4,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
- Herausgeber: Blackwych Books Ltd
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Photographer Kate Logan has spent years haunted by the same impossible detail: a stranger who keeps appearing in the background of her photographs — a man she never remembers seeing in the flesh.
When her obsession leads her to a crumbling, forgotten church, Kate uncovers a terrifying truth. She isn't imagining the figure. She's being watched. And she has been for far longer than she ever realized.
As she grows closer to the enigmatic John Dagwood, Kate senses that he, too, is bound to the church by forces neither of them fully understands. His fascination with medieval surgery hints at darker secrets — and at a hidden cult that has been shaping her life from the shadows.
Drawn into a web of ritual, obsession, and ancient evil, Kate must confront the horrifying role she was always meant to play. The Devil's Photographer is a chilling tale of destiny, deception, and a woman fighting to escape a fate written in blood.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026
Ähnliche
Copyright 2022 Blackwych Books Ltd
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition
First published by Dark Season Books in April 2013
Also published under the title The Devil’s Blade
This Blackwych Books edition: January 2026
Photographer Kate Logan has long been haunted by a mysterious figure, a man who appears in the background of many of her shots. When she's drawn to a mysterious church, she starts to understand that dark forces are at work, and that someone – or something – has been watching her for a very long time.
Meanwhile, as she gets to know the enigmatic John Dagwood, she starts to notice that he too seems strangely drawn to the same church. His collection of medieval surgical equipment hints at a love of history, but is he hiding a dark secret? And how is Kate's future linked to a strange group that has been manipulating events from the shadows?
The Devil's Photographer is the story of a woman who finds herself pulled into a deadly cult, and of a powerful evil that yearns to return to the world.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Epilogue
––––––––
The Devil's Photographer
Prologue
The photo is old.
At least ten years, maybe a little more. The edges are frayed, and there's a crease down the middle where it appears to have been folded up. Each corner has some damage, suggesting that the photo was once mounted somewhere but has since been removed. The colors are still bright and vivid, though, so it's clear that the photo hasn't been kept out on display for too long; if anything, it seems to have been hidden away for much of its existence.
There are two people in the photo. One of them is a man, in his late twenties or early thirties; he's smiling as he holds a baby in his arms. They're in a park, their features picked out by bright sunlight. The baby is very young, perhaps only a couple of weeks old. Judging from the proud and happy look on the man's face, it would be reasonable to assume that he's the father. The baby's eyes are barely open, and one of its hands is reaching up to clasp the man's thumb. It's a moment of connection between father and child.
It's a perfectly ordinary photo. On the surface, there's nothing that would make anyone suspicious. But if you look closer, and if you know a little of the context in which the picture was taken, the photo changes. Suddenly it becomes one of the most terrifying images ever caught on film.
For example, there's the matter of the other individuals who are part of the picture. Depending on your point of view, there might be two other people in the photo. One of them is the person holding the camera; this person casts a shadow across the grass in the background, and her face is dimly reflected in the sunglasses that hang around the man's neck. She might not be the focus of the photo, but this woman is arguably the dominating presence: she's the one who chose the framing; she's the one who decided to take a picture at all; she's the one who put the photo in a frame, and who later removed it, folded it up, and hid it away.
Then there's the other person in the photo. Slightly out of focus, there's a man in the distance, looking as if he just happened to be walking through the park at the moment the photo was taken. A middle-aged man with scraggly black hair, he doesn't seem to have noticed the family at all. Again, there's nothing particularly menacing about the man, unless you know the context. Context is everything.
So far, the photo might still seem fairly normal. However, there are two other things that make this particular image stand out. For one thing, the older man in the distance doesn't seem to have a shadow; it's easy to see the shadows of nearby trees, and the general direction of the sun, but the man casts no shadow whatsoever. The other unusual thing is that the baby's face seems strangely blurry, almost as if there are two faces staring up at the father. Taken in isolation, these things aren't particularly odd; even together, they could be deemed a coincidence. But, again, it's all about the context: if you know the context of the photo - if you know when and where it was taken, and what happened next - these things suddenly take on a life of their own. Suddenly it's as if the photo is a snapshot of impending disaster, and a distillation of a moment in time that would rapidly disintegrate. When the button on the camera was pressed, everything was okay. Within seconds, three lives had been destroyed forever. It's that moment - a moment of happiness on the cusp of tragedy - that is the true subject of this tatty old photo.
