In the hazy glow of dawn, Emma Blackwood’s attic breathed dust and secrets. The morning light streamed through a small window, casting long shadows across forgotten treasures and discarded memories. Emma had postponed this task for months, but with her grandmother’s Victorian house now legally hers, there was no avoiding it anymore. The attic needed clearing before the renovations could begin.

 

 

 Emma sighed, pulling another cardboard box from beneath a pile of antiquated furniture. Her fingers traced the faded label. Margaret’s belongings. Margaret Blackwood, her grandmother, had passed away 6 months ago at the age of 92, leaving behind a house filled with relics of a bygone era.

 Emma had been close to her grandmother, spending summers in this very house, listening to stories of times long past. But even she had to admit that Margaret had been a peculiar woman, guarded about certain aspects of her family history. The box creaked as Emma opened it, releasing the scent of old paper and faded lavender. Inside were stacks of letters bound with faded ribbons, and beneath them, several leather-bound albums.

 Emma lifted the top album, its cover cracked with age. As she opened it, a loose photograph slipped out, fluttering to the wooden floor. Emma picked it up carefully, turning it over in her hands. The photograph was small, about the size of a postcard with scalloped edges. It showed three children seated in front of what appeared to be a Victorian parlor.

Two girls in white dresses with high collars flanked a smaller boy in a sailor suit. Their expressions were solemn, as was customary for photographs of that era. The print was faded, damaged in places, but there was something unsettling about the image that Emma couldn’t quite place. She turned the photograph over.

 Written in faded ink was a simple inscription. The Thornfield Children, 1900. Below it, in a different hand, someone had written, “Never forget what happened.” Emma frowned, studying the photograph again. “The Thornfields.” Her grandmother had never mentioned that name.

 She searched her memory for any reference to this family and her grandmother’s stories, but came up empty. The children’s faces stared back at her, expressionless and distant across the century that separated them. On impulse, Emma slipped the photograph into her pocket. She would ask her mother about it later. For now, there were more boxes to sort, more memories to sift through.

 Later that evening, Emma sat at her kitchen table, a glass of wine beside her as she examined the photograph again. The image seemed to grow more unsettling the longer she looked at it. There was something off about the children’s expressions.

 Not just the customary semnity of Victorian portrait subjects, but something deeper, a weariness in their eyes, particularly the boys. He couldn’t have been more than five or six. With fair hair combed neatly to one side, his small hands folded in his lap, Emma pulled out her phone and took a photo of the image. Then, on a whim, she opened her photo editing app and began to enhance it, adjusting the contrast and brightness, trying to bring out more detail. As the image clarified, Emma leaned closer, squinting at the screen.

There was something unusual about the boy’s mouth, a shadow that seemed out of place. Emma zoomed in further, enhancing just that section of the photo. As the pixels rearranged themselves into sharper focus, she gasped. The boy had an extra tooth.

 Not just an ordinary tooth, but what looked like a small pointed canine protruding just beside his regular teeth. It seemed to gleam in the photograph, unnaturally white against the faded sepia tones of the rest of the image. Emma sat back, a chill running down her spine. It was probably just a peculiarity of the photograph, she told herself.

 An imperfection in the developing process, or perhaps damage that had occurred over time. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to this image, something hidden in the solemn faces of these long dead children. She reached for her laptop and opened her browser. Thornfield Family 1900, she typed, but the search yielded little of interest. She tried several variations, adding her grandmother’s name, the location of the house, but nothing relevant appeared.

 Emma frowned, then had another idea. She searched for historical photo restoration services and found several in the city. One called Yesterday’s light, specialized in Victorian and Edwardian photographs. Their website showcased impressive before and after examples of damaged photographs that had been painstakingly restored to their original clarity.

 Emma sent an email with a scan of the photograph attached inquiring about their services and rates. To her surprise, she received a response within the hour. The owner, a man named Daniel Miller, expressed interest in the photograph and offered to meet with her the following day to discuss restoration options.

 Your photograph presents some fascinating challenges. He wrote, “I’d like to examine it in person.” Emma agreed to meet him at his studio the next afternoon. As she prepared for bed that night, she placed the photograph on her nightstand. The three children’s faces watching her as she drifted off to sleep. Her dreams were troubled.

 She found herself walking through a Victorian house, the floors creaking beneath her feet. Three children played in a dusty parlor, their backs to her. When she called out, they turned, but their faces were blank, featureless, except for their mouths, which opened to reveal rows of gleaming, pointed teeth.

 Emma woke with a start, her heart pounding, the first light of dawn seeping through her curtains. Yesterday’s light was located in an old converted warehouse downtown in an area that had recently been gentrified with artisal coffee shops and boutique stores. Emma found the entrance, a nondescript door with a small brass plaque, and pressed the buzzer. Daniel Miller was not what Emma had expected.

She had imagined an elderly gentleman with spectacles and a tweed jacket. But the man who greeted her was in his 30s with dark hair tied back in a ponytail and intense blue eyes that studied her with immediate curiosity. “You must be Emma,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Daniel. Thank you for bringing your photograph in person.

” The studio was a spacious room with high ceilings and large windows that allowed natural light to flood the space. One wall was lined with framed photographs. Before and after restoration examples, Emma presumed. Workstations with computers and specialized equipment were arranged throughout the room, and at the far end, a door led to what appeared to be a dark room. “You have a fascinating collection here,” Emma said, gesturing to the framed photographs.

 Daniel nodded, leading her to a workstation. “Every photograph tells a story. My job is to make sure those stories aren’t lost to time and deterioration. He cleared a space on the desk. May I see the original now? Emma removed the photograph from her bag and handed it to him.

 Daniel accepted it with careful hands, immediately slipping on a pair of white cotton gloves before examining it more closely. The Thornfield children, he murmured, reading the inscription on the back. And this other note, never forget what happened. Intriguing. He turned the photograph over again and studied the front, his expression intensifying as he examined the three children.

 Without a word, he moved to a specialized scanner and gently place the photograph on it. This is a highresolution scanner designed specifically for delicate historical photographs, he explained as the machine hummed to life. It’ll give us a detailed digital image to work with without risking any damage to the original.

 The scan appeared on a large monitor, and Daniel immediately began manipulating the image, zooming in on various sections, adjusting settings. “Your photograph is in relatively good condition for its age,” he said. “Some silver mirroring, which is common, and minor damage along this edge here. The emulsion is intact, which is fortunate.

