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| Photo by Alessia C_Jpg on Unsplash |
I walked out of Boots
and sat on a bench outside Woolworths, eager to look through the envelope of
freshly developed holiday photos whilst I ate my lunch. It was the usual mix of
wonky landscapes, blurred close ups, picture of me, pictures of Dave, pictures
of me and Dave, and lots of our two dogs on the beach. Normal and happy. The
last three at the back of the envelope were of a church we visited in a village
on the way home. The dogs needed to stretch their legs on the long drive so
Dave walked them around the edge of the churchyard while I looked inside the
church.
It was well cared for but worn down, the way very old,
barely used village churches often are. There were dark wooden pews, hand
stitched kneelers and the smell of furniture polish, fresh flowers and musty
hymn books. I wanted to use up my camera film so I could get it developed when
I got home so I hastily took some pictures and left.
As I ate my lunch and looked at the three church photos the
first one was exactly what I expected: A dark photo of pews and the alter, lit
with faintly coloured light from the stained glass windows. The second one had
the same setting but I nearly choked on my ham sandwich when I saw what else
was there. There was a dark-haired man kneeling in front of the pew nearest to
where I’d stood. His head was bowed, his hands were clasped together and he was
wearing all black expect for what I think was a flash of white dog collar at
his throat. How had I not seen him at the time? He must have thought I was so
rude, taking a photo of him praying and not even saying hello. I turned to the
next photo.
The vicar wasn’t there.
I balanced all three photos on my knee, side by side. I’d
taken each one from slightly different angles but he still should have appeared
in all of them. There can’t have been more than ten seconds between each one so
how had he walked in, knelt down, stood up and left so quickly? I looked again
at the vicar and saw that he wasn’t quite solid all over; his back clothes were
but I could make out the shapes of the pew and a hymn book through his pale
face.
I didn’t know what to do. Should I tell Dave? Should I send
the photo somewhere? Or should I put it in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe
and forget about it, like I had with all the others? I felt tearful and asked myself
why this always happened to me. I had no interest in the paranormal, I didn’t
go looking for things, I just wanted to take ordinary holiday snaps. I was so
disappointed; this hadn’t happened for over three years and I really believed I
was done with it.
When it came to the strange and unexplained, you name it and
I’ve probably got a photo of it, stuffed in a ripped brown envelope in the
wardrobe drawer. The first one was a big, black cat in the Lake District; then
a pig man in Cannock Chase; a UFO over York Minster, and a whole fleet of them
flying over Blackpool. I even had two photos of the Loch Ness bloody Monster.
And ghosts, lots and lots of ghosts all over the place, refusing to stay dead.
I never see anything at the time, no strange noises creepy
feelings, no movement caught in the corner of my eye. But they all find my
camera and force me to see them when the photos come back. The first few had
been at typical spooky locations, like castles and ruins so I avoided taking
photos in those sorts of places. I cursed myself for being stupid enough to
take photos in an old church, I should have known better after 20 years of
tense waits for rolls of film to be developed.
Here was another one for the collection then. I wondered
again what to do. I’d nearly burned them all once but I was terrified that whatever
caused them would know and come for me. I’d destroyed the cameras though, and
tried other brands of film and different developing shops. I’d considered
sending them anonymously to a paranormal magazine but they were so clear that I
was sure they’d be brushed off as hoaxes, too good to be true and too many of
them. Even anonymously I didn’t want to be called a liar.
I’m not allowed to hide from the truth like most people are.
I’m forced to see again and again that there’s another reality running
alongside the one we can see, hidden from view but not from my viewfinder. If I
shared my photos I’d force that terrible awareness on thousands, maybe millions
of others, and I know how terrifying that knowledge is. That’s why if I’m
honest I’d known what I’d do with the photo as soon as I saw it.
I’d hide it in my handbag, finish my lunch and return to work. At 5pm I’d go home, pull out the brown envelope, push in the latest photo then shove the whole lot back into the wardrobe drawer under the ugly begging we never use. On Saturday when Dave went to the football I’d take the camera to the garage, destroy it with a hammer and put the remains in a public bin the next town over. Whilst there I’d buy a new camera and film, and hope for the best whilst trying to forget what walks among us. In the mean-time I forced down the rest of my sandwich.