In the soft glow of dawn, the town of Blackwood awakens to the rhythm of horse hooves and carriage wheels. The year is 1906, and progress marches forward like the steady tick of the town’s grand clock tower. This quiet New England settlement, with its cobblestone streets and Victorian architecture,

remains largely untouched by the rapid industrialization sweeping across America’s major cities.
The morning fog lingers between the maple trees that line Main Street, where shopkeepers unlock their doors and housewives hang laundry on clothes lines that stretch between backyard apple trees. Blackwood was founded in 1767, and many of its oldest families can trace their lineage back to the

original settlers.
It’s a place where tradition holds strong, where modern innovations like the telephone and electric lighting are viewed with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. The town hall with its white columns and copper dome now turned green with age stands as a testament to the community’s enduring values.

Order, propriety, and above all normaly. In Blackwood, everyone knows everyone else’s business.
Secrets are rare and fleeting things whispered behind gloved hands at church socials or during afternoon tea. Strange occurrences are rationalized away, attributed to natural causes or overactive imaginations. The town’s folk prefer it this way. The comfort of the explainable, the safety of the

known.
Our story begins at the residence of the Caldwell family, a stately home at the edge of town, where sunlight filters through lace curtains, casting intricate patterns on polished hardwood floors. Edward Caldwell, a respected physician with a flourishing practice, and his wife Elellaner, known for

her charitable work with the parish, are blessed with twin daughters who have just celebrated their sixth birthday.
The Caldwell Home stands as one of the finest in Blackwood, a three-story Victorian masterpiece with a wraparound porch and gabled roof. The property is surrounded by a rod iron fence and meticulously maintained gardens that burst with color from spring through fall.

Inside, the rooms are furnished with the finest pieces, chippendale chairs, oriental rugs imported from distant lands, and oil paintings in gilded frames that depict pastoral scenes and distinguished ancestors. Dr. Caldwell is 42 years old, a graduate of Harvard Medical School, who returned to his

hometown to establish his practice. His patients range from the wealthiest families to the poorest mill workers, all of whom receive the same level of care and attention, with his silver streaked dark hair and wire- rimmed spectacles.
He presents an image of authority tempered with compassion. His hands always immaculately clean with neatly trimmed nails. Have delivered babies, set broken bones, and comforted the dying with equal skill. Eleanor Caldwell Nay Barrett comes from old Boston money, though one would never know it from

her modest demeanor.
At 38, she retains the graceful beauty of her youth with chestnut hair always arranged in a perfect Gibson girl style and eyes the color of polished amber. She serves on numerous committees, the ladies aid society, the library fund, the children’s hospital board, but her true passion is her family,

particularly her daughters, who came as a blessing after years of childlessness had led the couple to abandon hope of parenthood.
Abigail and Elizabeth Caldwell, identical in appearance down to the last freckle, are the pride of their parents and the darlings of Blackwood. With their matching pinn dresses and ribbons in their golden hair, they are a vision of childhood innocence. Yet, those who spend time with the girls begin

to notice subtle differences.
Abigail is outgoing and cheerful, while Elizabeth is reserved, preferring the company of her dolls to that of other children. Born on April 15th, 1900, the twins arrived in the world within minutes of each other. Abigail first, followed by Elizabeth 7 minutes later. From infancy, they were the

subject of fascination in Blackwood, as twins were considered somewhat of a rarity and a blessing.
As they grew, their identical appearance caused endless confusion among neighbors and shopkeepers. Only their parents and Mrs. Finch, their devoted nurse, who had been with them since birth, could unfailingly tell them apart. Abigail, the firstborn, embodies sunshine and spontaneity.

Her laughter comes easily and often, bubbling up like water from a spring. She loves to run in the gardens, collecting flowers and interesting stones, returning home with dirt under her fingernails and burrs in her stockings, much to her mother’s chagrin. Her favorite possession is a kaleidoscope,

a gift from her father on her fth birthday, through which she delights in viewing the world transformed into patterns of colored light. Elizabeth, by contrast, is a creature of shadow and contemplation.
While not unhappy, she seems to exist in a world slightly adjacent to everyone else’s, observing rather than participating. She speaks less frequently than her sister, but with a vocabulary and insight that sometimes startles adults.
Her favorite spot is the window seat in the nursery, where she can watch the changing sky and the comingings and goings on the street below. Her most treasured possession is a porcelain doll with painted blue eyes and real human hair. A gift from a great aunt she has never met. Today is a special

occasion. The Caldwells have commissioned Mr. Thomas Sullivan, a photographer who has recently established his studio in town after relocating from Boston to capture the likeness of their precious daughters.
Photography, though no longer a novelty in 1906, remains a significant event, especially for family portraits intended to be displayed proudly in the parlor and shared with distant relatives. Sullivan’s photography studio opened its doors on Main Street just 3 months ago, occupying the ground floor

of a handsome brick building between Harrington’s Pharmacy and Wallace’s Bookshop.
The studio’s large front windows display examples of Sullivan’s work, portraits of local dignitaries, wedding photographs, and carefully composed family groups, all executed with technical precision and artistic sensitivity that has quickly earned him a reputation as the finest photographer in the

county.
Thomas Sullivan himself is a man of 45 years with a trim beard peppered with gray and eyes that seem to evaluate everything in terms of light and composition. He came to photography through a ciruitous route, having first studied painting in Paris in his youth before discovering that the camera

could capture nuances that had always eluded his brush.
He returned to America in 1889 and spent years perfecting his craft in Boston before seeking the quieter pace of small town life. Sullivan’s assistant, William Hayes, is a young man of 20 who dreams of becoming a photographer in his own right. The son of a local carpenter, William first entered

Sullivan’s studio out of curiosity and stayed out of fascination with the chemical processes that transform light into permanent images.
Sullivan recognized the boy’s natural aptitude and offered him an apprenticeship, an arrangement that has proven beneficial to them both. The commission from the Caldwells is significant, not merely for the financial compensation, but for the social connections it might foster. Dr. Caldwell’s

recommendation carries weight in Blackwood society, and a successful portrait of the twins could lead to numerous commissions from other prominent families. Mr.
Sullivan arrives at the Caldwell residence precisely at 10:00 as agreed upon. His assistant, young William Hayes, follows behind, carrying the bulky camera equipment and wooden tripod. The Caldwells welcome them into their home, where the drawing room has been prepared for the occasion.