 This should be a straightforward restoration.” Emma hesitated. “There’s something I noticed about the boy in the photograph,” she said. When I tried to enhance it at home, it looked like he had some kind of extra tooth. Daniel’s hands paused over the keyboard. Slowly, he zoomed in on the boy’s face, enhancing and sharpening the image.

 The extra tooth became clearly visible, protruding at an odd angle next to his regular teeth. “Yes, I see it,” Daniel said, his voice thoughtful. “It could be a supernumemerary tooth, a hyperdontia. They’re rare, but not unheard of. Sometimes they’re removed, but in 1900, dental care wasn’t what it is today. “Is it normal for it to look so pointed?” Emma asked.

 Daniel adjusted the image further, bringing the tooth into sharper focus. “You’re right. The morphology is unusual. It’s not positioned like a typical super numerary tooth either.” He looked up at Emma. “Do you know anything about the Thornfield family or why your grandmother had this photograph?” Emma shook her head. “I’ve never heard my grandmother mention them. I found this in an old album in her attic.

 Daniel leaned back in his chair, studying the image on the screen. I’d like to do a full restoration on this if you’ll allow it. There might be other details that are currently obscured by the photograph’s condition. How long will it take? Emma asked. For something this special, I could have it done in a few days.

 I’ll need to keep the original, of course, Emma hesitated, feeling inexplicably reluctant to part with the photograph. It’s that unusual. Daniel’s eyes met hers. Every photograph tells a story, Emma. I think this one has quite a tale to tell. I’m curious to hear it. Something in his intensity unsettled her, but Emma’s own curiosity outweighed her unease.

 All right, she said, “But please be careful with it.” “Of course, I’ll call you as soon as it’s ready.” As Emma left the studio, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had set something in motion, something beyond her control. The boy’s face with its strange pointed tooth lingered in her mind as she made her way home.

 That evening, Emma called her mother, hoping she might have some information about the mysterious Thornfield family. Thornfield, her mother repeated. No, I don’t recall Grandma ever mentioning that name. What’s this about, Emma? The Emma hesitated, suddenly reluctant to discuss the photograph over the phone. I found an old photograph in Grandma’s attic.

 It was labeled the Thornfield Children, 1900. I was just curious. Well, your grandmother had all sorts of old photographs and momentos. She was quite the collector of family history, you know. It might have been distant relatives or even friends of the family. Maybe, Emma said, unconvinced. There was another note on it, though. It said, “Never forget what happened.

 Does that mean anything to you?” There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to be noticeable. No, her mother said finally. Nothing comes to mind. Where is this photograph now? I’ve taken it to a restoration service. It’s quite damaged, and I thought it might be interesting to see it clearly. Another pause. I see.

 Well, let me know if you find out anything interesting. Her mother’s voice had taken on a strange quality. I should go now, dear. Your father and I are about to have dinner. After they hung up, Emma stared at her phone, puzzled. Her mother’s reaction had been odd, almost evasive.

 Did she know something about the Thornfield children? and if so, why would she be reluctant to discuss it? Emma returned to her laptop and began searching again, this time focusing on local historical records. She found a digitized archive of the town’s newspaper with issues dating back to the late 1800s. For hours, she scrolled through editions from 1900, scanning for any mention of the Thornfield name.

 Just as she was about to give up, a headline from October 1900 caught her eye. local family struck by tragedy. The article was brief, reporting the deaths of Thomas and Elellanar Thornfield in a housefire. They were survived by their three children who had escaped the blaze unharmed. Twins Lillian and Rose, age 8, and their younger brother Edward, age six. The children had been taken in by a maternal aunt.

 Emma stared at the screen, a chill running through her. The three children in the photograph, could they be Lillian, Rose, and Edward Thornfield? had her grandmother somehow been connected to this family that had lost their parents in a tragic fire. She searched for follow-up articles and found another from November of the same year.

 It reported that the Thornfield house had been completely destroyed and investigators had determined that the fire had been deliberately set. No suspects had been named, but the investigation was ongoing. Emma’s phone rang, startling her. It was Daniel Miller. Emma, I hope I’m not calling too late. No, it’s fine. Is everything all right? I’ve been working on your photograph, Daniel said, his voice tense.

 I think you should come back to the studio tomorrow. There’s something you need to see. Can’t you just tell me? There was a pause. It’s better if you see it for yourself. Can you come by around noon? Emma agreed, her curiosity and unease mounting. What had Daniel found in the restored photograph that he couldn’t discuss over the phone? Sleep eluded her that night.

 Emma lay awake, her mind racing with questions about the Thornfield children and their connection to her grandmother. When she finally did drift off, her dreams were once again filled with the three children. But this time, they stood amidst flames, their eyes reflecting the fire as they watched a house burn to the ground.

 The boy, Edward, smiled at her through the inferno, his pointed tooth gleaming in the fire light. The next day, Emma arrived at yesterday’s light precisely at noon. Daniel let her in immediately, his expression grave. Without a word, he led her to his workstation where the restored photograph was displayed on his monitor.

 “I finished the restoration last night,” he said. “The results were unexpected. The image on the screen was remarkably clear. The three children now vividly detailed against the backdrop of the Victorian parlor.” Emma could see the intricate patterns on the girl’s dresses, the texture of the boy’s sailor suit, even the subtle differences between the twin girls faces. But what caught her attention immediately was the boy’s mouth.

 The restoration had revealed that what Emma had initially thought was a single extra tooth was actually a partial row of smaller pointed teeth nestled behind his regular ones. They were only visible because he was smiling in a peculiar way, with his lips drawn back slightly too far.

 It was an unnerving sight, made more disturbing by the contrast with his otherwise angelic appearance. That’s not normal, Emma whispered. No, Daniel agreed. It’s not. And there’s more. He zoomed in on the girls faces, enhancing each in turn. With growing horror, Emma saw that each of the girls also had unusual dental features, though less pronounced than their brothers.

 One had teeth that seemed too large for her mouth, while the other had what appeared to be a double row at the back of her jaw. “What does this mean?” Emma asked, her voice barely audible. Daniel shook his head. “I don’t know, but when I saw this, I did some research on the Thornfield family. I found newspaper articles about a fire in 1900.