Most people, having taken such a photo, would never pick up a camera again. But this woman did the opposite.
Chapter One
Today
Taking a step back, I raise my camera and take a couple more shots of the church's columns.
Rising high above me, its roof picked out by the mid-morning sun, St. Abraham's looks surprisingly bare and inconspicuous; it's the kind of church you could walk past every day for a year, without really noticing it's even there. In fact, the only sign of activity is a small board by the main door, displaying the times of Mass. Still, despite its lack of fame, I figure St. Abraham's is as good a church as any to add to my list; I mean, why should only the well-known New York churches get included in this little project? The smaller ones often hide the more interesting images, although it's hard to tell for sure until the images have been developed. Besides, I've already done all the big ones, some of them multiple times. To be honest, I'm starting to run out of churches.
As I walk around the corner to get a view from the side, I briefly make eye contact with a passing man. Dressed in an immaculate suit, he betrays no expression on his face, and he quickly continues on his way. I know what he was thinking, though; he was wondering why I'd bother to take a picture of a crumbling old building, especially on a Tuesday morning when most people would be at work. He probably sees my leather jacket and scraped-back hair and thinks I'm some kind of artist or journalist. Fortunately, I'm sure he'll have forgotten about me by the time he reaches the next corner. Like the church, I prefer to fade into the background whenever possible. The camera is a shield; as long as it's raised to cover my face, I feel invisible.
I take a few more photos, before lowering the camera and realizing that there's an old man watching me from a small door in the side of the church. It takes me a moment to realize that under his large, padded blue anorak, he's actually dressed as a priest.
"It's okay," he calls out, smiling. "Take as many pictures as you want. Frankly, we're grateful for the attention".
"I'm done," I mutter, quickly putting the lens cap back on my camera. To be honest, I would have liked to have got a few more shots, for completion's sake, but I can always come back some other time. The last thing I want is to get involved in a conversation.
"Might I ask why you're interested in us?" he continues, wandering out from the doorway. "It's not as if we're very architecturally satisfying, as you can see. We're actually one of the more uninteresting buildings in the city. Sometimes I feel as if our church is rather invisible".
"It's for a project," I say, barely making eye contact with him. I fumble with the camera as I frantically try to stuff it into my shoulder bag as quickly as possible. Damn it, I hate the way I start panicking when I'm nervous. After a moment, the box of filters spins out of my hand and hits the sidewalk, scattering its contents far and wide.
"Allow me," says the priest, leaning down and starting to pick up the filters.
"It's fine," I mutter, trying to gather up the filters as quickly as possible.
"You saw something that interested you?" the priest asks.
"Not really," I say, grabbing the last of the filters and starting to put them back into the box.
"You just like taking photographs of old churches?"
"Something like that".
"Well, I suppose that's a pleasant enough hobby. One never knows how future generations will view the modern age. Perhaps, one day, people will change their minds and be interested in our humble little church".
"Yeah," I say, trying to remain polite as I struggle to get the box of filters into my bag. This usually isn't much of a problem, but my trembling hands are making it much more difficult.
"You're welcome to come inside," the priest continues. "Technically, we're closed right now, but I could make an exception". Reaching into his pocket, he produces a set of keys and jangles them. "It's so rare to have someone show interest in our humble home, I'd be happy to give you a guided tour".
"It's fine," I say. "I don't really do the insides".
"Or people".
"What?"
He smiles. "I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to lower your camera every time someone walked past. I came to the conclusion that you preferred to have clear shots, uncluttered by the presence of passing souls".
"Maybe," I say, trying to be polite. "I'm done. I need to go".
"Suit yourself". He turns to look up at the side of the building. "There's been a church on this spot for almost two hundred and thirty years," he says, "though this one is only from the 1830s. Before that, there was a smaller, more European-style building with a spire and a little bell-tower". Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a pile of leaflets and hands one to me. "This has all the information you should require, but we also have a website".
