The small town of Milfield hadn’t changed much in the last century. That’s what Thomas Harper thought as he drove down Main Street, past the brick storefronts with their handpainted signs and the old courthouse with its weatherbeaten clock tower. He had grown up here, left after high school, and now at 42, he was back to clean out his grandmother’s house after her death.

 

 

 Rain tapped against the windshield as he pulled up to the Victorian home on Elm Street. The two-story house with its peeling white paint and wraparound porch had been in the family for generations. Thomas hadn’t been inside for over 20 years, not since his parents moved to Arizona, and he went off to college in Boston.

 He sat in the car for a moment, watching the rain create rivullets on the glass. His grandmother, Evelyn Harper, had lived to be 98 years old. She had outlived her husband by 30 years and her only child, Thomas’s father, by five. Now Thomas was the last Harper left. The lawyer had called him 3 weeks ago with the news. “Your grandmother left everything to you, Mr. Harper.

” He had said, “The house, the contents, everything. She was quite insistent about it. Thomas hadn’t been close with his grandmother. In fact, he had barely known her. His visits to Milfield as a child had been brief and uncomfortable. His father had never wanted to stay long, and his grandmother had always seemed distant, watching Thomas with a strange weariness in her eyes.

 With a sigh, Thomas grabbed his duffel bag from the passenger seat and stepped out into the rain. The key the lawyer had sent him fit smoothly into the lock, and the door swung open with a creek that echoed through the silent house. The air inside was stale and thick with dust. Thomas flipped a light switch, and a dim yellow glow filled the entryway.

 To his right was a formal living room, the furniture covered in white sheets like ghosts frozen in time. To his left was a dining room with a heavy oak table surrounded by highbacked chairs. He dropped his bag on the floor and moved deeper into the house. The kitchen was outdated with avocado green appliances from the ‘ 70s.

A narrow staircase led to the second floor where he knew there were three bedrooms and a bathroom that had probably last been updated when Eisenhower was president. Thomas had taken a week off from his job as an architectural photographer to deal with the house. The plan was simple. Sort through his grandmother’s belongings, keep anything of sentimental value, donate the rest, and get the house ready to sell. He wanted to be back in Boston by next Monday. As he climbed the stairs, the steps creaking beneath his

weight, Thomas felt a strange sensation, as if he were being watched. He paused, looking back down the staircase, but there was no one there. Just his imagination, he told himself. Old houses had a way of playing tricks on the mind. The master bedroom was at the end of the hallway.

 It was a large room with a four poster bed and heavy wooden furniture. The bed was neatly made as if his grandmother had simply stepped out for a moment and would return any second. On the dresser were framed photographs, old black and white pictures of people Thomas didn’t recognize. He picked up one of the frames, wiping the dust from the glass with his thumb.

 It showed a family posed formally in front of a photographers’s backdrop. A man in a suit, a woman in a dress with padded shoulders and three children, two boys around 10 and 12, and a baby in the woman’s arms. The date at the bottom right corner read June 1940. Thomas set the photo down and continued his exploration of the house.

 The second bedroom had been converted into a home office with bookshelves lining the walls and a roll top desk in the corner. The third bedroom was smaller and appeared to have been used for storage. Cardboard boxes were stacked against the walls and an old steamer trunk sat at the foot of a narrow bed. After a quick survey of the bathroom, which was indeed as outdated as he had expected, Thomas returned to the first floor.

 He was hungry after the long drive from Boston, but the refrigerator held only condiments and a carton of milk that had expired months ago. He would need to go into town for supplies. As he was about to leave, Thomas noticed a door under the staircase that he had missed earlier.

 It was a small door painted the same color as the wall with a simple brass knob. He turned the knob, but the door was locked. Odd, he thought. Why would a door inside the house be locked? Thomas made a mental note to look for the key later and headed back out into the rain.

 The local grocery store was still where he remembered it, though it had been rebranded as a chain supermarket. As he pushed his cart through the aisles, picking up basic supplies, he felt strangely out of place. This town had been his home for 18 years. Yet, he felt like a stranger. At the checkout, the cashier, a woman in her 60s with gray hair and a name tag that read Doris, squinted at him. “You’re Evelyn Harper’s grandson, aren’t you?” she asked as she scanned his items. Thomas was taken aback.

 “Yes, how did you know? Small town,” Doris said with a shrug. “News travels fast. Plus, you look like your father.” He had the same eyes. She handed him his receipt. Sorry about your grandmother. She was a private woman, kept to herself mostly, but she was always polite. “Thank you,” Thomas said, unsure what else to say.

 He had barely known his grandmother, and it felt strange to hear someone else talk about her as if they had known her better than he had. As he was loading his groceries into his car, Thomas noticed a small bookstore across the street. “Milfield Historical Society,” the sign read. On impulse, he crossed the street and pushed open the door. A bell jingled overhead.

 The shop was cramped but cozy with shelves of books on local history and glass cases displaying artifacts from the town’s past. A woman sat behind the counter reading a thick novel. She looked up as Thomas entered and smiled. “Can I help you?” she asked. “I’m just browsing.” Thomas said. “I’m new in town.” “Well, not new exactly. I grew up here, but I’ve been gone for a long time.” The woman put down her book and extended her hand. “I’m Sarah Mitchell.

 I run the historical society. Thomas Harper, he said, shaking her hand. I’m here to clean out my grandmother’s house. Evelyn Harper. Sarah’s eyes widened slightly. Oh, I heard about her passing. I’m sorry for your loss. She paused. Your grandmother actually donated quite a few items to our collection over the years.

 Old photographs, documents, things related to Milfield’s history. Thomas was surprised. He hadn’t known his grandmother had any interest in local history. Really? What kind of things? Sarah came out from behind the counter. Let me show you. She led him to one of the glass cases. Inside were black and white photographs of Milfield from various periods, the early 1900s, the depression era, the postwar boom.

 Your grandmother was particularly interested in preserving the town’s visual history. She donated most of these photographs. Thomas leaned closer to look at the photos. One caught his eye. A crowd gathered in the town square for what appeared to be a 4th of July celebration. The date at the bottom read July 4th, 1965.