Heavy velvet drapes have been drawn back to allow natural light to flood the space, and a decorative backdrop has been positioned against one wall. The morning is clear and bright, perfect for photography, which still relies heavily on natural light despite advancements in flash technology.

Sullivan had visited the Caldwell home the previous week to assess the lighting conditions and determine the optimal time of day for the portrait session.
The drawing room with its eastern exposure receives beautiful morning light that streams through tall windows, creating soft, flattering illumination, ideal for portraiture. The equipment William unloads represents the latest in photographic technology. A large format view camera with a polished

mahogany body, brass fittings, and a fine German lens that cost Sullivan a small fortune. The glass plates he uses are 8 kg 10 in coated with an emulsion far more sensitive than those available even 5 years earlier, allowing for shorter exposure times.

While instantaneous photography is now possible for outdoor scenes, formal portraits still require subjects to remain still for several seconds to ensure the sharpest possible image. Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. Edward Caldwell greets the photographer with a firm handshake. His voice carries the

authority of his profession, measured and reassuring.
We appreciate your accommodating our request for a home portrait rather than a studio sitting. It is my pleasure, Dr. Caldwell, Sullivan replies, adjusting his spectacles. He speaks with a slight Boston accent, his vowels a bit more clipped than the typical Blackwood resident.

Some children are more at ease in familiar surroundings, which often results in a more natural portrait. Elellanar Caldwell, dressed in a high-necked blouse and long skirt as befitting a lady of her station, guides the girls into the room. They are wearing identical white dresses with blue sashes,

their hair adorned with matching ribbons.
The dresses are made of the finest cotton lawn with delicate tux across the bodice and lace trim at the collar and cuffs. The very picture of Edwwardian childhood elegance. These are our daughters, Abigail and Elizabeth. She introduces them with maternal pride, her hand gently resting on each

girl’s shoulder as she names them.
The subtle gesture, Sullivan notes, seems intended to help him distinguish between the identical children. Sullivan bends slightly at the waist to address the children. A practiced motion that brings him closer to their eye level without the undignified posture of a full crouch. Hello, young

ladies. We shall take a splendid photograph today that your parents will treasure forever.
His voice softens when speaking to children, a professional habit developed over years of coaxing natural expressions from young subjects who are often intimidated by the photographic apparatus. Abigail steps forward with a bright smile, revealing a small gap where a baby tooth has recently fallen

out.
Will we have to sit very still, sir? Her voice carries the clear, high pitch of childhood, each word precisely enunciated as beffits a child of her social standing. Indeed, but only for a short while, Sullivan assures her, returning her smile. You seem like a girl who can manage that admirably. He

has found that attributing maturity and capability to children often elicits their best behavior.
Elizabeth remains silent, half hidden behind her mother’s skirt, her eyes downcast. Sullivan observes that while the girls are identical in feature, their mannerisms could not be more different. Where Abigail radiates eagerness, Elizabeth emanates reserve bordering on weariness.

It is a common enough distinction between siblings, even twins. Yet, something about Elizabeth’s reticence strikes Sullivan as unusual. Not merely shyness, but something akin to deliberate withdrawal. As William sets up the equipment, Sullivan observes the twins with professional interest.

Throughout his 15 years as a photographer, he has developed an eye for composition and character. There is something curious about these girls, identical, yet distinct in a way he cannot immediately articulate. William works efficiently, erecting the tripod, and mounting the camera with practiced

motions. He arranges the backdrop, a painted canvas depicting a classical garden scene with columns and stylized foliage, and checks the angle of light from the windows.
The room itself provides an elegant setting with its tasteful furnishings and family heirlooms that speak of generations of refinement. Dr. Caldwell engages Sullivan in conversation while the preparations continue. Have you found Blackwood to your liking, Mr. Sullivan. It must be quite a change

from Boston. A welcome change, doctor. Sullivan replies. The pace here allows for more consideration in my work.
In Boston, one is constantly rushed with little time for artistic contemplation. And how did you come to photography as a profession? It’s still rather unusual, is it not? Sullivan smiles, accustomed to this question. I began as a painter studying in Europe in my youth.

When I returned to America, I became fascinated with the camera’s ability to capture reality with a precision my brush could never achieve. There is truth in a photograph that transcends even the most skilled painting. Truth. Dr. Caldwell repeats thoughtfully. Yes, I suppose that’s what we all

seek, each in our own way. Ellaner Caldwell interjects. Will you be using the flash powder today, Mr. Sullivan? I’ve heard it can be quite startling for children.
I hope to rely primarily on the natural light, Sullivan explains. But a small amount of flash powder may be necessary to ensure proper exposure. I assure you, Mrs. Caldwell, I use it judiciously, and William here is expert in its application. William, hearing his name, looks up from adjusting the

camera and smiles shily at the compliment.
Ellaner nods, partially reassured, but still watchful of her daughter’s reactions. Meanwhile, Abigail has been examining the camera with undisguised curiosity, circling the tripod at a respectful distance. Elizabeth, however, has found her way to a small side table where a collection of dgerot

types in silver frames displays family members of previous generations.
She studies these images with unusual intensity for a child her age. Shall we begin? Sullivan suggests once the camera is prepared. I believe the seti would make an excellent position with the girls seated side by side. The seti in question is upholstered in rich burgundy velvet.

Its curved wooden frame carved with delicate rosettes, a handsome piece that would frame the children beautifully without distracting from them. Eleanor guides her daughters to the velvet upholstered set, arranging their dresses and smoothing their hair. Her movements are gentle but precise, the

result of years of maternal practice. Now, darlings, remember what we discussed.
Sit properly and smile for Mr. Sullivan. The preparation of children for a portrait is always a delicate balance. They must be positioned correctly and instructed to remain still, yet without causing so much anxiety that their expressions become wooden or fearful.

Sullivan has seen countless family portraits ruined by overzealous parents who intimidate their children into rigid postures and frozen smiles that look more like grimaces. In the final image, Abigail complies eagerly, her posture perfect, hands folded neatly in her lap, as she’s been taught by her

mother and governness.
Her feet clad in patent leather shoes with pearl buttons, barely reach the edge of the seti, swinging slightly until a gentle reminder from Elellaner stills them. Elizabeth follows suit, though with less enthusiasm, her movements mechanical and precise. Once seated, she arranges her dress with

unusual care for a child her age, ensuring the pleats fall perfectly symmetrically.
Sullivan positions himself behind the camera, peering through the viewfinder. The ground glass screen shows the image upside down, a quirk of optics to which he has long since grown accustomed. He focuses carefully, adjusting the bellows to achieve perfect sharpness. The twins make a charming

picture, their fair heads bright against the dark velvet of the seti. Wonderful.
Now, young ladies, please look directly at the camera. Sullivan speaks from behind the black cloth that shields the viewfinder from external light, his voice slightly muffled. Through the lens, Sullivan notices something odd, while Abigail’s eyes reflect the light naturally.