"Thanks," I say quietly, finally managing to zip my bag closed. "I really should go. Thanks again". Smiling awkwardly, I turn to walk away, almost bumping into a trashcan.
"Let me know if you find anything interesting in your pictures," he says. "Something unusual, perhaps".
Stopping, I turn to look back at him. "What do you mean?"
"I saw you a few minutes ago from one of the windows," he continues. "You seemed to be taking a lot of pictures from different angles, almost as if you were using your camera to search for something. It's a plain old building, but if you spot anything that's worth a mention, I'd love to know". He smiles, but there's something about his expression and his tone of voice that makes me wonder if perhaps there's a more serious undertone to his words.
"I wasn't..." I start to say, before my voice trails off. "I mean, I wasn't looking for anything in particular, I..." Again, my voice trails off. I really, really hate it when I get interrupted like this, but I'm usually much better at avoiding contact. I fucked up today.
"Okay," he replies, "I guess I should shut up now. I thought maybe you were interested in the spot at the top of the front steps".
"You did?" I ask.
"It seemed you were taking a lot more photos there than anywhere else". He stares at me. "I thought maybe there was something there that caught your attention".
"Should there be?" I ask after a moment.
"Oh, you know," he continues, "people talk over the years. One person says one thing, someone else hears it and adds their own interpretation, and impressionable people take it from there and start imagining things. Little ideas build up, and before you know it, there are all these superstitions in the air".
"I didn't notice anything," I say, which is kind of a lie. Although I tend to focus on the front door, I never feel any particularly unusual sensation. It's just that I've learned, over the years, where to train my camera if I want to pick up anything strange.
"Like I said," he continues, "it's just superstition. Some people claim they feel something unusual at that particular point, like a kind of presence on the steps, but I've never noticed it myself. I must admit, I've tried standing there, but I suppose I'm just not as impressionable as the average person. I didn't mean to make a big thing of it; I just thought it was an odd coincidence that you seemed to be so interested".
I pause for a moment. "Like you said," I reply eventually, "it's just a coincidence".
"I'm sure you're right". He pauses, before shrugging and turning to walk back to the little doorway. "Enjoy developing your photos," he calls back to me as he reaches the door, pushes it open and disappears back inside the building. I'm left standing on the sidewalk, almost trembling with nerves after that little conversation. I came to accept, long ago, that I'm terrible when it comes to personal interaction, and even by my usual standards I must have seemed a little vague and disorganized while I was talking to that man. Hopefully he'll just forget all about me, though. That's what I want. Over the past year, I've successfully avoided a situation where someone asks me what I'm doing; I guess it was inevitable that it'd happen eventually.
Walking back around to the front of the church, I look up at the top of the steps. I don't remember noticing anything particularly interesting in that spot, and I don't remember taking any more photos there than of the rest of the building. Still, it's odd that the priest seemed to notice something; it often seems to be the case, when I'm developing my images back at home, that I find I have been subconsciously focusing on a particular area. In a number of cases, it turns out that the area that attracted my attention happens to be the area where any anomalies show up. It's something I've noticed before, so it's strange that the priest seemed to pick up on it. This is the first time that anyone else has ever even hinted that they've picked up on the things I've seen. It's almost as if a link has been created between my private obsessions and the rest of the world.
I pause for a moment, before double-checking that my camera is safely zipped away in my shoulder bag. Finally, I turn and hurry along the street, walking as quickly as possible as I head home. I need to get to my darkroom as soon as I can, because the development process takes a few hours and I want to have an answer before the end of the day. It's been fifty-four days since I last caught the man in one of my photos; he's long overdue another appearance.
Chapter Two
Twenty-five years ago
"Here Kate," she says, beaming a huge smile as she sets the brightly-colored box on the table. "This is from your Dad and me. We hope it's the one you wanted."
Reaching forward, I begin to untie the bow on top of the box, before carefully lifting the edges of the wrapping paper. I'm nervous, because I know without a shadow of doubt that my parents can't really afford to give me such an extravagant gift. Medical bills have gouged out our family's finances, and I already feel responsible for all our hardships. Now, as my trembling fingers carefully undo the wrapping, I'm worried they've broken the bank.