That was the town’s centennial celebration, Sarah explained. But Thomas wasn’t listening. He was staring at a figure in the crowd, a small child of about 2 years old, held in the arms of a woman whose face was turned away from the camera. There was something familiar about the child. “Do you have a magnifying glass?” he asked.

 Sarah seemed surprised by the request, but reached under the counter and produced a small magnifying glass. Thomas held it over the photograph, focusing on the child’s face. “The image was grainy, but there was something about the child’s features, the shape of the eyes, the curve of the mouth. “Is everything okay?” Sarah asked. Thomas straightened up. “Yes, sorry. I just thought I recognized someone. He handed back the magnifying glass. Thank you for showing me this.

 It’s interesting to see how the town has changed or hasn’t changed in some cases. Sarah smiled. If you’re interested in local history, we have some books that might appeal to you. She gestured to a shelf labeled Milfield Chronicles. Thomas was about to decline.

 He had no intention of staying in Milfield any longer than necessary, but something made him reconsider. Actually, I might take a look. I’ll be in town for a week, and I might as well learn a bit more about the place. Sarah recommended a couple of books, and Thomas ended up purchasing a comprehensive history of Milfield and a collection of local legends and ghost stories.

 The ghost stories are quite popular, Sarah said as she rang up his purchases. “Milfield has its fair share of haunted houses and mysterious occurrences, including my grandmother’s house,” Thomas asked half- jokingly. Sarah hesitated. “There are stories about most of the old houses in town,” she said carefully. “But they’re just stories.

 Every small town has them.” Thomas thanked her and headed back to his car. Groceries in one arm, books in the other. As he drove back to his grandmother’s house, he couldn’t shake the image of that child in the crowd from his mind. There had been something oddly familiar about the face, but he couldn’t place it.

 Back at the house, Thomas put away the groceries and made himself a simple dinner. As he ate at the kitchen table, he flipped through the book on Milfield’s history. It was a typical small town story. Founded in the mid 1800s, grew with the railroad, suffered during the depression, bounced back after the war.

 There were photographs throughout, many of which, according to the credits, had been provided by Evelyn Harper. After dinner, Thomas decided to tackle the locked door under the stairs. He searched the kitchen drawers for keys, but found none that fit. He tried the desk in the study upstairs, but had no luck there either. Finally, he resorted to a more direct approach.

 He found a screwdriver in a toolbox in the garage and removed the door knob. The door swung open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down to what Thomas assumed was the basement. He flipped a switch on the wall and a single light bulb illuminated the stairs. Holding on to the railing, he made his way down.

 The basement was larger than he had expected, stretching beneath the entire house. It was divided into two sections. The first was a typical unfinished basement, concrete floor, exposed pipes, a washer and dryer in the corner, shelves stocked with canned goods and emergency supplies. But the second section, separated by a heavy curtain, was entirely different.

 Thomas pulled back the curtain and felt along the wall for a light switch. When he found it and flipped it on, he gasped. The room was a dark room, a photographers’s dark room. There were long tables with trays for developing film, a clothes line strung across the ceiling for hanging prints to dry, an enlarger and shelves filled with chemicals and equipment.

 On one wall hung dozens of photographs, and against another stood filing cabinets labeled by year. Thomas was stunned. He had no idea his grandmother had been a photographer. His father had never mentioned it, and during his visits as a child, he had never been allowed in the basement. He moved closer to the wall of photographs.

 They were all black and white, spanning decades from what appeared to be the 1930s up to the early 2000s. Many were portraits, individuals, families, groups posed in front of backdrops, or in natural settings. Others were candid shots of town events, street scenes, everyday life in Milfield. One photograph in particular caught his eye.

 It was the same family portrait he had seen upstairs on his grandmother’s dresser. The man, the woman, and the three children from 1940. But next to it was another photograph of what appeared to be a town parade from the 1950s. And in the crowd, visible, but not prominently featured, was a child who looked exactly like the baby from the family portrait. Thomas frowned. It had to be a coincidence.

 Babies often looked alike, especially in grainy black and white photographs. He moved on, examining the other photos on the wall. There was a high school graduation ceremony from 1962. A child stood in the crowd watching the graduates receive their diplomas.

 The same child, or at least a child with the same distinctive features as the baby from the 1940 portrait. This child appeared to be about 2 years old, just like in the parade photo from the 1950s. Thomas’s heart began to beat faster. He moved to the filing cabinets and pulled open the drawer labeled 1970 1979. Inside were hundreds of negatives and prints carefully organized by date.

 He flipped through them, scanning for town events, crowds, any place where a child might appear. And there it was, a Halloween carnival in 1978. In the background, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, was the same child. still appearing to be about 2 years old, dressed in a cowboy costume, holding the hand of a woman whose face was turned away from the camera.

 Thomas’s hands were shaking now. He moved to the next drawer labeled 1980 1989. More photos, more events, a county fair in 1985. The child was there standing by a cotton candy stand. A Christmas tree lighting ceremony in 1988. The child was in the crowd watching the tree light up. That same unchanging face. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

 Yet, the evidence was right in front of him, documented meticulously over decades. The same child appearing unchanged across 40 years of photographs. Thomas pulled out his phone and took pictures of several of the photographs on the wall and in the filing cabinets. Then he noticed a leatherbound journal on the desk in the corner of the dark room.

 He picked it up and opened it. It was his grandmother’s handwriting, neat and precise. The journal appeared to be a log of her photography work with dates and descriptions of shoots, but interspersed throughout were more personal entries, observations, and notes about the child. October 15th, 1952. One entry read, “Saw the child again today at the harvest festival.

still unchanged, still watching. No one else seems to notice. June 24th, 1967. Another entry read, “The child was at the lake today. I pretended to be taking pictures of the swimmers, but I was watching it. It seemed to know. It smiled at me.

” Thomas flipped to the last entry, dated just 3 months before his grandmother’s death. April 3rd, 2023. The child came to my door today. First time it has ever approached the house. It just stood there smiling. I didn’t open the door. I think it’s time. I’ve documented enough. God forgive me for what I’ve done. The journal slipped from Thomas’s hands and fell to the floor. His mind was racing.