Warm brown irises with pinpoints of brightness where the window light catches them. Elizabeth seemed to absorb it, appearing unusually dark. He attributes this to a trick of the light or perhaps a peculiarity of her eye color. After all, though identical twins share the same genetic material, small

variations can still exist.
William prepares the flash pan, measuring out a precise amount of magnesium powder from a small tin. The substance is highly flammable and must be handled with extreme care. A lesson William learned early in his apprenticeship after a minor but frightening incident left him with singed eyebrows.

Hold very still, Sullivan instructs as he prepares to capture the image. The process requires complete stillness for several seconds.
A challenge for most children, but especially for those as young as the Caldwell twins. Think of it as a game. Who can remain the most perfectly still, like a beautiful statue in a garden? As Sullivan readies the flash powder, he notices Elizabeth’s head turns slightly toward her sister.

For a brief moment, something in the girl’s expression changes. A flicker of something cold and calculating that seems entirely out of place on a child’s face. But when he looks again, her expression has returned to its placid state. He wonders if it might have been a trick of the light or perhaps

his imagination influenced by the strain of precise observation through the camera.
The drawing room falls silent as everyone holds their breath for the crucial moment. Even the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner seems to pause. From outside comes the distant sound of a delivery wagon passing on the cobblestone street. Ordinary life continuing beyond this suspended

moment in the Caldwell drawing room. Ready now? Hold still.
Sullivan calls out. He nods to William, who stands ready with the flash pan. The young man ignites the powder with a match, and it flares with a bright burst and a puff of smoke that briefly fills the room with the acrid smell of burning magnesium.
Some photographers have begun using electrical ignition for their flash powder, but Sullivan prefers the reliability of the traditional method despite its additional risk. Both girls remain impressively motionless throughout the exposure. Not a muscle twitches, not a single fold of their dresses

shifts. Such perfect stillness is unusual in children so young, and Sullivan feels a surge of professional satisfaction.
The Caldwells have clearly prepared their daughters well for this occasion. Dr. Caldwell, watching from beside the window, coughs slightly as the smoke from the flash powder dissipates. Remarkable substance, he comments. The advancement of chemistry in service to art.

Indeed, doctor Sullivan agrees as he removes the exposed plate and carefully stores it in a light tight box. Though I sometimes miss the simpler days of sunlight and silver iodide, there was a certain magic in those early processes that our modern efficiency has perhaps diminished. Progress always

comes with its sacrifices, Caldwell replies thoughtfully.
In medicine as well, we gain in scientific understanding but sometimes lose the human element that makes our work meaningful. Sullivan is struck by the physician’s philosophical bent. In his experience, medical men tend to be practical rather than contemplative, focused on observable symptoms and

tangible treatments rather than abstractions. Dr.
Caldwell seems to possess a broader perspective than most of his colleagues. Excellent. You both did splendidly. Sullivan praises them as William begins to disassemble the equipment. He approaches the twins who remain seated on the seti. You were as still as professional models. I believe this will

be one of the finest portraits I’ve taken in Blackwood.
Abigail beams at the compliment, her face lighting up with pleasure. Thank you, Mr. Sullivan. It was hard not to sneeze when the flash powder made that funny smell. You controlled yourself admirably. Sullivan tells her with a smile. He turns to Elizabeth, who has not spoken. And you as well, Miss

Elizabeth. Perfect stillness.
Elizabeth inclines her head in acknowledgement, but says nothing. Her gaze, Sullivan notices, is fixed on the camera that William is now packing away. Her expression one of intense curiosity rather than the childish interest her sister displays. Eleanor approaches her daughters, placing a hand on

each girl’s shoulder. May they be excused now. They’ve been so patient.
Of course, Sullivan agrees. I’ve captured what I need, though I may suggest a second sitting after I’ve developed these plates if any adjustments seem necessary. The children have lessons with their governness this afternoon, Elellanor explains. But they’re free most mornings if another session is

required. Dr.
Caldwell, who has been observing from a slight distance, steps forward. When might we expect to see the photographs, Mr. Sullivan? His tone is polite, but carries the subtle authority of a man accustomed to precise answers. Sullivan calculates mentally, considering his workload and the delicate

chemical processes involved. I shall develop them this afternoon, Dr.
Caldwell. You may come to the studio in 3 days time to view the results and we can discuss which you would like to have printed and framed. Very good. Caldwell nods clearly pleased with the efficient timeline.
As William continues packing the equipment under Ellaner’s watchful eye, Sullivan makes notes in a small leatherbound journal he keeps for professional purposes. He records the lighting conditions, exposure time, and any particular observations that might assist him during the development process.

It is a habit formed during his early days as a photographer when each plate was an expensive experiment in chemistry and light.
As Sullivan packs his equipment, Elizabeth approaches him quietly, standing closer than social conventions might dictate as proper. Her movements are silent and Sullivan is startled when he turns to find her barely an arms length away, watching him with unblinking intensity. “Did you capture our

souls, Mr.
Sullivan?” she asks in a whisper, her voice surprisingly mature for a child of six. The question is delivered without the singong quality typical of children’s speech, each word precisely articulated. Startled by the question, Sullivan forces a chuckle, though it sounds hollow even to his own ears.

No, dear child, photography merely captures light and shadow, not souls. He has heard such superstitions before, particularly among older people or those from rural backgrounds who still view the camera with suspicion. But it seems odd coming from a child in an educated household. Elizabeth stares

at him unblinkingly.
Her eyes, which had seemed so dark through the camera lens, now appear a normal brown, though perhaps a shade deeper than her sisters. My sister believes you. I do not. The statement delivered with such adult certainty sends an involuntary chill down Sullivan’s spine.

