Serena Stephen's entry

The Photograph

Taking a deep breath she pushed open the rusting gate, the hinges giving out a moan in protest as if to beg her not to walk along the garden path.

With the Gravel crunching under her feet the over grown weeds seemed to grab and nip at her ankles. It would appear that even the poorly tended lawn knew what still remained in the house.
Sophie paused at the faded door, the old paint peeling as if trying to expel the horrors that it hid. The mustard coloured crime scene tape came away easily in her hands, and flickered away in the light spring breeze. With an apprehensive hand Sophie reached out to unlock Pandora’s Box, only to find that the door creaked open without any assistance from her. Patting her back pocket to make sure that it was still there she looked up and sent out a silent prayer to the heavens.
Edging the old door further Sophie crossed the threshold to find herself in the hallway of her childhood home. Only the image in front of her was slightly different to the happy place that it once was.

The dark brown stain leading up the stairs mapped out the final descent of her mother the still crimson hand print on the banister showing where her father had gripped in an attempt to steady himself. Closing her eyes she was taken back to that night. She could still hear the screams; her nostrils could still detect the putrid stench of her parents’ lifeless forms, the chill in the air as he swept through the house in a fit or rage.

“S o p h i e, S o p h i e, I know you’re there, will you come and play with me?”

The falsetto voice Of Michael brought her right back to the present day.

“Oh Sophie, I know that you are there, I can smell your fear.”

Climbing the stairs, following the last movement of her mother Sophie could hear movements in what was once her bedroom.

“Hello Michael”

Sitting cross legged in the middle of the room was Eight year old Michael Spooner. His eyes were as black as night, it took all of Sophie’s strength not to turn away from what was sitting in his lap.

Turning to greet his sister with a chilling grin he ran his chubby childish fingers through the bloody entrails of what was once a tabby Cat. Seeing Sophie’s obvious disgust, Michael felt that he needed to explain.

“Don’t worry, it’s just my Cat, he wouldn’t play.... So I made him.”

“Why are you still here Michael?”

“Are you not happy? What did I do Sophie?”

Michael stood up leaving the inside out cat to flop on to the carpet, like a discarded toy that was no more important than a dirty rag doll.

“You slaughtered them? You massacred them?”

“They wouldn’t play, and they were going to send you away, the only person who ever played?”

“They didn’t believe the curse! They thought they were going mad, and they weren’t sending me away, I was going to Camp I wanted to go.”

“YOU WANTED TO LEAVE ME?!!”

Stamping is feet, the pink curtains began to billow in the rising wind, Sophie found herself crouching in the corner to protect herself from the glass that had broken away from the double glazed windows and was spinning around the room in a sharp crystallised twister.

“YOU WANTED TO LEAVE ME? YOU WANTED TO LEAVE ME ON MY OWN!!!”
His charcoal eyes began to burn a flame red in anger. “I was cursed, I’m trapped in the in-between with no one to play with and you WANTED TO LEAVE ME HERE?”

Looking into her baby brothers eyes Sophie reached into her back pocket and retrieved the photograph that was hiding there. It was a Family portrait showing the smiling faces of Clair and John Spooner, a ten year old Sophie who was mesmerised by her eight year old brother proceeding to wipe chocolate ice cream all over his face, his deep brown eyes sparkling at the sheer delight of it.

The perfect family picture was taken exactly twenty four hours before the accident before he died. She held it up high for Michael to see.

“Where did you get that?”

Instantly the shards of glass fell to the floor, the curtains became still, the wind that was whipping through her hair stopped till there was nothing more than a chilling silence.

“Where DID you get that?” He repeated.
Remaining silent, not breaking eye contact she produced a plain silver lighter, with one quick flick of her thumb ignited the naked flame.

“What are you doing?” he asked

“I’m setting you free, you are in-between, the photo is keeping your soul here Michael. You know what the photographer said, that the camera grabs the soul and holds it there.”

Pulling herself to her full five foot three inches she looked down at the empty shell that was her brother, easing the corner of the photograph over the flame. As the glossy paper began to curl Michael let out a high pitched screech, doubled over in pain he began to edge backwards.

The smiling faces in the photograph began to burn, turn black and began to crisp; with life imitating art so did the pinkie skin of the small child standing in front of her. A salty drop rolled down her cheeks, as the oil black eyes turned into the deep earthy brown they were when he was alive.