 What had his grandmother meant? What had she done? And what was this child that appeared unchanged across decades of photographs? Thomas gathered the journal and several of the most compelling photographs and headed back upstairs. He needed to clear his head to make sense of what he had found.

 He poured himself a drink from a bottle of whiskey he had brought with him and sat at the kitchen table, spreading out the photographs. The phone rang, startling him. It was an old rotary phone mounted on the wall, a relic from another era. Thomas hadn’t even realized it was still connected. He hesitated, then picked it up.

 “Hello?” There was silence on the other end, then a soft, childlike giggle. “Hello?” Thomas repeated his voice tighter now. Who is this? More silence than a click as the call disconnected. Thomas slowly hung up the phone. It was probably just a wrong number, he told himself. A child playing on the phone. It didn’t mean anything, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was connected to what he had found in the basement.

 He returned to the photographs, studying them closely. In each one, the child looked exactly the same. a small round face, large eyes, a small nose, and a mouth curved in what could be either a smile or a grimace, depending on the angle. And then it hit him. He hurried upstairs to his grandmother’s bedroom and picked up the family portrait from 1940.

Looking closely at the baby in the woman’s arms, he realized why the child in all the other photographs had seemed so familiar. It wasn’t just that the child looked the same in every photo across decades. It was that the child looked like him.

 The baby in the 1940 portrait, the child at the parade in the 1950s, at the graduation in 1962, at the Halloween carnival in 1978. They all looked like Thomas had as a child. The resemblance was unmistakable, but that was impossible. The family in the portrait wasn’t his family. His grandparents had only had one child, his father, born in 1950.

 This photograph was from 1940, a decade before his father was even born. Thomas sat on the edge of the bed. The photograph clutched in his hands. None of this made sense. Why would his grandmother have documented this child? This child that looked like him for decades? What had she meant in her journal about what she had done? He needed answers, and he knew just where to start.

 Tomorrow, he would go back to the historical society and talk to Sarah. Maybe she knew more about his grandmother’s photography work, about the family in the portrait, about the child that appeared unchanged across decades. For now, though, he was exhausted.

 The long drive from Boston, the emotional toll of being back in his grandmother’s house, and the strange discovery in the basement had drained him. He put the photographs and the journal in a drawer in the bedside table, and got ready for bed. As he was about to turn off the light, he glanced out the window. The rain had stopped and the street was quiet.

 But across the road standing under a street light was a small figure. A child wearing what looked like old-fashioned clothes. Even from this distance, Thomas could see that the child was staring directly at the house. Thomas froze. It couldn’t be. It was just a neighborhood kid out too late. But even as he tried to rationalize it, he knew it was the child from the photographs. He blinked and the figure was gone.

 Just his imagination, he told himself. Stress and fatigue playing tricks on his mind. He turned off the light and got into bed. But sleep didn’t come easily. The next morning, Thomas woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, he forgot where he was. And then the events of the previous day came rushing back. The dark room, the photographs, the child that appeared unchanged across decades.

 He got out of bed and checked the drawer where he had put the photographs in the journal. They were still there. It hadn’t been a dream. After a quick breakfast, Thomas headed back to the historical society. The bell jingled as he entered and Sarah looked up from the counter, smiling when she saw him. Back already, she said.

 Did you enjoy the books? They were interesting, Thomas said. But I’m actually here to ask you about my grandmother. You mentioned she donated photographs to the collection. Did you know she was a photographer? Sarah nodded. Oh yes, everyone in town knew. She was quite talented. For decades, she was the only professional photographer in Milfield.

 If you wanted a family portrait, a wedding photo, anything like that. You went to Evelyn Harper. This was news to Thomas. My father never mentioned it. Sarah’s expression softened. Your father left Milfield quite young, didn’t he? And didn’t come back much from what I heard. No, he didn’t. Thomas agreed. There was some kind of falling out with my grandmother. I think he never talked about it.

 Sarah seemed to hesitate, then made a decision. Let me show you something. She led him to a back room of the shop where more artifacts and documents were stored. She pulled a large photo album from a shelf and set it on a table. This is a collection of your grandmother’s work that she donated to us about 10 years ago.

 It’s a retrospective of Milfield from the 1930s to the 2010s. Thomas opened the album. The first few pages showed street scenes from the 1930s, people going about their daily lives. The town square with its band stand, the old movie theater that had been torn down in the 1980s. “Your grandmother had a good eye,” Sarah said. She captured the essence of Milfield in these photographs. Thomas turned the pages moving through the decades.

 And then he saw it. In a crowd scene from a Fourth of July celebration in the 1950s, there was the child. the same child that appeared in the photographs in his grandmother’s dark room. “Do you know who this child is?” Thomas asked, pointing to the small figure in the crowd. Sarah looked where he was pointing and frowned. “Which child?” “There are several in that photo.

” “This one?” Thomas said, tapping the image of the unchanging child. Sarah appeared closer. “I’m sorry, I don’t recognize them. It was a long time ago, and this is just a crowd scene. Why do you ask? Thomas wasn’t sure how much to reveal. His discovery in the dark room was so strange, so impossible that he was afraid Sarah would think he was crazy, but he needed answers. “I found something in my grandmother’s house,” he said carefully.

 “A dark room in the basement full of photographs. And in many of them, there’s this same child appearing unchanged over decades. Always looking about 2 years old, always with the same face, the same expression, and the face, it looks like me when I was a child. Sarah’s expression changed. A flicker of concern crossing her features. That’s unusual.

 Are you sure it’s the same child? Black and white photographs can be deceptive, and children often look similar at that age. I’m sure,” Thomas said firmly. I checked and double-checked. “It’s the same child appearing in photos from the 1940s to the 2000s, always looking exactly the same.” Sarah was quiet for a moment.

 “Your grandmother was quite private about her personal life,” she said finally. “She donated her work to the historical society, but she never talked much about herself or her family. I don’t know what to tell you about this child.” Thomas could tell she was holding something back. “But you know something,” he pressed. “Something about my grandmother or my family?” Sarah sighed. There were rumors, she admitted.

 Small towns always have rumors, but it’s not my place to spread gossip, especially about someone who’s passed away. “Please,” Thomas said, “I need to understand what’s happening. What rumors?” Sarah closed the photo album. It was before my time, you understand? I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. She paused. The story goes that your grandmother wasn’t always Evelyn Harper.