Before he can respond, Abigail calls to her sister from across the room where she is showing William her collection of porcelain figurines displayed in a glass fronted cabinet. Lizzy, come see what I’m showing Mr. Hayes. Elizabeth turns away, rejoining her twin with a skip in her step that makes

her appear once more like any ordinary child.
The transformation is so complete that Sullivan wonders if he imagined the strange intensity of the moment before. Elellanor, who has been giving instructions to the maid about refreshments, notices nothing a miss. Elizabeth has always been the more serious of the two. She comments to Sullivan as

she passes. So thoughtful for her age. Sometimes I think she was born.
Sullivan cannot explain the unease that settles over him as he and William depart from the Caldwell residence. Perhaps it is merely the strange question posed by little Elizabeth. Or perhaps it is something about the girl’s eyes, how they seem to shift from deep brown to almost black when viewed

through the camera lens.
A charming family, William remarks as they load the equipment into the small horsedrawn wagon that serves as Sullivan’s mobile transportation for home sittings. Those twins will break hearts when they’re older, I’d wager. Indeed, Sullivan agrees absently, his mind still on Elizabeth’s odd question.

William, did you notice anything unusual about the younger twin? Elizabeth? William considers the question as he secures the camera case. She’s quieter than her sister. Didn’t fidget as much during the sitting, which is rare for a child. He pauses, then adds, “There was a moment when she looked at

me while I was setting up the backdrop.
Gave me a queer feeling like she was looking right through me. But children can be that way sometimes, can’t they? See things adults miss.” That evening, in the dark room attached to his studio, Sullivan develops the photographic plates from the day’s appointments. The space is small but

meticulously organized with shelves of chemicals and amber bottles, trays for the various solutions, and a special red lantern that provides just enough illumination for work without exposing the sensitive plates.
The familiar routine of the dark room usually brings Sullivan a sense of peace. There is something meditative about the precise chemical processes, the careful timing, the gradual emergence of images from seemingly blank plates. It is in his mind almost alchemical, a transformation of light into

permanent form.
Tonight, however, he feels a strange anticipation as he prepares to develop the Caldwell twins portrait. The memory of Elizabeth’s odd behavior and her unsettling question about souls lingers in his mind as he works through his earlier appointments. a christening, an elderly couple’s anniversary

portrait, a young man in his new military uniform. Finally, he reaches the Caldwell plate.
He handles it with particular care, immersing it in the developer solution and gently rocking the tray to ensure even coverage. Under the dim red light, he watches as the image begins to appear. Like a ghost materializing from the ether, the image of the Caldwell twins emerges gradually in the

chemical bath.
two identical girls in white dresses, their faces solemn, as was customary for photographs of the era when subjects had to remain still for the exposure. Sullivan observes with professional satisfaction that the composition is excellent, the lighting flattering, and the focus precise. The Caldwells

will surely be pleased.
Yet, as the image becomes clearer, Sullivan notices something unusual. While Abigail’s eyes appear normal, light colored with visible pupils and irises, Elizabeth’s eyes seem different. In the photograph, they appear as solid, dark pools, lacking the natural reflection and detail visible in her

sister’s eyes. Sullivan increases the red lantern’s brightness to its maximum safe level.
Bending closer to examine the developing plate, the effect becomes more pronounced as the development continues. Elizabeth’s eyes appear as black voids, utterly devoid of highlight or detail. It is as though the camera has captured not physical eyes, but empty sockets, or eyes filled with something

that absorbs rather than reflects light. Sullivan scrutinizes the negative, then the print.
Could it be a flaw in the development process, a shadow cast by the angle of the light? He has encountered similar anomalies before, usually attributable to technical issues or movement during exposure. With over 15 years of photographic experience, Sullivan has seen his share of peculiar effects

in portraits.
There was the case of the Peton wedding where the bride appeared to have a spectral figure standing behind her, later discovered to be the result of an accidental double exposure, or the Witmore child, whose face had blurred unnaturally due to a slight movement during the crucial seconds of

exposure.
Technical explanations almost always existed for seemingly supernatural phenomena in photography. Yet this effect with Elizabeth’s eyes is different. The rest of her image is perfectly sharp with no evidence of movement. The lighting on both girls was identical as they sat side by side on the same

sete. And most tellingly, he had noticed something unusual about her eyes even during the sitting through the camera’s viewfinder before any chemical processes could introduce artifacts.
William, he calls to his assistant who is cleaning equipment in the outer studio. The young man has a good eye and an analytical mind, making him a valuable second opinion. Come look at this photograph and tell me what you observe about the eyes of the child on the right. William enters the dark

room, careful to close the door quickly behind him to preserve the controlled lighting conditions.
He stands beside Sullivan at the developing trays, peering at the emerging image with professional interest. They appear unusually dark, sir, he says after a moment of careful study. Almost as if, well, as if they weren’t reflecting light properly. William’s brow furrows in concentration.

I’ve never seen quite that effect before. It’s almost as if her eyes are empty. My thought exactly, Sullivan mutters, relieved that William sees the same anomaly. This confirms it is not merely his imagination or a subjective interpretation. I shall have to take another portrait. The Caldwells will

not be pleased with this imperfection. Yet, even as he says this, Sullivan feels uncertain.
Is this truly a technical imperfection, or has his camera captured something real about Elizabeth Caldwell that is not readily apparent to the naked eye? The question troubles him more than he cares to admit, even to himself. William continues to study the photograph. It’s odd, sir. Everything else

about the image is perfect.
The focus, the composition, the lighting, just those eyes. He trails off, seeming uncomfortable with the implications of his observation. Indeed, Sullivan agrees. Well, we shall offer to retake the portrait, perhaps with different lighting arrangements.