” “I found those, too,” Emma said. “The parents died and the children survived.” “Yes, but did you read the later investigations?” There were rumors, never officially confirmed, that the children might have been involved in setting the fire. Emma stared at him. That’s absurd. They were just kids, 8 and 6 years old. Yes. But the investigators found evidence that the parents had been incapacitated before the fire started.

 They had unusual wounds. What kind of wounds? Daniel hesitated. The reports weren’t specific, but there was a quote from one of the investigators saying he had never seen injuries of that nature before. He turned back to the screen. And then there’s this. He zoomed out from the children’s faces to show the entire photograph.

 In the restored image, Emma could now see details that had been obscured before. The parlor behind the children was elegant, but showed signs of disarray, as if a struggle had taken place. And on the floor, partly visible at the edge of the frame, was what appeared to be a dark stain. “Is that blood?” “It’s possible,” Daniel said.

This photograph was taken very close to the date of the fire, according to the newspaper articles. Emma felt sick. Are you suggesting that these children with their strange teeth somehow attacked their parents and then set the house on fire? I’m not suggesting anything, Daniel said carefully.

 I’m just showing you what the restoration revealed and asking why your grandmother had this photograph with the note. Never forget what happened. Emma sank into a chair, her mind reeling. I need to know more about these children. What happened to them after the fire? They were taken in by their aunt, a Margaret Thornton. Emma’s blood ran cold.

 What did you say? Margaret Thornton. She was their mother’s sister. My grandmother’s maiden name was Thornton. Emma whispered. Margaret Thornton Blackwood. They stared at each other in shocked silence. Finally, Daniel spoke. “Your grandmother was their aunt.” She raised these children. Emma nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place.

 That would explain why she had the photograph. But she never mentioned them. Never told any stories about raising her sister’s children. She paused. A new thought occurring to her. I need to find out what happened to them. Where they ended up. I can help with that. Daniel said, “Historical research is part of my job.

 With your grandmother’s name, we have a solid lead to follow.” For the next 2 days, Emma and Daniel delved into historical records, tracing the path of the Thornfield children after they went to live with Margaret Thornton. They discovered that Margaret had moved shortly after taking custody of the children, relocating to a small town nearly 50 mi away.

 There, according to school records, Lillian and Rose attended the local girl’s school, while Edward was educated at home. Educated at home? Emma repeated, reading the document. Why only Edward? Daniel shrugged. It wasn’t uncommon for boys to be educated differently than girls in that era.

 But it is interesting that the girls were allowed in public while he wasn’t. They found a marriage record for Lillian Thornfield from 1912, showing she had married a local banker named James Harrison. Rose appeared to have remained unmarried, living with Margaret until at least 1920, according to census records. But Edward’s trail was more difficult to follow.

 There were no marriage records, no census entries after the one from 1910 when he would have been 16 years old. It was as if he had vanished. People didn’t just disappear back then, Daniel said, frowning at his computer screen. Not without some record, a death certificate, a hospital admission, something. Unless they didn’t want to be found, Emma said quietly.

 Or unless someone else didn’t want them to be found. They expanded their search, looking for any mention of Edward Thornfield in newspapers, court records, or institutional admissions. Finally, they found a single entry in the records of Blackwater Asylum, dated 1912. Edward T, age 18, admitted for treatment of violent tendencies and abnormal fixations. Guardian M. Thornton.

 My grandmother committed him to an asylum. Emma whispered, “What happened to him there?” Further research revealed that Blackwater Asylum had been notorious for its harsh treatments and high mortality rate. It had eventually been shut down in 1925 after a series of scandals involving patient mistreatment.

 The records were incomplete with many having been destroyed in a fire in 1930. There was no discharge record for Edward, nor a death certificate. Another fire, Daniel noted grimly. That seems to follow the Thornfield family. As they continued their research, Emma received a call from her mother. “Emma, I’ve been thinking about that photograph you mentioned,” she said without preamble.

“I think you should stop looking into it.” Emma was taken aback by her mother’s tone. “Why? What do you know about it? Nothing specific, her mother said quickly. It’s just your grandmother had her reasons for keeping certain parts of her life private. I think we should respect that. Mom, I’ve already found out quite a bit. Grandma was Margaret Thornton before she married.

 She took in three children after her sister and brother-in-law died in a fire. Those children are in the photograph. There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Finally, her mother spoke, her voice barely audible. You need to be careful, Emma. Some things are better left in the past. What are you afraid of? Emma pressed. These events happened over a hundred years ago. It’s not that simple, her mother said.

 Just be careful and maybe don’t spend too much time with that photograph restoer. You don’t know him. After the call ended, Emma relayed the conversation to Daniel, who looked troubled. “Your mother seems genuinely concerned,” he said. “Maybe we should take a step back.” But Emma was too deeply invested now. I need to know what happened.

 These children were my relatives, and there’s clearly something unusual about them. Something my family has been hiding for generations. Daniel hesitated, then nodded. All right, but let’s be methodical about this. We still don’t know what happened to Edward after he was admitted to Blackwater, or what became of Rose.

 Lillian is the only one whose fate seems clear. She married and presumably led a normal life. Emma said, “Maybe we can trace her descendants. they would be my relatives, too. They found that Lillian and James Harrison had had two children, Margaret, born in 1914, and Thomas, born in 1916. Margaret had married a man named Richard Blackwood in 1935.

 Blackwood, Daniel repeated, “Isn’t that your last name?” Emma nodded slowly, the implications dawning on her. “My grandfather’s name was Richard Blackwood, which means Lillian Thornfield was your great-g grandandmother.” Daniel finished. Emma sat back, stunned. So, the girl in the photograph, the one with the oversized teeth, was my great-g grandandmother, and my grandmother wasn’t their aunt.

She was Lillian’s daughter. That explains why she had the photograph, but not why she wrote, “Never forget what happened on it, or why she never spoke of this history.” Emma rubbed her temples, trying to process this new information. We’re still missing pieces.

 What happened to Edward and Rose and what was so terrible that my family has hidden it for generations? They decided to focus on finding out what had become of Edward after his admission to Blackwater Asylum. The asylum records were fragmentaryary, but they did manage to locate a physician’s note from 1915. Patient ET continues to exhibit unusual dental abnormalities and associated behaviors.