 She came to Milfield in the late 1940s, already married to your grandfather. But some of the older folks in town, the ones who have passed on now, they used to say she looked familiar, that she resembled a woman who had lived here briefly in the early 1940s, a woman named Evelyn Blackwood, who had worked as an assistant to a traveling photographer.

 And Thomas prompted when Sarah fell silent. And this Evelyn Blackwood had disappeared suddenly along with a family she had been close to, the Witams. Parents and three children, two boys, and a baby. They had sat for a portrait with the traveling photographer and the next day they were gone. Their house was empty. No note, no explanation. They just vanished. Thomas felt a chill run down his spine.

 A family with three children, two boys and a baby. Just like the family in the portrait on his grandmother’s dresser. The portrait, he murmured. The family portrait from 1940. Sarah looked at him sharply. You’ve seen it. It’s on my grandmother’s dresser. a man, a woman, two boys, and a baby. The date at the bottom says June 1940.

 Sarah’s face had gone pale. I’ve never seen the portrait myself. It’s just a story that gets passed around like all small town legends. But they say the portrait was cursed. That the traveling photographer was not just a photographer, but something else, something not natural, and that the portrait trapped the souls of the family inside it. All except for the baby who somehow escaped but was forever bound to the portrait.

 Unable to age, unable to die, appearing in the world but not fully part of it. Thomas stared at her. It was ridiculous. Of course, a ghost story, a legend, the kind of tale that small towns thrived on. But the photographs in his grandmother’s dark room, the journal entries, the child that appeared unchanged across decades. and my grandmother,” he asked.

 “Where does she fit into this story?” Sarah shook her head. Like I said, it’s just a rumor that Evelyn Blackwood became Evelyn Harper, took on a new identity. Why? No one knows. Some said she felt responsible for what happened to the Witums because she had introduced them to the photographer. Others said she was trying to find a way to break the curse, to free the family.

 But again, these are just stories, rumors. There’s no evidence. But Thomas wasn’t so sure. The dark room, the meticulous documentation of the child over decades, the journal entries about watching and documenting. It all suggested that his grandmother had been doing exactly what the rumors claimed, trying to understand or break a curse. Thank you for telling me this, he said to Sarah.

 I know it’s just a legend, but it helps me make sense of what I found. Sarah looked relieved that he wasn’t taking the story too seriously. I’m glad. And if you need any help sorting through your grandmother’s belongings, or if you have any questions about Milfield’s history, feel free to come back.” Thomas thanked her again and left the historical society.

 As he walked back to his car, his mind was racing. A cursed portrait, a child that couldn’t age, a family trapped inside a photograph. It was the stuff of horror movies, not real life. And yet the evidence he had seen with his own eyes suggested that there might be some truth to the legend. He decided to stop at the local library on his way back to the house.

 Maybe there were records, newspaper articles, something that could confirm or refute the story of the vanishing Witham family and Evelyn Blackwood. The Milfield Public Library was a small brick building on the edge of the town square. Inside, an elderly librarian directed him to the local history section and the microfilm archives of the Milfield Gazette. Thomas spent hours scrolling through old newspapers looking for any mention of the Witams or Evelyn Blackwood.

 And then he found it, a small article from June 15th, 1940. Local family missing. Police are investigating the disappearance of the Wickham family from their home on Maple Street. Robert Whitam, his wife Laura, and their three children, James, 12, Robert Jr., 10, an infant daughter Anne, were last seen on June 10th.

 Neighbors reported that a traveling photographer had visited the home that day. Anyone with information is asked to contact the police. There was a follow-up article a week later, noting that the case remained unsolved, and then nothing. The Witims were never mentioned again in the newspaper. Thomas continued his search looking for any mention of Evelyn Blackwood. He found a classified ad from a photography studio in 1939 seeking an assistant.

 And then in a social column from early 1940, a brief mention, Miss Evelyn Blackwood, assistant to Mr. Harold Price at Price Photography, attended the spring dance at the Milfield Community Center. But after June 1940, Evelyn Blackwood, like the Witcoms, disappeared from the newspaper. Thomas searched forward looking for the first mention of his grandparents.

 In 1949, a brief announcement. Mr. William Harper and his wife, the former Evelyn Reynolds, have purchased the property at 427 Elm Street. So Sarah had been right. His grandmother had appeared in Milfield in the late 1940s as Evelyn Harper, formerly Evelyn Reynolds. But had she once been Evelyn Blackwood? Had she changed her name, created a new identity? And if so, why? Thomas copied the articles and headed back to the house.

 He needed to examine the portrait more closely to read more of his grandmother’s journal to try to make sense of this impossible situation. As he drove, he noticed dark clouds gathering on the horizon. Another storm was coming. By the time he reached the house, raindrops were beginning to fall. He hurried inside just as a crash of thunder shook the sky. The house felt different now, charged with attention that hadn’t been there before.

 Thomas went straight to his grandmother’s bedroom and picked up the family portrait from the dresser. Looking at it now, with what he knew, he could see that the woman in the photograph, Laura Witam, according to the newspaper article, did bear a resemblance to his grandmother, not identical, but similar enough that they could have been sisters or cousins.

 And the baby, Anne Witam, he studied her face, comparing it to his memories of his own childhood photos. The resemblance was uncanny. It was as if the baby in the portrait and Thomas as a child were the same person. But that was impossible. He had been born in 1982, more than 40 years after this photograph was taken.

 He had a birth certificate, school records, a whole life that proved he was Thomas Harper, not some ageless child bound to a cursed portrait. He carried the portrait downstairs to the kitchen where the light was better. As he was examining it, the phone rang again. that old rotary phone on the wall, its ring shrill and insistent.

 Thomas hesitated, then picked it up. Hello. Again, there was silence and then that soft childlike giggle, but this time it was followed by words spoken in a child’s high, clear voice. “You found me,” Thomas’s heart was pounding. “Who is this?” “You know who I am,” the voice said. You’ve seen me in the pictures, in the crowds, outside your window.