He tries to sound matter of fact professional, though the unease he felt at the Caldwell house returns with greater intensity as he stares at Elizabeth’s black pupils eyes in the photograph. The next morning, Sullivan sends a note to the Caldwell residence explaining that due to a technical issue,

he would like to retake the portrait at no additional charge.
By afternoon, he receives a reply from Elellanar Caldwell, accepting his offer and suggesting the following day at the same time. Sullivan’s note written on his studios elegant letterhead is carefully worded to avoid alarming the Caldwells while giving a plausible reason for the resiting. Dear Dr.

and Mrs.
Caldwell, I regret to inform you that upon developing yesterday’s photographic plates, I discovered a technical anomaly affecting the quality of the portrait. This is in no way a reflection on your charming daughters, who were most exemplary subjects, but rather a peculiarity of the lighting

conditions combined with the chemical process.
I would be most grateful for the opportunity to retake the portrait at no additional charge at your convenience. Perhaps tomorrow at the same hour would be suitable, as the morning light in your drawing room was otherwise most favorable. Your servant, Thomas Sullivan. The note is deliberately vague

about the specific nature of the technical anomaly. Sullivan considers including more details, but decides against it.
How could he explain that one child’s eyes appeared inhuman without causing offense or alarm? Better to address it as a generic technical issue until he can determine the true cause. Ellaner’s response arrives by messenger in the early afternoon. A cream colored card with an embossed Caldwell

monogram. Dear Mr.
Sullivan, we would be pleased to accommodate your request for a second sitting tomorrow at 10:00. Dr. Caldwell particularly appreciates your professional dedication to achieving the perfect result. Yours sincerely, Elellanar Caldwell. The polite formal exchange gives no hint of the unease Sullivan

feels as he prepares for the second visit.
He spends the afternoon checking his equipment with unusual thoroughess, cleaning the lens multiple times and examining the camera bellows for any light leaks that might explain the anomaly in Elizabeth’s eyes. He finds nothing a miss, which only deepens his concern. That night, Sullivan dreams of

Elizabeth Caldwell.
In the dream, she stands alone in his studio, but when he looks through the camera, he sees not one but dozens of her reflected in the lens, each with eyes like bottomless wells. He awakens with a start, his night shirt damp with sweat. The dream lingers with unusual clarity as Sullivan lights the

bedside lamp.
In its final moments, the multitude of Elizabeth’s had spoken in unison, their voices overlapping in an eerie chorus. We see through your lens, Mr. Sullivan. We see what you are. The clock on his bedside table reads 3:17 a.m. That peculiar hour of the night when the boundary between the rational

and irrational seems particularly thin.
The gas light casts dramatic shadows across his bedroom, making familiar objects take on sinister aspects. “Merely professional concern,” he tells himself as he sits up, running a hand through his hair. Nothing more. He reaches for the glass of water on his nightstand, but his hand trembles

slightly, causing water to spill onto the polished wood surface.
Sullivan has always prided himself on his rational approach to life. As a man of science and art, he has little patience for superstition or fancy. Yet something about Elizabeth Caldwell has unsettled him in a way he cannot easily dismiss. Perhaps it is the inongruity. A child of six with eyes that

seem ancient.
A voice that carries the weight of centuries rather than years. Unable to return to sleep, Sullivan rises and makes his way to his small study adjacent to the bedroom. He lights another lamp and retrieves a volume from his bookshelf, The Science of Photography by Robert Hunt, a respected authority

in the field.
Perhaps there is some documented phenomenon that could explain the anomaly in Elizabeth’s eyes. He spends the remaining hours until dawn pouring over technical explanations for photographic peculiarities, finding several instances of unusual eye effects in portraits, but nothing that precisely

matches what he observed in Elizabeth’s photograph.
As the first light of morning filters through the curtains, Sullivan closes the book, no closer to a rational explanation than when he began. At breakfast, his landlady, Mrs. Winters, comments on his appearance. You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, Mr. Sullivan. Are you unwell? Just a restless

night, Mrs. Winters, he replies, forcing a smile.
Professional concerns keeping me awake. Well, don’t work yourself into an early grave, she advises with motherly concern. My late husband always said that no photograph was worth losing sleep over. If only it were that simple, Sullivan thinks as he sips his coffee.

if only it were merely a matter of professional pride rather than this inexplicable sense of wrongness that has taken root in his mind. The next day, Sullivan and William returned to the Caldwell home. The morning is overcast, the sky a uniform gray that diffuses the sunlight into a soft, even

illumination.
Actually, ideal conditions for portraiture as it eliminates harsh shadows and reduces the need for flash powder. The Caldwell home appears different today, Sullivan thinks as they approach. Perhaps it is merely the leaden sky, but the stately house seems somehow more oppressive, its windows like

dark, watchful eyes. He dismisses the fanciful thought, attributing it to his poor night’s sleep and lingering unease from his dream.
The maid who answers the door is not the same young woman who admitted them yesterday. This one is older with a perpetual frown etched between her brows and gray streaks in her hair that escape from beneath her cap. “Mr. Sullivan and Mr. Hayes to see Mrs. Caldwell,” Sullivan announces, presenting

his card.
The maid nods curtly. “You’re expected. This way, please.” As they follow her through the entrance hall, Sullivan notices subtle changes in the house. The vase of fresh flowers that had brightened the hall table yesterday has been removed. The curtains in the front rooms are drawn despite the hour,

leaving the spaces in shadow.
And there is a stillness, an absence of the ordinary sounds of a household with children. No distant laughter, no patter of small feet, no calls from room to room. Elellanar greets them warmly, though Sullivan notices dark circles beneath her eyes, suggesting restless nights.

Her hair, so perfectly arranged yesterday, shows signs of hasty styling, with a few strands escaping the careful quaffure. Her smile, while polite, does not reach her eyes. Mr. Sullivan, Mr. Hayes, she acknowledges them. Thank you for coming. I hope the lighting will be suitable today despite the

overcast sky. Actually, Mrs. Caldwell, this diffuse light is excellent for portraiture, Sullivan assures her. It creates a softer, more flattering effect.
Elellanar nods absently, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. The girls are in the nursery, she explains, leading them toward the stairs rather than the drawing room where they had worked the previous day. Elizabeth has been somewhat difficult since your last visit. She insists that you stole something

from her with your camera. Eleanor’s laugh sounds forced, brittle.
Children and their fanciful notions. Sullivan smiles politely, though unease prickles at the back of his neck. Indeed, Mrs. Caldwell. Children often misunderstand the photographic process. He hesitates, then asks, “Might I inquire why we’re moving to the nursery rather than using the drawing room as

before.” A shadow passes over Elellanar’s face. Elizabeth refuses to enter the drawing room today.
She became quite hysterical when we suggested it. Dr. Caldwell thought it best not to force the issue. He says, “Children sometimes develop temporary aversions to certain spaces, a phase that passes quickly if not given undue attention.” In the nursery, Abigail is playing with a porcelain doll

while Elizabeth sits by the window staring out at the garden.
The room is spacious and bright with shelves of toys and books. A child-sized table with chairs and two identical beds with white coverlets embroidered with blue flowers. Watercolor paintings of fairy tale scenes adorn the walls and a large rocking horse stands in one corner.