 Recommended for special containment. Special containment, Emma repeated. What does that mean? Nothing good in an asylum from that era, Daniel said grimly. especially one with Blackwater’s reputation. They found one more reference to Edward in a staff log from 1918. Incident with ET. Three orderlys injured.

 Patient relocated to secure facility. After that, there was nothing. No further mentions of Edward in any records they could access. It’s like he vanished, Emma said frustrated. Could he have escaped from a secure facility in 1918? Unlikely, but not impossible, Daniel admitted.

 The more pressing question is, what was his condition that led to orderlys being injured? Emma thought back to the restored photograph to the row of pointed teeth hiding behind Edward’s normal ones. Whatever was wrong with his teeth, could it have been some kind of genetic condition? Something that affected behavior, too? Daniel nodded slowly. It’s possible.

 There are rare genetic disorders that can affect both dental development and neurological function, but nothing I’ve ever heard of that matches this specific presentation. They turned their attention to Rose, the other twin. After 1920, she also seemed to disappear from official records. No marriage certificate, no death certificate, no census entries.

 It was as if both she and Edward had been erased from history. People don’t just vanish, Emma insisted. Especially not two people from the same family, unless someone wanted them to vanish, Daniel said quietly. Your grandmother, or rather their niece, Margaret, seems to have gone to great lengths to distance herself from her family history.

 She changed her story, claiming to be their aunt rather than their daughter. She never spoke of them. Why? That evening, Emma returned to her grandmother’s house, determined to search more thoroughly through the attic. The box labeled Margaret’s belongings had contained the photograph album, but there might be other clues hidden among her grandmother’s possessions.

 As she climbed the narrow stairs to the attic, Emma felt a growing sense of unease. The house seemed to hold its breath as she entered the dusty space. The last light of day casting long shadows through the small window. For hours, Emma sifted through boxes and trunks, finding little of interest beyond old clothing, household items, and faded correspondence about mundane matters.

 Just as she was about to give up, her hand brushed against something hidden beneath the floorboards in a corner of the attic, a small metal box. The box was locked, but the aged metal gave way easily when Emma applied pressure to the lid. Inside was a leather-bound journal, its pages yellowed with age, and a small cloth pouch.

 Emma opened the journal first, recognizing her grandmother’s handwriting, though younger and less steady than she remembered. The first entry was dated September 1930. Mother is gone. I am now the keeper of our family’s terrible secret. I have moved the remaining evidence to a secure location where I pray it will never be found. Edward has not been seen for 12 years, but I fear he is not truly gone.

 Rose’s disappearance last month confirms my worst suspicions. It is beginning again. Emma’s hands trembled as she read. The entry was cryptic, revealing little concrete information, but the tone of fear was unmistakable. She turned to the next page. I have decided to burn the family home. Too many memories, too much blood soaked into those floors.

 The official story will be faulty wiring. No one will look too closely. The house is old and isolated. What remains of the collection will be destroyed with it. All except the photograph, which I keep as a reminder of what we are fighting against. Never forget what happened. Emma continued reading, her horror growing with each entry.

 Her grandmother described a family condition that manifested in certain members of each generation characterized by dental abnormalities and what she referred to as the hunger. She wrote of her brother Thomas, who had shown signs of the condition as a child but had died of influenza in 1928, perhaps a blessing in disguise. The entries became more sporadic after 1935 when Margaret married Richard Blackwood.

She wrote of her constant fear that her children might inherit the condition. her vigilance in checking their teeth as they grew. Her relief when they appeared normal. The final entry was dated 1960, 30 years since mother died, and I believed the curse had ended with Thomas’s death. I was wrong.

 Last night I saw him, Edward, watching the house from the edge of the woods. He hasn’t aged a day since they took him away in 1918. The hunger has preserved him just as it did Rose before she vanished. I have reinforced the locks. Bless the thresholds as mother taught me.

 Richard thinks I am becoming paranoid in my old age. If only he knew. I must protect my children, my grandchildren. The hunger must end with my generation. Emma closed the journal, her mind reeling. The implication was clear. Her grandmother had believed that Edward was still alive decades after his disappearance, somehow preserved by whatever condition had given him those strange teeth. It was fantastical, impossible.

 And yet the fear in her grandmother’s words was palpable and sincere. With shaking hands, Emma opened the cloth pouch that had been stored with the journal. Inside was a single tooth, yellowed with age, but unmistakably similar to the pointed ones visible in the restored photograph of Edward.

 It was larger than a normal human tooth, curved like a small fang with an unusual serrated edge. Emma nearly dropped it, revulsion washing over her. Had her grandmother kept this as evidence of the family condition she so feared. She rewrapped the tooth carefully and placed it back in the metal box along with the journal.

 Whatever madness had afflicted her grandmother, Emma was determined to understand it fully now. She called Daniel immediately, describing her discovery. He listened in silence, and when she had finished, he said simply, “Bring the journal to the studio tomorrow and the tooth.” That night, Emma dreamed of Edward Thornfield again.

 He stood at the foot of her bed, his childish face unchanged despite the decades that should have aged him. His mouth opening to reveal row upon row of sharp teeth. “Family,” he whispered, reaching for her with pale hands. “Blood calls to blood.” Emma awoke with a cry, the first light of dawn breaking through her window.

 For a moment, she thought she saw a small figure at the edge of her vision, but when she turned, there was nothing there, just shadows and the lingering unease of her nightmare. At yesterday’s light, Daniel examined the tooth with professional interest, using a magnifying glass to study its unusual structure. “This isn’t human,” he said finally. “At least not entirely.

 The morphology is all wrong. It’s like a hybrid between a human canine and something else. Something carnivorous.” “That’s impossible,” Emma said. But her conviction was wavering. The journal entries, the strange disappearances, the fires that seemed to follow the family, it all painted a picture too bizarre to be coincidence, too detailed to be mere paranoia.

 “What if,” Daniel said carefully, “what if your grandmother wasn’t delusional? What if there really was something unusual about this branch of your family?” Emma shook her head. “You’re talking about some kind of what? Monsters? People don’t just grow extra rows of teeth and live for decades without aging? No, they don’t,” Daniel agreed. “But historical records are full of anomalies, things that don’t fit our understanding of the natural world.

 Most are hoaxes or misinterpretations, but some,” he trailed off, his expression troubled. “Some are true.” Emma finished quietly. They spent the rest of the day reading through the journal in detail, noting every reference to the family condition and its manifestations.