 Thomas’s mouth went dry. Anne Witkim. The voice giggled again. That was my name once. What do you want? Thomas asked, his voice barely above a whisper. To be free, the voice said. To grow up, to live. Your grandmother promised she would help me. But she didn’t. She just watched me, documented me for decades. She was afraid.

 Afraid of what? Of the price, the voice said. There’s always a price for breaking a curse. She wasn’t willing to pay it. But you will, won’t you, Thomas? You’ll help me. I don’t understand, Thomas said. How can I help you? What price? But the line went dead. Thomas slowly hung up the phone, his hand trembling. He looked down at the portrait on the table.

 The baby, Anne Witkim, stared back at him with eyes that seemed to hold a knowledge far beyond her infant years. Thomas decided to read more of his grandmother’s journal. He went down to the dark room and retrieved it from where he had left it on the desk.

 Back in the kitchen, he began to read, flipping through the pages, looking for any explanation of the curse, of how it might be broken. Most of the entries were observations of the child and appearing at various town events, but occasionally there were more personal reflections. March 17th, 1960. One entry read, “I’ve been researching curses, trying to understand what happened to the Witims, to Anne.

 The portrait is the key. Harold Price was not just a photographer. He was something else, something old. He captured souls in his photographs. The Witams are trapped in that portrait. All except Anne, who escaped, but is still bound to it. She can appear in the world, but she cannot age, cannot change.

 She’s been a child for 20 years now and will remain so unless the curse is broken. Thomas turned the page. April 5th, 1962. I found a possible way to break the curse. A life for a life. To free Anne. To allow her to grow and live normally. Someone must take her place. Someone must willingly enter the portrait. But I cannot do it. I have William now and a child on the way.

 I cannot sacrifice myself. So, I will continue to watch, to document, and to search for another way. Thomas sat back, stunned. A life for a life. Someone had to take Anne’s place in the portrait to be trapped as she had been. His grandmother had been unwilling to make that sacrifice.

 And who could blame her? She had a husband, was expecting a child, his father. He continued reading, flipping through decades of entries. His grandmother had never stopped searching for another way to break the curse, but she had never found one. And all the while, Anne Wickham had remained unchanged, a child forever, appearing at town events, watching, waiting.

 The last entry in the journal, the one he had read the day before, now made more sense. The child came to my door today. First time it has ever approached the house. It just stood there smiling. I didn’t open the door. I think it’s time. I’ve documented enough. God forgive me for what I’ve done.

 What had his grandmother done? Had she finally found a way to break the curse? Or had she given up, leaving the burden to someone else? To Thomas? As if an answer to his thoughts, there was a knock at the front door. Thomas froze. The rain was pouring down now, thunder crashing overhead. Who would be out in this storm? He approached the door cautiously.

 Through the small window in the door, he could see a small figure standing on the porch. A child soaking wet, wearing old-fashioned clothes. Thomas’s heart was in his throat as he opened the door. The child looked up at him with large serious eyes. It was the child from the photographs, the child that had appeared unchanged across decades. “Anne Wickham.” “Hello, Thomas,” she said, her voice the same as the one on the phone.

“May I come in? It’s raining. Thomas stepped back, allowing her to enter. Water dripped from her clothes onto the hardwood floor. She looked around the entryway, her expression curious. Your grandmother never let me inside, she said. Not in all these years. Why are you here? Thomas asked. “What do you want from me?” Anne looked at him, her head tilted to one side. “I told you on the phone, I want to be free.

 I want to grow up. I want to live.” She walked past him into the living room, her wet shoes leaving small footprints on the floor. And you’re going to help me. Thomas followed her, torn between fear and fascination. She looked so normal, so solid, not like a ghost or a spirit, but like an actual child. Except for her eyes.

 They held a weariness, a knowledge that no 2-year-old should possess. “How can I help you?” Thomas asked. The journal says it requires a sacrifice, a life for a life. Anne turned to face him. Your grandmother found another way. It took her decades, but she found it. That’s why she stopped documenting me. Why she avoided me in her final years.

 She knew I would come for what she promised. And what was that? Anne moved to the fireplace where a family photograph sat on the mantle. She pointed to one of Thomas as a child about 10 years old standing with his parents in front of the Grand Canyon. “Do you see it?” she asked. Thomas looked at the photo, not understanding.

 “See what?” “The resemblance,” Anne said. “Between you and me.” “Between you and the baby in the Wickham portrait.” Thomas had noticed it, of course. The same eyes, the same mouth, the same chin. But it had to be a coincidence. Or perhaps his grandmother had chosen to adopt a child.

 his father, who resembled the Witcom baby as some form of atonement. “What are you saying?” he asked. Anne smiled, a two- knowing smile on her childish face. “Your grandmother found a way to break part of the curse. Not to free the wits from the portrait, but to allow me to have a life in a way through bloodlines,” Thomas shook his head, not understanding.

 your father,” Anne said patiently, as if explaining to a child. He was not Evelyn Harper’s biological son. She and William adopted him, but they told everyone he was theirs, born while they were away visiting relatives. No one questioned it. It was 1950 and people didn’t pry into such matters. So, my father was adopted.

 Thomas said, “What does that have to do with you?” He wasn’t just any child, Anne said. He was chosen specifically. Your grandmother searched for a baby that looked like me, like the baby in the Wickham portrait, and she found one. A baby boy whose mother had died in childbirth, whose father couldn’t care for him. She adopted him and raised him as her own. Thomas was trying to process this information.

 His father had been adopted, chosen because he resembled the baby in the cursed portrait. But why? Your grandmother believed that if she could create a bloodline that mirrored mine, it might eventually weaken my connection to the portrait.

 Anne continued that over generations, as the resemblance passed down, the curse would dilute and eventually someone in that bloodline would be born who could finally break the curse completely. Me, Thomas said, a chill running through him. Anne nodded. You, the third generation, you have my eyes, my face. You are as close to me as a living person can be without being me. And that means you can finish what your grandmother started. Thunder crashed outside and the lights flickered.

 Anne didn’t seem to notice. She was focused entirely on Thomas. How? He asked. How do I break the curse? The portrait, Anne said. It has to be destroyed in a specific way on the anniversary of when it was taken by someone who shares my likeness. Thomas thought back to the date on the portrait. June 10th, 1940.