Unlike the formal adultoriented spaces downstairs, the nursery shows clear evidence of being lived in by children. A dollhouse replica of the Caldwell home stands open, revealing miniature furniture arranged with a child’s sense of order. Building blocks are stacked in a wooden box, and illustrated

books lie open on the window seat.
Despite these cheerful elements, there is a heaviness in the air that Sullivan cannot attribute merely to the overcast day. When Sullivan enters, Abigail greets him cheerfully, setting aside her doll and rushing forward. Mr. Sullivan, have you come to take our picture again? Will we be in the

photograph album this time? Yes, Miss Abigail, Sullivan replies, touched by her enthusiasm.
We had a small problem with the first photographs, but I’m sure today’s will be perfect. Elizabeth does not turn from the window. Her reflection in the glass pane shows her face in profile, still and expressionless, seemingly unaware of or indifferent to the visitors. The contrast between the twins

behaviors is even more pronounced than it had been yesterday.
Elizabeth, dear, Ellaner calls gently. Mr. Sullivan has come to take another photograph. Isn’t that exciting? Slowly, Elizabeth turns. Sullivan stifles a gasp. The girl’s eyes, which he had remembered as dark brown, now appear almost black in the daylight, the pupils so dilated that the iris is

barely visible.
The effect is unsettling, as though she were in a darkened room rather than the well-lit nursery. “Are you unwell, Miss Elizabeth?” Sullivan inquires, striving to keep his voice steady. “He has seen such extreme pupil dilation in patients under the influence of certain medications, Belladana, for

instance, which some physicians prescribe for a variety of ailments.
I am as I have always been, Elizabeth replies, her voice oddly flat. It is the world around me that changes. Ellaner laughs nervously. She has been speaking in riddles lately. Her father says it is merely a phase of childhood development. William, busy setting up the equipment, glances at Sullivan

with a questioning look.
Sullivan gives a slight nod, indicating they should proceed as planned. Whatever might be unusual about Elizabeth Caldwell, whether a medical condition or something else entirely, their professional duty is to create the portrait the family has commissioned. As they prepare for the photograph,

Sullivan observes the twins closely.
Abigail behaves as any normal child would, fidgeting with her dress and asking questions about the camera. She seems particularly fascinated by the lens, peering into it when William isn’t looking and giggling at the inverted image she sees. “Is that magic, Mr. Sullivan?” she asks. How does it turn

everything upside down? It’s the science of optics, Miss Abigail. Sullivan explains, pleased by her curiosity.
Light travels in straight lines, and when it passes through the lens, the rays cross each other, creating an inverted image. Abigail’s brow furrows as she tries to understand, like when you look in a spoon and your face is all funny. Precisely. Sullivan agrees with a smile. You have a scientific

mind. Elizabeth, however, moves with an eerie precision, her gaze fixed on Sullivan with an intensity that makes him fumble with his equipment. She maintains a careful distance from the camera, circling it as though it were a
dangerous animal that might strike if approached in cautiously. It remembers, she says suddenly, stopping her circuit of the camera. Your machine, it remembers what it sees. In a manner of speaking, yes, Sullivan agrees cautiously. The chemical emulsion records the light patterns.

Elizabeth nods, satisfied with this answer in a way that unsettles Sullivan further. There is something knowing in her expression, as though she and the camera share a secret to which he is not privy. Mrs. Finch, the twins nurse, enters the nursery carrying a tray with glasses of lemonade.

She is a stout woman in her 50s with graying hair pulled back in a severe bun, her starched apron and cap immaculate. She sets the tray on a small table and casts a professional eye over the twins. Elizabeth, your hair ribbon is coming loose. she observes, approaching the child with practice

deficiency. Elizabeth submits to her ministrations without protest, but without the childish squirming one might expect.
She stands perfectly still as Mrs. Finch readies the blue satin ribbon, her eyes never leaving Sullivan. There have been changes in the night, Elizabeth tells Mrs. Finch in a conversational tone. The shadows have been rearranging themselves. Mrs. Finch’s hands falter momentarily in their task.

Now, Miss Elizabeth, what have we said about such talk? It frightens your sister. Abigail isn’t afraid. Elizabeth replies with cold certainty. Not yet. Sullivan notices that Mrs. Finch does not meet Elizabeth’s eyes directly, keeping her gaze fixed on the ribbon she is adjusting. There is a tension

in the nurse’s posture that speaks of weariness, perhaps even fear.
An unusual reaction from a woman who has presumably cared for the child since infancy. Once again, the girls are positioned on a small seti near the window where the diffuse daylight provides even illumination. This time, Sullivan pays particular attention to the lighting, ensuring that it falls

evenly on both children’s faces.
William adjusts the reflector to soften the shadows under their chins. Sullivan instructs his assistant. William positions a white clothcovered board to bounce light upward, eliminating the harsh shadows that can sometimes create unusual effects in portraits.

Sullivan is determined to create a technically flawless image that will show Elizabeth’s eyes normally. If there is a rational explanation for the anomaly in the previous photograph, a quirk of lighting, a chemical irregularity, a momentary reflection, these careful preparations should eliminate

it. The nursery is silent as Sullivan makes his final adjustments.
Even Abigail, normally chatty, seems to sense the importance of the moment and sits quietly beside her sister, hands folded in her lap as they’ve been taught. Elellaner stands to one side, watching the proceedings with a nervous intensity that suggests more rides on this photograph than merely

family sentiment.
Look toward the camera, please, Sullivan instructs, his voice steady despite his inner unease. Through the viewfinder, Sullivan sees it again. Abigail’s eyes reflect the light naturally, warm brown with distinct pupils and irises, while Elizabeth’s appear as dark voids. He adjusts the angle, hoping

that a slight change in perspective might correct the effect. But the difference remains stark and undeniable.
Could it be something physical? He wonders. Some rare condition of the eyes that affects how they reflect light. But surely such a condition would be apparent to everyone, not just captured in photographs. Dr. Caldwell is a physician. He would have noticed and sought treatment for any medical

abnormality in his daughter’s eyes.
Ready now, Sullivan announces, forcing himself to proceed despite his misgivings. William prepares the flash pan, measuring the magnesium powder with practiced precision. Hold very still, Sullivan instructs, and triggers the exposure. The flash illuminates the room with a brief harsh brilliance