 Margaret had recorded her observations meticulously, the dental abnormalities that appeared around age 5 or six, the increasing hunger that followed, the behavioral changes, increased aggression, unusual strength, sensitivity to light. She had also documented what she knew of Edward and Rose’s history after they had officially vanished from records.

 According to Margaret, Edward had escaped from Blackwater Asylum in 1918 during a chaotic night when many patients had revolted against the staff. He had lived in isolation for years, occasionally making contact with Rose, who had exhibited similar traits, though to a lesser degree. Rose had married briefly in the 1920s, a union not recorded in official documents due to her husband’s own outcast status as a carnival worker.

 She had given birth to a child who had died in infancy, reportedly showing advanced dental development similar to Edwards. The journal suggested that Rose had eventually joined Edward in his isolated existence. Both of them subsisting on what Margaret euphemistically called unconventional means.

 The entries became increasingly disturbed as Margaret described her belief that Edward and Rose were hunting human prey in isolated rural areas. Their unusual teeth and heightened physical abilities making them efficient predators. This is the stuff of horror novels,” Emma said, pushing the journal away. “My grandmother must have been mentally ill. This can’t possibly be true.

” Daniel didn’t respond immediately, his gaze fixed on the restored photograph displayed on his monitor. “The camera doesn’t lie, Emma. Whatever these children were, their physical abnormalities were real. Your grandmother kept this tooth, this journal, for a reason.

 She believed she was protecting future generations from a hereditary condition, a curse, as she called it. Even if the dental abnormalities were real, the rest of it, the hunger, the longevity, the hunting, that has to be paranoid delusion. Perhaps, Daniel conceded. But consider this. What if the condition was real, but more mundane than Margaret believed? Some rare genetic disorder that affected dental development and perhaps caused pika or other unusual appetites.

 Her generation might have interpreted these symptoms through a lens of superstition, seeing something supernatural where there was simply an unknown medical condition. Emma latched on to this explanation gratefully. That makes much more sense. And the incidents, the fires, those could have been accidents later reimagined as something more sinister or even deliberate acts by people with untreated mental illness associated with this genetic condition. Daniel nodded.

 It’s a plausible explanation, but it doesn’t address everything. The disappearances, the lack of aging, Margaret reported. Misidentification, Emma said firmly. She saw someone who resembled Edward and convinced herself it was him unchanged. The mind sees what it expects to see, especially when primed by fear and superstition.

 “You’re probably right,” Daniel said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “In any case, you’ve solved the mystery of the photograph. You know who these children were and why your grandmother kept the image all these years? Emma nodded, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were still missing something important.

 I want to know what happened to Edward and Rose after my grandmother’s last journal entry. If they were real people with a medical condition, not supernatural creatures. They must have left some trace. They resumed their research, focusing on unsolved disappearances and unusual deaths in the region surrounding Emma’s grandmother’s house from the 1960s onward. The patterns they found were disturbing.

Every few years, hikers or isolated rural residents would vanish without explanation. Most cases remained unsolved, though occasionally remains would be found, showing evidence of what investigators described as animal attacks. It proves nothing, Emma insisted.

 Rural areas always have occasional disappearances and animal attacks. At this frequency, in this specific pattern, Daniel questioned. and always within a 30-mi radius of your grandmother’s property. Emma had no answer. The implications were too disturbing to contemplate. That night, as Emma prepared to leave the studio, Daniel asked her a question that had clearly been on his mind. The journal mentions that the condition appears around age 5 or 6.

 Your grandmother was vigilant about checking her children as they grew. What about you, Emma, and your parents? Emma stared at him. Are you seriously asking if I have hidden teeth like Edwards? I think I would have noticed. Not necessarily, Daniel said quietly. The journal suggests the extra teeth only become visible when the hunger is active.

 Otherwise, they remain recessed behind the normal dental arch. This is absurd, Emma said, her anger rising. I’m leaving now. I’m sorry, Daniel said quickly. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just this has gone beyond an interesting historical mystery.

 If there’s any truth to your grandmother’s fears, if this condition is genetic and still in your family line, it’s not. Emma snapped. My teeth are perfectly normal, as are my parents. This was a century ago, Daniel. Whatever rare genetic condition affected those children, it’s been bred out of our line. She left the studio, her mind churning with conflicting emotions.

 Part of her wanted to dismiss the entire investigation as an elaborate fantasy built around a rare medical condition and her grandmother’s superstitious fears, but another part couldn’t ignore the patterns they had uncovered, the consistency of the accounts, the physical evidence of the tooth and the photograph.

 At home, Emma found herself standing before her bathroom mirror, examining her teeth with a critical eye. They looked entirely normal, straight, white, ordinary, no hidden rows, no unusual shapes. She was being ridiculous, letting her grandmother’s journal infect her with the same paranoia.

 As she turned away from the mirror, a sudden pain shot through her jaw, sharp, intense, gone as quickly as it had come. Emma froze, then slowly turned back to the mirror, pulling her upper lip back to examine her gums. Had there been movement there? A slight shifting beneath the surface of her gum line. She leaned closer, heart pounding. Nothing, just ordinary gums, ordinary teeth.

 The pain had probably been psychosmatic, her mind playing tricks after hours spent reading about dental abnormalities. Emma slept poorly that night, her dreams filled with running figures and nashing teeth. She awoke to the taste of blood in her mouth, realizing she had bitten her lip in her sleep. The small wound stung as she rinsed her mouth out. The water in the sink tinged pink.

 Over the next few days, Emma continued her research with Daniel. Though she said nothing about the momentary pain in her jaw or her disturbed sleep, they focused on tracing any living descendants of the Thornfield line besides Emma and her immediate family.

 They discovered that Thomas Blackwood, Margaret’s brother and Lilian Thornfield’s son, had indeed died young of influenza, but not before fathering an illegitimate child with a local woman. The child, a boy named Samuel, had been raised by his mother and had later moved to a city hundreds of miles away, seemingly breaking the geographic connection to the family’s troubled history. So, there could be other descendants out there,” Daniel mused.

“People carrying the Thornfield genes who have no idea about their family history. If the condition is real and genetic, wouldn’t it have manifested in them?” Emma asked. “Not necessarily. Many genetic conditions skip generations or require specific triggers.