Today was June 8th, 2023. 2 days away. And if I do this, Thomas said slowly. What happens to you? And to the Witims. Anne’s expression was unreadable. The Withams will be free. Their souls will move on to whatever comes next, and I will finally be able to age, to grow, to live a normal life. How do I know you’re telling the truth? Thomas asked.

 “How do I know this isn’t some trick?” Anne shrugged, a strangely adult gesture on her small frame. “You don’t. But ask yourself this. Why would your grandmother have spent decades documenting me, researching curses, looking for a way to break the spell if it wasn’t real? Why would she have specifically adopted a child who looked like me, if not to create a bloodline that could eventually free me?” It was a compelling argument.

 And yet Thomas was hesitant. This whole situation was so beyond his understanding, so outside the realm of what he had believed possible. I need time to think,” he said. Anne nodded. “You have 2 days until June 10th. I’ll come back then.” She moved toward the door. “Wait,” Thomas said. “Where will you go? It’s still raining.” Anne smiled that knowing smile again.

“I’ve been out in the rain for 80 years, Thomas. A little more won’t hurt me. And with that, she opened the door and stepped out into the storm. Thomas watched through the window as the small figure walked down the street and disappeared around a corner. He half expected her to vanish into thin air, but she didn’t. She walked like any normal child, except for the fact that she was alone in a thunderstorm.

 He returned to the kitchen and picked up his grandmother’s journal again. If what Anne had said was true, there should be some mention of it in these pages. He flipped through, scanning entries from the 1950s and onward. And there it was, an entry from September 12th, 1950. We brought the baby home today.

 We’re calling him Robert after my father. No one will question that he’s ours. He looks so much like the baby in the portrait, like Anne. It’s uncanny. I hope I’m right about this. I hope that by creating this connection, this bloodline, I can eventually weaken the curse. It may take generations, but someday someone in this line will be able to free the Wickhams to free Anne.

I have to believe that. Otherwise, what I’ve done is unforgivable. Thomas sat back, stunned. His father had been named Robert after his supposed grandfather. But if his grandmother’s maiden name hadn’t been Reynolds, but Blackwood, then her father likely wasn’t named Robert at all.

 No, she had named her adopted son after Robert Witam, the father in the portrait. He continued reading, finding more entries that confirmed Anne’s story. His grandmother had indeed believed that by creating a bloodline that mirrored Anne’s, she could eventually break the curse. And she had put her theory to the test by adopting a baby who resembled Anne and raising him as her own.

 But there was something Anne hadn’t mentioned, something his grandmother had written about extensively. The risk. July 7th, 1965. One entry read, “Robert has a son now, my grandson Thomas. The resemblance is even stronger in him than it was in Robert. The bloodline theory seems to be working, but I worry about the risk.

 If Thomas ever comes into contact with Anne, if she ever discovers what I’ve done, she might try to use him to break the curse before he’s ready, and the consequences could be dire.” Thomas frowned. “Consequences? What consequences? He read on searching for an explanation. August 22nd, 1973. Another entry read, I saw Anne at the county fair today.

 She was watching Thomas, who was visiting with his parents. She knows. I could see it in her eyes. She recognized the resemblance. I need to keep them apart. I’ve told Robert not to bring Thomas to Milfield anymore. He thinks I’m being unreasonable. That I don’t want to see my own grandson. If only he knew the truth.

 So that was why his visits to Milfield had been so infrequent and brief. His grandmother had been trying to protect him from Anne. But protect him from what? Thomas continued reading, looking for any mention of the specific risks involved in breaking the curse. May 5th, 1990, he found. I’ve continued my research all these years. I believe I know now how the curse can be broken.

 On the anniversary of when the portrait was taken, it must be burned by someone who shares Anne’s likeness, someone from the bloodline I created. The fire must be fueled by something personal from both the person breaking the curse and from Anne herself. As the portrait burns, a specific incantation must be recited.

This will free the Withams and allow Anne to age normally. That matched what Anne had told him, but the next paragraph revealed what she had left out. But the risk is immense. The person breaking the curse will be vulnerable at the moment of breaking and could potentially take over their body, their life.

 It would give her what she wants, the ability to live and age normally, but at the cost of the other person’s autonomy. They would still exist, but as a passenger in their own body with Anne in control. I cannot allow this to happen to Thomas. I will find another way. Thomas felt a chill run down his spine. Anne hadn’t mentioned this part.

She had said she would be able to age and live normally, but she hadn’t specified how. Now he understood. She wanted to take over his body to live her life through him. He read the final entries in the journal, looking for any indication that his grandmother had found another way, as she had hoped. But there was nothing.

 Just more documentation of Anne’s appearances around town. And finally, that last ominous entry about Anne coming to the door. The phone rang again, making Thomas jump. He hesitated, then picked it up. “I see you’ve been reading,” Annes voice said. “Your grandmother was quite thorough in her documentation.” “You didn’t tell me everything,” Thomas said. “You left out the part where you take over my body.

” Anne sighed a weirdly adult sound from a child. I didn’t think you’d agree if you knew the full truth, but yes, that’s how it works. I need a physical form to grow and age in. Yours is perfect. It already carries my likeness. Why should I help you? Thomas demanded.

 Why should I give up my life for yours? Because the alternative is worse, Anne said, her voice suddenly harder. If the curse isn’t broken by someone willing, it will break itself eventually in a much more destructive way. The portrait has been containing the curse for 80 years, but it’s weakening. When it fails completely, it won’t just be me who’s free.

 The curse will spread, affecting everyone connected to it, including you, Thomas. You’ll be trapped as I’ve been, unchanging, neither fully alive nor dead. And so will others in Milfield who have encountered me over the years. You’re threatening me, Thomas said. I’m telling you the truth, Anne replied. Ask yourself why your grandmother documented me so meticulously for decades.

 It wasn’t just scientific curiosity. She was monitoring the curse, watching for signs that the portrait was weakening. In her final years, she saw those signs. That’s why she stopped avoiding me. Why she seemed to be considering the sacrifice? She knew time was running out. The line went dead, leaving Thomas holding the receiver, his mind racing.