"My God," my father says with a grin as he watches, "when I was your age, I used to rip the paper off like a maniac."
"Let her open it how she wants!" my mother says, slapping his knee.
Ignoring them, I continue to pull the paper away slowly and carefully, folding each piece once I've removed it. My heart is racing as I desperately try to keep my expectations in check. I overheard my parents talking the other day about cameras, and I'd half-expected them to get me something. All I really need, though, is a bottom-of-the-barrel little device, something I can use to take a few snaps. This box, however, is way, way bigger than I could ever have expected, and -
And -
I pull the last of the paper away and stare in stunned silence at the illustration on the front of the box. This is no bottom-of-the-range model; this is a modern SLR camera, the kind I've seen in magazines and movies but never dreamed I might actually own. For a moment, unable to quite process what I'm seeing, I just sit and stare, and finally I realize that something is horribly wrong. The family's finances are in ruins, and I know damn well that my parents have no spare money to spend on lavish gifts.
"You guys can't afford this," I say, turning first to my father and then to my mother. "No way can you guys afford this!"
"Let us worry about that," my mother replies with a faint, pained smile. "Just tell us it's the one you wanted. Please?"
"The one I wanted?" I pause, my mouth hanging open. "It's more than the one I wanted! It's the most amazing thing ever, but..." I pause again as I realize that I'm actually scared to open the damn thing. My heart is in my mouth as I imagine myself dropping it, or breaking it, or losing it somewhere... I feel as if I've been given the most amazing gift imaginable, and yet I also feel totally unprepared for the responsibility.
"There are a couple of rolls of film in there too," my mother continues tentatively. "But honey, the look on your face... Are you sure this is the one you wanted? We can take it back and exchange it if you -"
"No," I reply, forcing myself to smile. "It's..." I pause again, this time with tears in my eyes. "I just never expected it," I continue, getting to my feet and hurrying over to give my mother a big hug. "I never ever thought I'd be able to have something like this. Are you completely sure we can afford it? I don't want to cause problems. I can use a basic little thing. I don't even need a camera at all."
"Yes you do," my mother replies. "We've seen the way you are, Kate. Trying to get you away from a camera is pretty much impossible. And who knows? No pressure, but maybe someday you'll turn out to be this amazingly successful photographer, but... That's not the point. This is what you love doing, and we just wanted to put a smile on your face. You've had such a tough year."
"Yeah," I reply, heading over to my father and giving him a brief hug, "but I'm okay now. I mean, you guys didn't need to go nuts."
"That's what I said," my father mutters, before flashing a smile. "Just kidding."
"Are you going to open it?" my mother asks.
Approaching the box, I can't shake the feeling that I'm unworthy of such an amazing camera. I cautiously lift the edge of the box, opening one of the flaps, but my hands are already starting to tremble. It takes a couple of minutes of careful maneuvering to get the camera out, but finally I hold it up, stunned by its beauty. I know that most people like cameras because they want to take beautiful pictures, and I feel that impulse too, but to me a camera is a work of art. I place it carefully on the table and pull away the pieces of packaging, until finally I can see it in all its glory.
"It's beautiful," I say, taking a deep breath.
"It's got all those fancy numbers on the lens," my mother says. "The guy in the shop told me they're all about focusing and things like that."
"F-numbers," I reply, lost in thought. "I've read about all this stuff, but I've never actually been able to try it out. I'm gonna have to get a book from the library and start learning all the different techniques."
"There's a manual in the box," my mother says, reaching in and pulling out a thick little book. "See?"
"It's gonna take me years to learn how to use this properly," I reply, turning to her. "I mean, if you guys are expecting, like, amazing photos from the start, that's not gonna happen. I'm gonna make a lot of mistakes. This is a real piece of equipment, and I have to master it properly. It's not, like, a point-and-click kinda deal."
"We know," my mother says with a grin. "We just want you to be happy."