 And if it appeared, they might have rationalized it or sought medical treatment without ever connecting it to a family curse. As they continued their research, Emma experienced more episodes of jaw pain, each more intense than the last. She found herself increasingly hungry, yet dissatisfied with regular food. Her sleep was disturbed by vivid dreams of hunting, of running through forests with heightened senses, tracking prey with unairring precision.

 One morning, Emma awoke to find small, bloody scratches on her pillow, as if she had been clawing at it in her sleep. When she brushed her teeth, she noticed that her gums were swollen in places, tender to the touch. She told herself it was just stress, perhaps the beginning of a dental infection that would require a simple trip to the dentist. But deep down, a terrible suspicion was growing.

 When she arrived at yesterday’s light that day, Daniel looked at her with concern. “Are you feeling all right? You look pale.” “I’m fine,” Emma said automatically. “Just not sleeping well.” They had planned to visit a local historical society that day, hoping to find more information about Blackwater Asylum and its notorious practices.

 As they drove, Emma found herself increasingly distracted by small sounds and smells. the rhythm of Daniel’s heartbeat, the scent of his skin that she shouldn’t have been able to detect. At the historical society housed in an old Victorian building downtown, they were greeted by an elderly archivist who seemed delighted by their interest in local history. Blackwater Asylum, she repeated when they explained their research. Oh my, that takes me back.

 My grandfather used to tell the most frightful stories about that place. He worked there as a groundskeeper in the early 1920s. Emma and Daniel exchanged a look. Would any of his accounts have been recorded? Daniel asked. We’re particularly interested in a patient who might have been there around 1918. A young man with unusual dental features.

The archivist’s expression changed subtly. You must mean the Thornfield boy. Edward, wasn’t it? Emma felt a chill run down her spine. You know about him? Only from stories. My grandfather said he was kept in a special reinforced cell in the basement level. The staff were terrified of him.

 There were rumors that he had killed and partially consumed several people before being committed, including his own parents. “That contradicts the official record,” Daniel said. His parents died in a house fire. The archivist nodded. “Official records can be adjusted to avoid scandal, especially for wealthy families, which I believe the Thornfields were.

” My grandfather said the boy escaped during the patient uprising of 1918. Several staff members were found afterward with their throats torn out. Not the sort of detail that makes it into official reports. Emma felt sick. This was no longer a vague family legend or her grandmother’s paranoid ramblings.

 This was corroborating testimony from an independent source. Did your grandfather mention what happened to Edward after his escape? She asked, her voice barely steady. The archavist hesitated. There were stories for years afterward. Disappearances in the woods, livestock found mutilated. Some said he lived in the caves in the North Hills.

 Others said he joined a traveling carnival where his condition could be disguised as a performance. My grandfather believed he eventually found his sister. They were both afflicted, though the girl less severely, and they lived as recluses somewhere in the wilderness. After they left the historical society, Emma and Daniel sat in the car in silence, processing what they had learned. “It matches the journal,” Daniel said finally. “Too closely to be coincidence.

” Emma nodded, her mouth dry. The pain in her jaw had returned stronger than before, accompanied by a hunger that seemed to claw at her insides. “I need to go home,” she said abruptly. “I’m not feeling well,” Daniel looked at her with concern. “Let me drive you. You don’t look good.” “No,” Emma said too quickly.

 “I mean, I’ll be fine. I just need rest.” She could feel him watching her as she walked to her own car, his suspicion almost palpable. Did he know? Could he somehow sense the changes she was experiencing? At home, Emma went straight to the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Her face in the mirror looked drawn, her eyes feverish.

 Slowly, fear mounting in her chest, she pulled her upper lip back to examine her gums. There, just visible beneath the inflamed tissue, was the tip of something white and sharp, pushing its way through beside her canine tooth. Emma bit back a scream, releasing her lip as if burned. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be real. And yet, the evidence was there, undeniable.

 The family condition, the curse, whatever it was, it had lain dormant in her genetic code, perhaps triggered by her contact with the photograph, by her immersion in the family history, by some unknown factor that had awakened what should have remained forever sleeping. With trembling hands, she called her mother. “I need to talk to you,” she said as soon as her mother answered.

 about the Thornfield children, about the family condition. There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then her mother’s voice, frighteningly calm. Where are you now? At home, “Mom, something’s happening to me. My teeth. Listen carefully.” Her mother interrupted. Don’t tell anyone. Don’t see anyone. I’m coming over right now.

There are ways to manage this, Emma. Treatments that weren’t available in your grandmother’s time. We can help you. The call ended, leaving Emma staring at her phone in shock. Her mother knew. She had known all along about the condition, had perhaps even experienced it herself, and there were treatments, ways to manage what was happening to her.

 For the next hour, Emma paced her house, alternating between examining her teeth in every reflective surface and trying to distract herself with mindless tasks. The hunger was growing, annoying emptiness that ordinary food couldn’t satisfy. She found herself standing at the refrigerator. door open, staring at raw meat with an intensity that frightened her. When the doorbell rang, Emma nearly jumped out of her skin.

 It was too soon to be her mother, who lived over an hour away. She approached the door cautiously, peering through the peepphole to see Daniel standing on her porch, his expression concerned. Emma hesitated. She shouldn’t let him in. Not in her current state, with the hunger growing and the pain in her jaw intensifying.

 But she needed human contact. Reassurance that she wasn’t losing her mind. She opened the door a crack. Daniel, “This isn’t a good time. I was worried about you,” he said. “You left so suddenly, and you seemed ill. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” “I’m fine,” Emma said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

 “Just a migraine. My mother is coming over soon.” Daniel studied her face. “You don’t look fine, Emma. You look like you’re in pain. Let me help you.” Before she could protest, he had pushed the door open wider and stepped inside. Emma backed away, suddenly acutely aware of his scent, the sound of blood pulsing through his veins.

 The hunger surged, and with it, a sharp tearing sensation in her gums. “You need to leave,” she gasped, turning away from him, covering her mouth with her hand. Now, instead of retreating, Daniel moved closer, his voice gentle but firm. Emma, I know what’s happening to you. I’ve known since I saw the restored photograph. The condition, the hunger.

 I’ve seen it before. Emma stared at him momentarily, forgetting the pain. What are you talking about? I specialize in restoring photographs for a reason. Daniel said, “Some images reveal truths that have been hidden for generations. Dental anomalies like the ones in your family appear in historical photographs across cultures throughout history.

