, she moved on.
Her camera, unnoticed, beeped softly.
The man in the photo? He was smiling.
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