"But you can take some photos at your uncle Steve's barbecue next Sunday, right?" my father adds. "You'll have mastered it enough by then, yeah? Just a few action shots, try to avoid too much red-eye."
"Sure," I reply, even though my mind is already filling with thoughts of all the projects I can finally get off the ground. "I'll need to get another part-time job, though," I add, "just to pay for all the film." I pause. "Would it be okay if I turn my bedroom into a darkroom?"
"Isn't it already?" my father asks with a snort. "You never open the damn drapes."
"You know what I mean," I continue. "It'll take a while, but eventually I'd like to develop my own photos once I've taken them. That's half the art. I mean, you have to time everything just right, and you can really affect how the picture looks if you get it wrong. A photographer who gets someone else to develop her images is really only half a photographer."
"Doesn't that require a lot of chemicals?" my mother asks, looking concerned. "I'm not sure it's safe, honey. Wouldn't it be flammable? We don't want a lot of chemicals in the house."
"I'll be careful," I reply, "and anyway, this is all totally a long way off. I'm just thinking about cutting processing times in the medium and long term, that's all, and taking control of my work."
"We'll see," my mother says evasively, "but for now, you've got two whole rolls of film, and you can get them developed down at the pharmacy. Aren't you dying to get started?"
"Save one roll for the barbecue," my father mutters.
"Ignore him," my mother says with a smile.
"Ignore me," my father sighs. "Good advice. Works for most people."
"Go on," my mother adds, "take your new camera and go have fun."
"Thank you so much," I reply, giving her another hug. "This is the best gift ever! I swear to God, I won't let you down!"
"Just enjoy it," she replies, with tears in her eyes. "After everything you went through this year, you deserve it. I can't imagine how anyone could have been braver or stronger, and you beat that damn cancer. Now it's time to really let your hair down and catch up on all those things you couldn't do while you were in hospital, okay? Get some happiness back into those eyes."
"Okay," I reply, heading over to the table and picking up the camera. "I need to go to my room," I add after a moment, "and figure out how it works."
And with that I'm off, carrying the camera and the box through to my dark little bedroom, before pulling the drapes open to let sunlight stream through and then sitting on the bed so I can start getting ready. For the next couple of hours, I read every page of the manual twice over, while gradually starting to learn about all the buttons and dials on the camera. I load the film and check the viewfinder, and finally I realize that I'm ready to get started. I turn and look over at the window, and my mind races with all the possibilities. I'm scared, sure, but in a good way. I've spent so long dreaming of having a proper camera, and now I have no more excuses.
Finally, hanging the camera around my neck, I hurry out of my room, shout at my parents not to expect me home for dinner, and race out the front door, ready to face the world and capture its images. For the first time in ages, I'm not scared of anything.
Chapter Three
Today
Leaning over the toilet, I stare down at the water and wait for the next wave of nausea to hit. As soon as I walked through the door of my apartment, it hit again: that stomach-churning feeling that there's something that needs to come up. I haven't eaten much for the past few days, other than a few bowls of rice and beans, so I really don't think I've done anything to inflame my stomach. Instead, it's probably just another phantom sickness. Still, phantom or not, it's a sensation I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and I know that there's still a chance I'll throw up.
Still, at least there's no blood this time. Just yellow, foamy bile.
After half an hour or so, the feeling seems to have died down and I allow myself to relax a little. Sitting back and leaning against the bathroom wall, I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my brow. These little attacks are happening more and more frequently: at first they came a couple of times a week, then it was almost one a day, and now it's usually one around lunchtime and another in the evening. I wouldn't say they're as regular as clockwork, but I definitely notice if they don't happen.
This is all horribly familiar. The pain, the nausea... I've been here before, and the thought of going through all of that misery again is almost impossible to bear. I learned a long time ago to seal that part of my life up and forget about it, so why is my body apparently determined to keep delivering reminder after reminder?
Reaching out and flushing the toilet, I get to my feet, check myself in the mirror, and turn to go back through to the darkroom. I haven't had the sharp, stabbing pain yet. Every time I get a nausea attack, it's always followed by a little twinge in my belly. It's agony, but at the same time it serves to let me know that the attack is over, so it's kind of comforting. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see that I'm looking slightly pale. I take a deep breath, and then - as I turn to go out the door - I feel the pain as it briefly slices into my gut. I pause for a moment, letting it pass, and finally I clear my throat before going through to get on with my work.