Was Anne telling the truth about the portrait weakening, about the curse spreading if it wasn’t properly broken? or was this just another manipulation to get what she wanted? He hung up the phone and returned to the journal, looking for any mention of the portrait weakening or the curse spreading.

 And there it was in entries from the past few years. October 15th, 2020. One read, I noticed something different about the portrait today. The colors seem to be fading in an unnatural way, and there’s a faint crackling sound when I touch the frame. I fear the curse is growing stronger as the portrait grows weaker. I need to make a decision soon.

 And another from just a year ago. March 3rd, 2022. Anne appeared at the town’s spring festival today. There were three people standing near her who seemed affected. They had a vacant look in their eyes, and they followed her movements without seeming aware of what they were doing. The curse is spreading.

 The portrait can’t contain it much longer. Thomas put down the journal, his hands shaking. If what his grandmother had written was true, then Anne was right. The consequences of not breaking the curse could be far worse than the personal sacrifice it would require from him. But to give up his life, his autonomy to become a passenger in his own body.

 With Anne in control, it was an impossible choice. He needed more information, more perspective. He picked up his phone, his cell phone this time, not the old rotary, and called Sarah at the historical society. Sarah, he said when she answered, I need to know more about the Wickham family and the photographer, Harold Price.

 Is there anything else you can tell me? Anything that wasn’t in the newspaper articles? Sarah was quiet for a moment. I didn’t think you’d take the legend so seriously, she said finally. Please, Thomas said. It’s important. Sarah sighed. There’s not much more than what I already told you. The Wickhams disappeared and so did Evelyn Blackwood.

Harold Price, the photographer, left town around the same time. The police investigated, but they never found any evidence of foul play. Eventually, the case was closed and the Wickhams were declared legally dead. And no one ever made the connection between Evelyn Blackwood and my grandmother when she showed up in Milfield years later.

 “Some of the older folks might have,” Sarah admitted. “But as I said, it was just rumors. Your grandmother was well respected in the community. No one would have openly accused her of anything. “What about Harold Price?” Thomas asked. “Do you know anything else about him?” “Only what’s in the old advertisements for his photography studio?” He claimed to have studied in Europe with some famous photographers. But I don’t know if that was true.

 He was only in Milfield for a few months before the Witims disappeared. It wasn’t much to go on. Thomas thanked Sarah and hung up. He was on his own with this decision. He spent the rest of the day and the next pouring over his grandmother’s journal, looking for any clue, any alternative to the terrible choice Anne had presented him with, but there was nothing.

 His grandmother had searched for decades and had found no other way to break the curse. As June 10th dawned, Thomas still hadn’t made his decision. He had barely slept, his mind racing with the impossible situation he found himself in.

 save himself and potentially doom others to a fate similar to Anne’s, or sacrifice his autonomy to free the Witcoms and allow Anne to live a normal life through him. He was sitting at the kitchen table, the portrait in front of him, when there was a knock at the door. He knew who it was. Anne stood on the porch wearing the same old-fashioned clothes she had worn two days ago, but today they were clean and dry.

 Her hair was neatly combed, and she had a solemn expression on her face. Have you decided? She asked as Thomas opened the door. He stepped back to let her in. I’m still not sure. The price is too high. Anne walked past him to the kitchen where she saw the portrait on the table. She stared at it, her expression unreadable. Do you know what it’s like? She asked quietly.

 To be 2 years old for 80 years. To watch the world change around you while you stay the same. To see everyone you knew grow old and die while you remain a child. Thomas didn’t answer. He couldn’t imagine such an existence. I was supposed to have a life, Anne continued. A childhood, adolescence, adulthood, marriage, perhaps children of my own.

 Instead, I’ve been this, a shadow, a ghost, neither living nor dead. All because of him. She pointed to the figure of Harold Price, barely visible in the background of the portrait, a shadow behind the photographers’s curtain. He collected souls, Anne said, trapped them in his photographs. My family was just one of many, but I escaped partially. My physical form remained free, but I couldn’t age, couldn’t change.

 I’ve been waiting all these years for someone who could break the curse. Your grandmother tried to find another way, but there isn’t one. It has to be you, Thomas. Today, Thomas looked at the portrait at the family frozen in time. The father stern and proud. The mother with her gentle smile. The two boys uncomfortable in their suits.

 And the baby Anne innocent unaware of the fate that awaited her. If I agree, he said slowly. What exactly will happen? Will I still exist? Will I be aware? Anne nodded. You’ll still exist. You’ll be aware. Think of it as sharing your body, though I would be the primary occupant. You would be along for the ride, so to speak.

 You would see and hear everything, but you wouldn’t be in control. For how long? Thomas asked. Anne hesitated. Forever, she admitted. Or until this body dies a natural death. But I promise you, Thomas, I would live a good life. I would do good things. I would make the most of the opportunity you’re giving me. Thomas wasn’t convinced.

 And if I refuse, if I destroy the portrait without the proper ritual or simply do nothing, Anne’s expression darkened. Then the curse will break on its own in its own way. The portrait is already weakening. You can see it. She pointed to the photograph and Thomas noticed what his grandmother had described. The colors fading unnaturally, a faint crackling sound when he touched the frame. When it fails completely, the curse will spread.

Everyone who has encountered me over the years will be affected. They won’t be trapped as completely as I was, but they’ll experience disconnections, moments where they’re not quite in the world. It will start small, minutes, hours, but it will grow. Eventually, they’ll be as I am, present but not participating, watching but not engaging. How many people are we talking about? Thomas asked. Dozens, Anne said.

maybe hundreds. I’ve been in Milfield for 80 years, Thomas. I’ve been to every public event, every gathering. I’ve crossed paths with most of the town at one point or another. Thomas thought of Sarah at the historical society, of Doris at the grocery store, of all the people who had lived their lives in this small town, unaware of the cursed child in their midst.

 “And there’s no other way,” he asked a final desperate question. Anne shook her head. Your grandmother searched for decades. If there was another way, she would have found it. Thomas was silent for a long moment. Then he looked at Anne. What do we need to do? Anne’s eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn’t expected him to agree. We need something personal from 

each of us. And we need to perform the ritual at the exact time the portrait was taken, 3:17 p.m., according to the photographers’s log. Thomas looked at his watch. It was just afternoon. They had a few hours. “What kind of personal items?” he asked. “Something that represents your identity,” Anne said. “And something of mine from before the curse,” Thomas frowned.

