Captured
When The Shutter Clicks – Flash Fiction [#08]
Hello, stranger. My name is Pepper. I run this gallery—or at least I did until last week. Now, I am stuck in this place, trapped in a cage of my own doing. You must help me. Listen carefully, we don’t have much time. If he finds out I spoke to you, you’ll end up as his next exhibit.
It all began one ordinary Sunday morning nine years ago. I was called to meet someone at Père-Lachaise. By sheer luck, I had come into possession of an antique rangefinder camera the day before, sold for a pittance by a travelling salesman, and I was excited to try it out. It was a peculiar place for a photo shoot, but the pay was good, and I needed the money.
I remember it clearly…
A scent of moss, incense and grief hangs in the cool September air as I pass a small group of mourners on my way to the rendezvous. Thunder drowns the wailing of a woman veiled in black. She falls to the ground, pounding the soft, dark soil of a fresh grave with her pale, white fists, dirt deep under her red fingernails, her long, unbridled hair flowing like a violent crimson sea. A tall, bent man in a black suit kneels beside her, trying to comfort her to no avail, while the rest stands in silence. She fights the embrace like a cornered animal. He does not let go until she succumbs and releases her immeasurable pain unto the world. Heavy rain sets in, carrying away her tears, her cries as she sinks against his chest, her body heaving with sobs beyond consolation.
The woman looks my way. A pang of guilt disturbs my thoughts. Her face seems wicked. I feel unwanted. Camera tucked under my yellow raincoat, I turn away and press on. People are strange, and I, a stranger among the dead and the living, trapped in between. The path is treacherous. I stumble and catch my fall on a tombstone. Flinching from the sting of torn skin, I curse. A trickle of red from my hand joins the heavy scent of roses. I look back at the woman. Next to her, head hung low, I see a young man frozen in time. I dare not move. My breath lingers icy in the air. I stare. He lifts his head ever so slowly and turns my way. Black curls, defying the elements, frame his alabaster face. His empty eyes widen. A sudden realisation hits me. It is him. My hair stands on edge. Rattled by the basest of instincts, I blink. He raises his hand as if to wave. A friendly gesture. My fear abates.
The rain ceases, time slows, comes to a halt as I lift my hand in return, and sorrow washes over me. A cry escapes my lips. The scene morphs and the mourners fade like echoes from the past, yet he remains. I quiver, then compose myself. He is lost, forlorn. Camera in hand, I steady my aim and shoot. The shutter clicks, and he stands by my side, touches the cut on my hand. A chill strikes my heart. I see him clearly now. We are one, tethered between realms. Then the rain sets in again, and he is gone, and in his stead, the man, my client, greets me with the coldest smile. Confused and shaken, I stammer a reply. Had I taken the picture? The apparition? He speaks so matter-of-factly I am confounded without proper time to reflect on the nature of what had transpired moments ago. When I confirm his request, he responds with great excitement and leads me out of the graveyard to his limousine, and we drive to the only place where, he assures me, this particular picture must be kept—this gallery.
That was nine years ago. I have been here ever since, taking care of the exhibits, every year a new capture. Of course, I suspected something was off, but I was blinded by the sight of centuries worth of magnificent, living portraits. Electrified by the thought of having my work among these ethereal celebrities, I found myself developing the delicate shot of my subject under the sombre red glow of the darkroom. For reasons unbeknownst to me, this process binds their essence, holds them, chains them to this mortal plane.
That was the day I caught my first ghost. The sheer elation. The rush of adrenaline. From the blank paper, a shape emerged. It transformed into the shadow of a young man, standing behind the grieving woman. Did it move? The shadow raised its head! It turned, and I felt its timeless gaze as I did before. I gasped, and in my fright, I dropped the image back into the infernal chemical. The shadow twisted and turned, coming closer, ever closer. I quickly took the sheet and tossed it in the second solution, fixing the face in place at the edge of the frame, eyes and mouth wide in a final cry. I held my breath, counted to ten and with shaking hands, I put it into the last tray, sealing its fate—another exhibit for the Gallery of Lost Souls. Here we keep them until the end of time.
Hello? Can you hear me? Please. Listen. You must release me. Hurry, before he returns!
The young woman marvels at the portrait before her. Her gaze lingers on the photographer in the yellow raincoat, an antique camera pointed at a small funeral in the background and for a moment, she thinks she can hear the woman speak. She shakes her head. An illusion. Like her, she is silent, the voyeur. The picture beckons. It entices her. She leans closer, gripping her new camera tight. Closing her eyes, she can almost smell the cut of fresh blood, the roses. Complete. Perfection. The shrewd, old salesman had not overpromised. She had captured everything. With an ecstatic smile, she turns to leave when the shutter clicks.
Author’s Note
Originally, I wrote this little ghost story as part of a 200-word prompt exercise over at the wonderful
Substack by back in July. If you are not subscribed, yet… No time like the present!The core idea remains the same in this 1k version, but I removed some of the prompted words. No more lip balm, or golden lab, and the cemetery is inferred by name only. I kept the rain. Let me know what you think in the comments below.
Cursed objects, ghosts, haunted places, myths and legends, signs and symbols, simulacra and simulation,1 human experience as a simulation of reality, all fun topics to play with.
If you enjoyed this story, you might also like The Pawn. Paid subscribers will receive the Flash Fiction Collection E-book and Audiobook containing all twelve flash fiction stories from 2023 in time for Christmas, plus a little surprise bonus micro fiction.
And should you visit Père-Lachaise sometime, you can book a haunted tour of the graveyard. Make sure to bring your own camera. 👻
NB: In German, graveyard means “Friedhof.” “Fried” from “Friede” (peace) and “hof” refers to enclosure, court, dwelling, or in a Germanic sense: temple, sanctuary.
Sanctuary of Peace.
TFTD Community
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This was really great Alexander. Was reading it in the car when it started pouring with rain so made for a very atmospheric read!
I felt the ending was very much like an M.R James story with the chilling realisation that the tale goes on
Excellent stuff 👍🏼
I enjoyed all the use of the seasonal change in understanding the emotional state of the character. Also I love the idea of the photograph as a kind of portal (mise-en-abyme perhaps as well?). Dark and enticing!
(this would also be a good voiceover...just saying!)