Chapter Four
Twenty-five years ago
As soon as I press the button, there's a brief whirring sound, followed by a click, and then another whirring sound.
Done.
My first picture with a proper camera.
Lowering the camera, I stare at the bush. It's not exactly an inspiring subject, but I have to start somewhere. I'm sure the photo I just took is going to turn out to be totally blurry, since I've yet to master even the most basic elements of photography, but I figure the best approach is to just shoot off a roll, take notes of each photo's settings, and then get the film developed. That way, I should have a better idea of what works and what doesn't.
Getting to my feet, I stroll along the street, looking for other things to use for practice. Although there's a part of me that wants to immediately start taking Pulitzer-winning pictures, I know deep down that I need to learn how to crawl before I start running. Besides, there's plenty of time for me to learn; Diane Arbus didn't really get her career started until her early twenties, and Cindy Sherman started out as a painter before switching to photography, so it's not like I have to shoot off straight as an arrow right away.
I've got all the time in the world.
Stopping on the sidewalk, I watch as Mr. Hermann from the end house carries a bucket of water over to his car. He's an overweight, hulking man whose face goes bright red when he has to do even the slightest exercise, and I can't help but feel amused by the sight of him struggling to wash his car. Smiling, I raise my camera and take a photo, and then another as he starts dipping a sponge into the water. I know I shouldn't waste too many shots on one subject, but there's something kind of fascinating about the situation, so I take a couple more, until suddenly he turns and stares straight at me.
"What are you doing?" he calls out breathlessly.
I stare at him through the viewfinder.
"You think this is funny?" he asks. "Go fuck yourself!"
Slowly, I lower the camera.
"Did you hear me?" he shouts. "Fuck off!" With that, he pulls a gun from the holster around his waist and holds it up for me to see. "You're shooting pictures? I shoot this. Now fuck off!"
Feeling intensely embarrassed, I turn and hurry away. I thought he wouldn't mind having his photo taken, but I guess he's sensitive about his appearance. When I get a few meters away, I glance over my shoulder and see that he's still watching me. It never occurred to me that anyone wouldn't want to be photographed, but I guess some people are just a bit weird. Next time, I'll have to be more sneaky.
Chapter Five
Today
"A presence on the steps". That's what the priest said. "A presence on the steps". It's not much of a hint, but it's a lot more than I've ever had before. It's a step forward.
Once I've poured the developer into the tank, I start the timer and hit the push-cap. I stand in complete silence, bathed in red light, and once a minute has passed I give the tank a shake for a few seconds. This is always my favorite part of the process: I've done it all so many times, I can switch my mind off completely and just get on with the whole process via autopilot. I don't need to remind myself what to do; instead, my hands just get on with the job, and my brain falls silent. At first, I used to get scared when I'd realize I hadn't been thinking for a few minutes, but later I learned to embrace this part of the process as a welcome relief. For almost ten minutes, I'm able to just work mechanically, and the only thought that crosses my mind is the vague awareness that at some point I'm going to have to come out of this trance and start thinking again. In a perfect world, though, everything would be like this. All the time.
"A presence on the steps". That voice keeps going around and around in my head.
Once I've set up the fixer and the wetting agent, I find myself approaching the crucial moment. All that's left now is for the thirty-two images to be dried, which means that the main part of my job is done and I can only wait. The initial images will appear fairly quickly, but it's not the initial images that interest me. I'm waiting for something else; something that only appears a few hours later. Of course, the odds of it appearing at all are pretty slim. Over the past year, I've taken between thirty-two and ninety-six photos every single day, which makes a total of almost thirty thousand; out of that huge collection, only eleven images have revealed what I'm looking for, which means my strike rate is a little under 0.05%. Still, it's that 0.05% that makes the other 99.95% worthwhile.