 “How could you have anything from before the curse? You’ve been a child for 80 years.” Anne reached into a pocket of her old-fashioned dress and pulled out a small tarnished silver rattle. This was mine. It’s in the portrait, though you can barely see it. I’m holding it in my mother’s arms. It’s the only thing I have from my life before. Thomas nodded.

 And from me? Anne considered something that represents who you are. Your work perhaps. Thomas thought of his career as an architectural photographer. There was a portfolio of his work in his duffel bag upstairs. I’ll get it, he said. As he climbed the stairs, Thomas’s mind was racing.

 Was he really going to go through with this? to give up his life, his autonomy, to free a family cursed 80 years ago, and to allow their baby to live a normal life through him. But what was the alternative? To doom potentially hundreds of people to a fate similar to Anne’s? To condemn the Witams to remain trapped in the portrait forever. He retrieved his portfolio from his bag and returned downstairs.

 Anne was sitting at the kitchen table staring at the portrait. She looked up as he entered. That’s good, she said, nodding at the portfolio. That represents your life, your identity. Now what? Thomas asked. We wait, Anne said. Until 317. Then we burn the portrait using your portfolio and my rattle as fuel for the fire.

 As it burns, we recite an incantation to break the curse. What incantation? Anne recited a series of words in a language Thomas didn’t recognize. It’s a reversal, she explained of the words Harold Price used when he took the portrait. I’ve had 80 years to remember them, to work out how to undo what he did. The hours passed slowly.

 Thomas made lunch, though neither he nor Anne ate much. They sat mostly in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Thomas was still wrestling with his decision, still looking for another way out. But as the clock ticked closer to 3:17, he began to accept that there was no other option. At 3: Aong, Anne stood up. “It’s time to prepare,” she said. She instructed Thomas to place the portrait in the fireplace in the living room.

 He did so, propping it up against the back of the firebox. Then, following her directions, he placed his portfolio and her silver rattle in front of it. “Now we need fire,” Anne said. Thomas found matches in a drawer in the kitchen and returned to the living room.

 Anne was standing in front of the fireplace, her small face solemn. “Are you ready?” she asked. Thomas checked his watch. It was 3:15. “Almost time,” he said. Anne nodded. “Remember the incantation,” she said, and repeated the strange words. Thomas tried to commit them to memory, though his mind was still clouded with doubt and fear.

 “Was he doing the right thing? Was there truly no other way? The clock on the mantle chimed the quarter hour. 3:15. Two more minutes. I want you to know, Anne said quietly, that I’m grateful for what you’re doing. I know the sacrifice is immense. Thomas didn’t reply. He was watching the second hand on his watch, counting down. It’s time, Anne said as the watch showed 317.

Thomas struck a match and held it to the edge of his portfolio. The paper caught quickly, flames licking up to the portrait. Anne began to recite the incantation, her childish voice taking on a strange resonance in the quiet room. Thomas joined in, repeating the unfamiliar words. As the flames reached the portrait, something extraordinary happened.

 The images of the Witams, the father, mother, and two boys seemed to glow, to lift off the paper. For a brief moment, Thomas saw them as three-dimensional figures standing in the flames, but not consumed by them. They turned toward Anne, their expressions a mixture of relief and gratitude.

 And then they were gone, vanished, leaving only the empty backdrop of the photographers’s studio burning in the fireplace. But Anne remained both in the portrait and beside Thomas. As the flames consumed the last of the photograph, she turned to him, her eyes reflecting the fire. Thank you, she said, and then she stepped forward into him. Thomas felt a jolt, as if a electrical current had passed through his body. He gasped, stumbling backward.

For a moment, there was confusion, a sense of two consciousnesses occupying the same space. He could feel Anne’s presence inside him, not as an invader, but as a merging, a joining. And then everything settled. Thomas was still aware, still present, but he was no longer in control.

 He could see through his eyes, feel through his skin, but he couldn’t move his limbs or speak. “It worked,” his voice said, but it was Anne speaking, using his vocal cords. “It worked,” Thomas tried to respond to assert his presence, but he couldn’t. He was a passenger now, as Anne had said. Along for the ride, Anne raised his hands, examining them with wonder. A man’s body, she said. How strange.

 But I’ll get used to it. She walked to the mirror hanging in the hallway and studied his reflection. Yes, this will do nicely. Thank you, Thomas. I promise I’ll take good care of your body. Our body now. Thomas tried to protest to fight back, but it was useless. The transaction was complete. The curse broken on Anne’s terms. She was free.

The Witams were free. and Thomas was trapped within his own body. Anne walked upstairs to the bedroom and began to pack his things. “We can’t stay in Milfield,” she said as if he had asked a question. “Too many people know you here. We’ll go back to Boston to your life there.

 I’ll need time to adjust to learn how to be Thomas Harper. But I’m a quick learner. Always have been.” Thomas felt a wave of despair. This was his life now, watching someone else live in his body, use his name, take over his existence. He had saved countless others from a similar fate. But at what cost? As Anne finished packing, she paused and looked in the mirror again. “I can sense your distress, Thomas,” she said.

 “I understand. This isn’t what you wanted, but you made the right choice. The curse is broken. The Witams are at peace. The people of Milfield are safe. and I promise you I will live a good life. Our life with purpose and meaning. It’s more than I’ve had for 80 years. She picked up his duffel bag and headed downstairs.

 At the front door, she paused and looked back at the house. “Goodbye, grandmother,” she whispered. “You tried your best, and in the end, you succeeded. You created the bloodline that could break the curse. Thank you for that.” With that, she walked out the door, closing it firmly behind her.

 Thomas Harper’s body got into his car and drove away from Milfield, away from the house where a family portrait had once hung, trapping souls for 80 years. Inside that body, Thomas himself was now trapped. A passenger in his own life. The curse had been broken, but at a terrible price. And as the town receded in the rear view mirror, he wondered if he had made the right choice after all.