that leaves dancing spots in Sullivan’s vision.
As the smoke clears, he notices that while Abigail blinks rapidly, adjusting to the after image of the flash. Elizabeth’s eyes remain wide open, unaffected by the sudden burst of light. A normal physiological response would be to blink or flinch at such a bright flash. Elizabeth’s lack of reaction

suggests either extraordinary self-control for a six-year-old or something far more unsettling.
An insensitivity to light that goes beyond the ordinary range of human perception. As Sullivan begins to pack up, he notices Elizabeth whispering to her sister. Abigail’s expression changes from cheerful to confused, then frightened. The transformation is rapid and striking. The blood drains from

her face and her eyes widen in unmistakable fear. Elellaner, engaged in conversation with Mrs.
Finch about the children’s afternoon schedule, does not notice this silent exchange. William, occupied with disassembling the camera equipment, likewise misses it. Only Sullivan, with his photographers’s habit of constant observation, witnesses the moment. The professional in him wants to capture

it. This stark contrast between the twins. This raw emotion breaking through the formal composure of a portrait sitting.
The human in him is disturbed by whatever could cause such sudden terror in a previously happy child. “What did you say to your sister?” Sullivan asks Elizabeth directly, keeping his voice low enough that Ellaner won’t hear and interrupt. The girl smiles, a perfect imitation of childish innocence.

Her teeth are small and even, her lips curved in the expression that would appear charming in any other context, but the smile does not reach her eyes, which remain as dark and fathomless as ever. I told her that next time you would take her instead of me, Elizabeth replies, her voice sweet, but

her eyes cold. The phrasing strikes Sullivan as odd.
Not merely the content, but the construction. A normal child might say, “Take my picture or photograph me.” But Elizabeth’s wording suggests something more permanent, more complete. “Take herware, Miss Elizabeth,” Sullivan presses, aware that he is overstepping the boundaries of his role as

photographer, but unable to ignore his growing concern. Elizabeth’s smile widens slightly, revealing more of those perfect little teeth.
“To the place where you keep the pieces of people you steal with your machine,” she replies, her voice remaining sweet and melodious despite the disturbing content of her words. the place where I have been since you first pointed your camera at me. A chill runs down Sullivan’s spine. The

conversation has taken a turn into territory he cannot rationally explain.
Is this merely the imaginative fancy of a child who has misunderstood the photographic process? Or is there something more sinister at work? Something that might explain the unnatural appearance of her eyes in his photographs? Elellanar interjects quickly, having caught the end of the exchange as

she returned her attention to the children. Elizabeth, that’s enough of your stories. Apologize to Mr. Sullivan at once.
Her tone is sharp, carrying the edge of genuine concern rather than merely parental correction. Elizabeth curtsies obediently, the movement perfect in its execution, a miniature version of the social graces taught to young ladies of good family. I apologize, Mr. Sullivan. I was only playing.

The words are correct, the tone appropriately contrite, but her eyes remain cold and knowing. Sullivan manages a nod of acknowledgement. Uncertain how to respond. The situation has moved beyond the realm of ordinary professional interaction into something he cannot define. He busies himself with

his equipment.
Grateful for the mechanical tasks that require his attention and provide a momentary escape from those unsettling black eyes. Elellanor takes Elizabeth by the shoulders, turning the child to face her. Elizabeth, please go with Mrs. Finch and wash your hands before lunchon. Abigail, you too, dear.

Mrs. Finch, who has been watching the exchange with an expression of resigned anxiety, takes each twin by the hand.
Abigail goes willingly, but Elizabeth resists for a moment, her gaze still fixed on Sullivan. Finally, she allows herself to be led from the room, but not before casting one last look over her shoulder. A look that contains something beyond the capability of a six-year-old child, something ancient

and calculating.
When the children have gone, Eleanor turns to Sullivan, her composure cracking slightly. I must apologize for Elizabeth’s behavior, Mr. Sullivan. She has been different since your last visit. Dr. Caldwell says it’s likely just a phase. Children sometimes develop fanciful notions about photography.

My grandmother used to believe that cameras could steal a person’s soul.
She attempts a laugh that falls flat, ending in something closer to a sigh. It’s quite all right, Mrs. Caldwell. Sullivan assures her, though it is not. Children have vivid imaginations. I’m sure Miss Elizabeth will soon become fascinated by something else entirely. Elellanar rings her hands, a

gesture at odds with her usual poise. She’s always been the more intense of the twins, more serious, more thoughtful, but lately she hesitates, then continues in a lower voice. Lately, there have been incidents. She speaks of shadows moving when no one is there.

She refers to herself sometimes in the third person, as though discussing someone else entirely. And she Eleanor stops abruptly, seeming to reconsider what she was about to say. Sullivan waits, but when she doesn’t continue, he gently prompts. She what, Mrs. Caldwell? Elellanar shakes her head,

composing herself with visible effort.
Nothing of consequence. As my husband says, children go through phases. It will pass. But the worry in her eyes belies her dismissive words. As Sullivan and William prepare to leave, Dr. Caldwell returns home, his medical bag in hand. He appears fatigued, his normally immaculate appearance somewhat

disheveled, suggesting a difficult house call or emergency at his practice. Mr. Sullivan, he greets the photographer with a nod.
I trust the second sitting went well. As well as could be expected, doctor, Sullivan replies cautiously. I should have the results for you to view in a few days as promised. Dr. Caldwell studies Sullivan’s face with professional assessment. You look troubled, Mr. Sullivan. Has something occurred

that I should know about? Sullivan hesitates.
Social convention and professional discretion suggest he should minimize any concerns, particularly regarding a client’s child. Yet, there is something in Dr. Caldwell’s tone, a hint of personal worry beneath the professional inquiry that prompts Sullivan to be more forthcoming than he might

otherwise be. Dr. Caldwell, there was a curious incident with Elizabeth during today’s sitting.
She made some rather unusual statements about my camera taking people and about being taken herself during our first session. The doctor’s expression tightens almost imperceptibly. I see. And this troubled you. It was not the content so much as the manner. Sullivan explains carefully. Her words

seemed beyond her years. And there is something about her eyes.
He stops unsure how to articulate his observations without sounding fanciful or worse insulting. Dr. Mr. Caldwell glances toward the stairs, then lowers his voice. Perhaps we might speak further about this, Mr. Sullivan. Not now, but soon. I would be interested in your professional observations.