The waiting is hard enough on a normal day, but this afternoon it's excruciating. I usually have no idea whether I've managed to capture his image, but this time I can't help interpreting the priest's words as a gentle hint. That phrase, "a presence on the steps," seems like a perfect description of the figure that appears in a small selection of my photos. As I wait for the latest photos to develop, I head over to the portfolio where I keep the previous images. It's strange, but while this started out as a kind of crazy chase from church to church, it's grown to become an all-consuming project that devours my every waking moment. Opening the portfolio, I take a deep breath as I contemplate the possibility that this entire situation might eventually lead to something. At first, I thought I was losing my mind; it's only in recent months that I've begun to accept that it's all true.
And there they are. Eleven photos, taken over the course of a year at various churches around New York. Each of them shows a distant figure, standing next to the church and staring up at its walls, as if he wants to enter but can't get through the door. He looks like a late-middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and shoulder-length, straggly dark hair. He's always wearing a dark coat, with a black scarf around his neck, and while he's got his back to me in some of the images, in others I can see the side of his face: his eyes have dark rings under them, and there's thick stubble on his chin. It's not the most unusual thing in the world, until you take into account the fact that the man wasn't there when I took the photo; he wasn't even there when the photo was initially developed. On each occasion, he only appeared a few hours later. The first time, I assumed I just hadn't noticed him. The second time, my interest was piqued but I assumed there was a rational explanation. By the third time, I was starting to wonder what it meant. By the tenth and eleventh times, I knew something else was happening. I still don't understand what, but every time he appears on another photo, I feel as if I'm getting closer to an answer.
Putting the portfolio away, I take a deep breath, reminding myself not to get too excited. I develop new pictures every day, and nine times out of ten I don't find what I'm looking for. But those days when he appears... those days are worth waiting for. Those are the days that make everything else worthwhile.
Even though it's too early to really see anything, I head over to the other side of the room and check the first picture. An image of St. Abraham's has already developed, but there's nothing of interest. It's just an image of the front of the church, with nothing to see on the steps at all. I move on to the second picture, and then the third, and then the fourth and the fifth and the sixth, but there's still nothing. Once again, I'm in an almost trance-like state as my eyes dart across the images, desperately searching for any sign of his face. As I reach the fifteenth image, I start to get a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. What if he's not here? What if I allowed myself to be fooled by a rambling old priest? Finally, just as I'm on the verge of accepting that I won't find anything, I reach the final picture.
And there it is.
To the untrained eye, it would probably seem like nothing at all. Just a smudge at the top of the steps. I know better, though. It looks like a smudge, but it's not a smudge; I'm too careful, too exact and precise, to allow my images to smudge. I taught myself long ago to complete this process over and over again, without a single mistake. When a smudge appears, it's not because of some imperfection in my technique. It's him. After fifty-four days of failure, I've caught him again. I know it's him, or at least it will be, once the image has matured properly.
Heading over to the diary I keep for these occasions, I grab a pen and write today's date, followed by the name of the church and finally the number one. I don't need to keep these records, of course, since all the information is burned into my memory; still, there might come a time when I have trouble remembering everything, so it's good to have a back-up. Besides, the diary helps me keep track of things I might not otherwise notice. It's been ages since the last time I found the man in one of my photos, and that’s a little longer than the average gap. I'd begun to develop this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, as if maybe I'd lost the trail. But that was needless worry; he's still out there, and my work can continue.
I swear to God, I'm not crazy.
Stepping out of the darkroom, I take a deep breath once I'm in the hallway. I tend not to notice it when I'm working on images, but the chemicals can really linger in the air. As I wander through to the brightly-lit kitchen at the rear of the apartment, I remind myself that it'd probably be wise to take a few more breaks here and there, just to make sure that I don't breathe in too many fumes. Then again, I've been doing this long enough, so if anything bad was going to happen, I'm pretty sure it would've manifested itself by now. There was a brief time when I wondered if my nausea and cramping was possibly caused by the chemicals I use for developing the images, but a little research has suggested that this can't be the case. I pour myself a glass of water and make a mental note to do some more reading on the subject when I get time. If I get time. Unfortunately, it's starting to look as if time is something that's going to run out sooner rather than later. I know that. He knows that. It's fated.