 They’re rare, but they exist and they can be managed. You know about this, about what’s happening to me? Emma’s voice cracked with desperate hope. Daniel nodded. The condition has many names in different cultures. Some call it odontoorphosis, others the hunger teeth.

 It’s a genetic mutation that affects dental development and metabolism. In the past, it was interpreted through a lens of superstition, vampirism, wendigo psychosis, possession. Today we understand it as a medical condition. Emma’s relief was tempered by suspicion. How do you know all this? Why didn’t you tell me? Because I didn’t want to frighten you until I was sure, Daniel said. And because my own family history intersects with conditions like these.

My great-grandfather was a physician who studied unusual genetic disorders. He kept detailed records of cases like Edwards. Before Emma could respond, there was another knock at the door. More insistent, almost frantic. Her mother had arrived. When Emma opened the door, her mother rushed in, then stopped short at the sight of Daniel.

 “Who is this?” she demanded. “You were supposed to be alone.” “This is Daniel Miller, the photograph restorer I told you about,” Emma said. And apparently, he knows about our family condition. Her mother’s face went pale. You told him? He figured it out on his own. From the photograph, from our research.

 Mom, why didn’t you tell me this could happen to me? Her mother sank onto the couch, suddenly looking much older. We thought it had died out. Your grandmother was so careful, monitoring everyone in the family. When you showed no signs by your sixth birthday, we believed you were safe. The condition always manifested in early childhood before.

 Until now, Emma said bitterly, wincing as another wave of pain shot through her jaw. It can be triggered later in life by various factors, Daniel interjected. stress, hormonal changes, even close contact with physical remnants of affected family members like the tooth you found.” Emma’s mother looked at him sharply.

 “How do you know so much about this?” As I was telling Emma, “My family has a history with unusual genetic disorders. My great-grandfather studied cases like Edwards, and I’ve continued the research in my own way. That’s why I specialize in restoring historical photographs. They sometimes reveal conditions that were hidden or misunderstood. And you believe you can help my daughter. Her tone was skeptical, protective.

 I believe I can connect her with people who can help, Daniel said. There’s a network, medical professionals, researchers, others with the condition who’ve learned to manage it. It’s not a curse, Mrs. Blackwood. It’s a medical condition with physiological and psychological components that can be treated. Emma’s mother shook her head.

 We tried that approach with my cousin Samuel. Doctors, specialists, nothing worked. In the end, he couldn’t control the hunger. He’s been institutionalized for the past 20 years. Samuel? Emma interrupted. Thomas Blackwood’s illegitimate son. You know him? Her mother nodded.

 We kept track of that branch of the family, just as your grandmother taught us. Samuel developed the condition in his 30s. It was severe, like Edwards had been. He hurt people, Emma. That’s why we were so vigilant with you. Why we were so relieved when you seemed to be spared. The implications washed over Emma like ice water.

 Her family had been monitoring her her entire life, watching for signs of a condition they had never bothered to warn her about. And now that it had manifested, her mother had treatments in mind that apparently hadn’t worked for her cousin. “What exactly did you plan to do when you got here?” Emma asked her mother. A new suspicion forming. What kind of management did you have in mind? Her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes.

 There are medications that can help with the hunger, and if necessary, facilities where you would be safe, where I would be contained, Emma finished, horror dawning. Like Edward at Blackwater, like Samuel. It would be nothing like that, her mother insisted. Modern facilities, medical care, imprisonment, Emma said flatly. The pain in her jaw was constant now, but the fear of what her mother was suggesting overshadowed it.

 She turned to Daniel. You mentioned people who managed the condition on their own. How? Daniel hesitated, glancing at Emma’s mother. It’s a combination of approaches. Dietary management is primary specific proteins and supplements that satisfy the hunger without traditional sources.

 There are also medications that moderate the growth of the supplementary dentition and control the associated neurological changes and psychological techniques to manage the hunting instincts. And this works, Emma pressed. People with the condition live normal lives, relatively normal, yes.

 With monitoring and careful management, Emma’s mother stood up, her expression hardening. You can’t trust him, Emma. We don’t know who he is or what he wants. Our family has managed this condition for generations. We know what works and what doesn’t. Containment works, Emma said bitterly. That’s what you know.

 Locking away anyone who shows signs of the condition, pretending they don’t exist, keeping the rest of us in ignorance until it’s too late. The argument might have escalated further. But Emma was suddenly overcome by a wave of pain so intense that she collapsed to her knees, clutching her jaw. She felt something tear inside her mouth, the taste of blood flooding her tongue. When she looked up, both her mother and Daniel were staring at her in horror.

Emma knew without seeing that the supplementary teeth had broken through her gums. She could feel them with her tongue, sharp, pointed, wrong. The hunger roared through her, more powerful than any need she had ever known. Daniel moved first, kneeling beside her. “Emma, listen to me. You can control this. Focus on my voice. The first emergence is the hardest, but it will stabilize.

” Her mother was fumbling in her purse, withdrawing a small case. I brought emergency medication. It will sedate her until we can get her to a facility. “No!” Emma’s voice was distorted by her altered mouth. But the refusal was clear.

 She backed away from her mother, the hunger urging her toward the door, toward the woods beyond her property, toward freedom and prey. Daniel stepped between them. “Give her a choice. The condition doesn’t have to control her life. You don’t understand what she’s becoming,” her mother said, her voice breaking. What Edward became, what Samuel became. “There’s a reason our family considers this a curse.

” Emma was barely following their argument now, her consciousness narrowing to the hunger and the need to satisfy it. She moved toward the door, her movements fluid and predatory. Daniel caught her arm. “Emma, wait. If you leave now, like this, you might hurt someone. Let me help you.” The touch of his hand sent conflicting impulses through her.

 The hunger seeing prey, but something deeper recognizing an ally. Emma hesitated, torn between flight and trust. I can’t, she began, then doubled over as another wave of pain hit her. When she straightened, her decision was made. Show me how to control this. Not containment control. Her mother was weeping now. Emma, please. You don’t know what you’re risking.