"Hey," I say, after I've grabbed my phone and brought up Robert's number. "Are you free later today?" I wait as he checks his diary. "Cool," I continue, once he's confirmed he's got an open slot. "About three? That's fine. I'll see you at the Godolphin, but I have to be done by four 'cause I need to get across town, so I really need you not to be late". I wait for him to offer all the usual promises about how he won't be late and how he'll be there bang on three. "Please try to be on time," I add, before disconnecting the call. It bugs me when Robert's late, but I really need to see him today. To be blunt, I'm horny and I need to clear my mind of distractions. Without a clear mind, I'm useless.
Wandering back through to the darkroom, I slip through the door and head over to take a look at the images as they dry. As I'd hoped, the picture of the top of the steps is definitely showing evidence of something unusual, although this particular 'something' is clearly developing at a much slower rate than the rest of the image. Smiling, I realize that once again I'm dragging him kicking and screaming into the light. Every time I find a smudge on a newly-developed image, I feel myself becoming more and more confident that I'm onto something. It's a tantalizing prospect, slowly reeling this mystery in so that I can get a better look at what's happening. By tonight, though, I'll be able to see his face again, and I can't help thinking that I must be getting closer and closer to the truth. Taking a deep breath, I set the timer before heading out of the darkroom. By the time I get back later today, I'm confident that the smudge will have become a full image of the man.
After fifty-four days, I've finally found him again.
Chapter Six
Twenty-five years ago
Slowly, and with great difficulty, Mr. Hermann lifts the bucket and pours the rest of the water over his car. He lets out a couple of obscenities as the water splashes down and soaks his feet, and finally he steps back and admires his work.
From my hidden vantage point in the bushes, I take another picture.
Wiping his brow, he turns and starts lumbering back toward his front door. I take yet another picture, until finally he's disappeared inside his house. Lowering the camera, I can't help feeling that I might have just completed my first proper photographic study. I got fifteen images of him during the various stages of washing the car, and even if they're technically not very good, I'm convinced they'll at least be interesting.
I can't help but smile. I guess this photography business might not be as hard as I'd feared.
Chapter Seven
Today
"I hope you realize how many strings I had to pull to get this for you," says Violet as she climbs stiffly from her stool. "Wait here a second," she adds, before turning and shuffling over to the shelves where she keeps reserved books.
Her arthritis is clearly getting worse; I hope it doesn't get so bad that she has to retire, or I'll be really screwed.
"I appreciate the effort," I reply. The truth is, my heart is racing at the thought that I'm finally going to get my hands on the book. I've been waiting so long, I almost started to doubt that it would ever happen.
"There was only one copy of this book in the whole country," she says as she brings the plastic delivery case over to the counter and sets it down in front of me. "Another university in Pennsylvania had it, but it wasn't in their main collection. The librarian had to go down to the basement and dig it out of storage. That's why it took almost six months for them to respond to my request. To be honest with you, I had to keep prodding and poking them, 'cause I think they were hoping I'd just give up, but slow and steady wins the race so..."
She unzips the case and slides the old, leather-bound book out of its protective cover.
Taking a deep breath, I reach out to take the book.
"Wait!" Violet says, pushing my hand away. "There are certain rules". She reaches under the desk and grabs a small pouch. "They were very reluctant to send it at all, and they attached a whole lot of strings. First, you're to use protective gloves when you're handling the book, at all times. They're very worried about acid and moisture from our fingers causing damage. Second, you're to avoid breathing directly onto the pages. I doubt that'll be too much of a problem, but they're being extremely fussy. And third, I'm afraid there's simply no way you'll be allowed to either take the book away from here, or to make copies of the pages".
"Not even photocopies?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "We have the book for one week, and you're welcome to come in and go through it during our normal opening hours, but then we'll have to send it back. I'm afraid there's no possibility of that period being extended. I know it's crazy that they're so protective over a book that just sits in their basement, but its age means it probably gets listed as a tangible asset on their stock lists. I think they're worried about whether their insurance will cover any damage. You know how bureaucracy can be, right?"