 I know what you’re asking me to give up,” Emma replied. “My freedom, my life, I won’t do it. Not without trying Daniel’s way first.” The next few hours were a blur of pain and hunger as Emma’s transformation progressed. Daniel had called colleagues, a physician who specialized in rare genetic disorders, and a nutritionist who arrived with supplements designed to satisfy the specific cravings of her condition.

 They worked together to stabilize her, to help her through the worst of the emergence while her mother watched with a mixture of fear and resignation. By dawn, Emma had passed through the critical phase. The supplementary teeth had fully emerged, visible now only when she consciously extended them, receding behind her normal dentition when at rest.

 The hunger had been temporarily sated by the supplements, though they warned her it would return and would need careful management. As the medical professionals prepared to leave, making arrangements for ongoing care and monitoring, Emma confronted her mother. Why did you hide this from me? All these years knowing it could happen. Her mother looked exhausted, defeated.

 We thought we were protecting you. The condition destroyed so many lives in our family. Edward Rose, Samuel, we wanted a different future for you, one without the burden of knowing what might lie dormant in your blood. Knowledge isn’t a burden, Emma said. Ignorance is. If I had known, I might have been prepared.

 I wouldn’t have triggered it by delving into our family history blindly. Perhaps you’re right, her mother admitted. But you need to understand this condition has torn our family apart for generations. Your grandmother lived in fear her entire life, watching for signs in her children, in her grandchildren.

She burned the family home, destroyed records, did everything she could to break the curse, and still it persisted. It’s not a curse, Emma insisted. It’s a condition, one I can learn to live with. Her mother didn’t look convinced, but she nodded slowly. I hope you’re right.

 For your sake, I hope Daniel’s approach works where others have failed. As her mother prepared to leave, she paused at the door. There’s something else you should know. The journal you found. There were others. Your grandmother burned most of them, but I saved a few. They’re in a safety deposit box in town.

 They contain more information about the condition, about Edward and Rose, about what really happened to them after they disappeared from official records. “Will you show me?” Emma asked. Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, you have a right to know your full history now.” “But Emma, be careful. Knowledge is power, but it’s also responsibility.

 Whatever you learn, remember that you have choices Edward and Rose didn’t have. You don’t have to become what they became.” In the weeks that followed, Emma learned to navigate her new reality. With Daniel’s help and the support of others with the condition, a small secretive community spread across the country. She developed strategies to manage the hunger and the physiological changes.

 She learned that the condition gave her heightened senses, unusual strength, and accelerated healing, but also brought with it the constant challenge of controlling primal urges that threatened to overwhelm her humanity. She read her grandmother’s surviving journals, learning the full terrible truth of what had happened to Edward and Rose.

 After their escape from conventional society, they had indeed lived as predators, giving in fully to the hunger, becoming the monsters of local legend. They had survived for decades, far longer than normal human lifespans. Their condition seemingly granting them extended life as long as they fed the hunger regularly.

 According to her grandmother’s final journal, Edward had eventually been hunted down by a group of men from surrounding communities in the winter of 1972 after a series of particularly brutal attacks. He had been shot multiple times and his body burned.

 Rose had disappeared after her brother’s death, but there were rumors she had joined a nomadic group of others with the condition, living on the fringes of society in the wilderness areas of Canada. The journals painted a grim picture of what Emma might become if she surrendered to the hunger completely. But they also revealed something her grandmother had never fully acknowledged. That Edward and Rose had made choices.

 They had embraced their condition, refused to seek help or control, chosen the path of least resistance by giving into their primal urges rather than fighting to retain their humanity. 6 months after the emergence of her condition, Emma stood with Daniel in his studio, examining the restored photograph of the Thornfield children.

 The three solemn faces stared back at her, their secrets now laid bare. Edward’s extra teeth, once a mysterious detail in an old photograph, now represented a genetic legacy Emma carried in her own body. “Do you ever regret restoring it?” she asked Daniel. “If you hadn’t, I might never have triggered the condition.

 It might have emerged anyway later, triggered by something else,” Daniel said. “And you would have faced it without understanding, without knowledge of your family history,” Emma nodded, tracing the frame of the photograph with her finger. “Knowledge is power,” she murmured, echoing her mother’s words. “And choice,” Daniel added. Edward and Rose didn’t understand what was happening to them.

 “They lived in an era of superstition and fear when their condition was seen as a curse or a sign of evil. They became what everyone expected them to become. But I don’t have to,” Emma said, meeting his eyes. “I can choose a different path.” She had already begun that choice, working with researchers interested in the genetic basis of her condition, helping to identify others who might carry the dormant genes, offering support and guidance to those experiencing emergence. The network Daniel had introduced her to was expanding, bringing the condition out of the

shadows of superstition and into the light of scientific understanding. There would always be challenges. the hunger that needed constant management, the secrecy required to protect herself from those who would still see her as a monster, the vigilance necessary to maintain control.

 But Emma was determined not to repeat the mistakes of her ancestors, not to surrender to the darkness that had consumed Edward and Rose. As she prepared to leave the studio that day, Emma took one last look at the photograph. The three children, frozen in time, products of their era and its limitations, would remain a reminder of what she might have become in a different time under different circumstances, but also a reminder of her connection to a family history longer and stranger than she had ever imagined. “I’m keeping the photograph,” she told Daniel. “Not to remember what happened as my grandmother intended, but

to remember what doesn’t have to happen. The story doesn’t have to end the same way.” Daniel smiled. Every photograph tells a story, Emma. But the story isn’t fixed in time like the image. It continues to evolve with each new generation, each new understanding.

 Emma nodded, feeling the weight of her family’s past and the potential of her own future. The hunger would always be part of her now. The extra teeth, a physical reminder of her difference. But they didn’t define her. The restoration of a century old photograph had revealed more than just an extra tooth. It had uncovered a truth long buried.

 and in doing so had given Emma the chance to write a new chapter in the Thornfield legacy as she stepped out into the sunlight. Emma felt the familiar stirring of the hunger deep within her. But now it was a known quantity, a challenge to be met rather than a curse to be feared. She had made her choice. The hunger would not consume her as it had consumed Edward.

 The story of the Thornfield children would not be her story. She would create her own. And somewhere across the vast distance of time, she imagined her grandmother nodding in approval. Her greatest fear finally laid to rest. The curse was broken, not through denial or containment, but through knowledge and choice. The third child’s extra tooth had revealed a truth that had been hidden for generations, and in that revelation had finally set her family