There is something in the doctor’s manner that suggests this is more than casual interest or parental concern.
Before Sullivan can respond, however, Eleanor joins them, having given instructions to William about where to load their equipment. Edward, you’re home earlier than expected. She greets her husband with evident relief. Did your consultations finish sooner than anticipated in a manner of speaking.

Caldwell replies vaguely. Mrs.
Harrington’s condition was not as serious as initially feared. The others were routine matters. He turns back to Sullivan. I may call at your studio in the next day or two if that would be convenient. There are some technical aspects of photography I would be interested to discuss. Of course,

doctor, you would be most welcome.
Sullivan agrees, understanding that the technical aspects are merely a pretext for a more private conversation about Elizabeth. As Sullivan and William depart, the photographer casts one last glance up at the nursery windows. Elizabeth stands there, a small silhouette behind the glass, watching

their departure with unnerving stillness.
Something about the scene strikes Sullivan as profoundly wrong. A child should be playing, moving, alive with energy, not standing motionless as a sentinel. For a moment, he imagines he sees something shift in that silhouette, as though the outline of the child were momentarily fluid, uncertain.

Then William calls to him from the wagon, breaking the spell, and when Sullivan looks again, the window is empty. That evening, in the dark room attached to his studio, Sullivan develops the new photographs with painstaking care. His hands tremble slightly as he immerses the plates in the chemical

solutions. Anxiety making his normally steady movements erratic.
William has gone home for the day, leaving Sullivan alone with his thoughts in the emerging images. The photograph of the twins appears gradually in the chemical bath. First as ghostly outlines, then gaining definition as the development progresses. The composition is excellent, the technical

execution flawless.
The lighting is perfect, exactly as Sullivan had planned with no harsh shadows or uneven exposure that might create optical illusions or artifacts. Yet, as the image clarifies, the anomaly remains. The twins sit side by side, identical in every way except for their eyes. Once again, Elizabeth’s

eyes appear as black pools devoid of light or life, while Abigail’s are normal warm brown irises with the natural highlights and reflections one would expect in a photograph.
Sullivan compares the new photograph with the one taken previously. The anomaly is consistent across both images. Despite the different lighting conditions, different room and different camera settings. This is no technical error or trick of the light. There is something genuinely different about

Elizabeth Caldwell’s eyes.
Something the camera captures that might be overlooked by casual observers. A chill settles over Sullivan as he stares at the two photographs side by side. His camera, with its unbiased mechanical eye, is revealing something about Elizabeth that human perception either misses or unconsciously

ignores.
What that something might be, he cannot say, but the evidence before him suggests it is beyond ordinary explanation. A knock at the studio door startles him. It is well past business hours, nearly 9:00 in the evening. Sullivan covers the chemical trays and moves to the front of the studio, lamp in

hand. The streets of Blackwood are largely deserted at this hour. Most businesses closed.
Most citizens at home with their families or in the tavern at the edge of town. An unexpected visitor at this hour is unusual enough to put Sullivan on alert. Dr. Edward Caldwell stands on the threshold, his medical bag in one hand, his hat in the other.

He appears haggarded, the lines around his eyes and mouth deeper than they had been that afternoon. His normally immaculate appearance disheveled. The street lamp casts harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing his exhausted state. Dr. Caldwell. Sullivan greets him surprised. I was just developing

today’s photographs. They should be ready for viewing in a few days. I have not come about the photographs, Mr. Sullivan. Caldwell replies, his voice tense.
I have come to ask you a rather unusual question. Sullivan invites him inside, locking the door behind them to ensure privacy. The studio with its backdrop screens and props takes on an eerie quality in the lamplight, the shadows deep and shifting.
Sullivan leads Caldwell to his small office at the rear of the studio, offering a chair and a glass of brandy, which Caldwell accepts gratefully. The doctor’s hands, Sullivan notices, are not entirely steady as he raises the glass. These are the hands that perform delicate surgeries, that deliver

babies and set broken bones. hands that must be absolutely reliable in the most critical situations.
To see them tremble is disconcerting, a visible sign of Caldwell’s disturbed state of mind. When you were with my daughters, Caldwell begins, staring into his glass. Did you notice anything peculiar about Elizabeth? Sullivan hesitates, unsure how to respond. In what way, sir? Her eyes, perhaps? Her

manner? Anything that struck you as out of the ordinary? Sullivan considers his words carefully. This is dangerous territory.
A father asking about potential abnormalities in his child. One wrong word could cause grave offense or unnecessary alarm. Yet Caldwell’s demeanor suggests he already suspects something is a miss and seeks confirmation rather than revelation. I noticed that in the photographs her eyes appear

different from her sisters.
I assumed it was a quirk of the photographic process. Caldwell’s hands tighten around the brandy glass. It is not a quirk, Mr. Sullivan. Something is not right with Elizabeth. Or perhaps I should say with the child who calls herself Elizabeth. I don’t understand, Dr. Caldwell. The doctor sets down

his glass and leans forward. Mr.
Sullivan, what I am about to tell you must remain in strictest confidence. As a man of science, I have always prided myself on rational thinking. What I am experiencing now defies rationality. Yet, I cannot deny the evidence before me. Sullivan nods, a chill creeping up his spine. The air in the

small office seems to grow colder, though the evening is mild for early autumn.
Three nights ago, after your first visit, I was awakened by sounds from the nursery. Not the usual sounds of children, not crying or talking in sleep, but something else entirely. A scraping, sliding sound, like furniture being moved, but with a strange rhythmic quality. Caldwell pauses, taking a

sip of brandy before continuing.
I went to investigate, expecting perhaps to find that the cat had somehow gotten into the room. Instead, I found Elizabeth standing over her sleeping sister, simply watching her. When I asked what she was doing, she said, learning to be her. The way she said it, Mr. Sullivan, cold, methodical, it

was not the voice of a child.
Sullivan feels the hair rise on the back of his neck. He has heard children say strange things before. Their developing minds often make connections adults find peculiar or even disturbing. But there is something in Caldwell’s account that goes beyond ordinary childish oddity.

Could she have been sleepwalking perhaps? Sullivan suggests grasping for a rational explanation. Children sometimes speak nonsense in such states. That was my first thought, Caldwell admits. I am a doctor after all. I know the strange behaviors that can manifest in the partially conscious mind. But

she was fully awake, Mr. Sullivan. Her eyes were clear, her movements deliberate, and when I touched her shoulder to guide her back to bed, her skin was cold, not the coolness of a child who has thrown off her covers in the night, but a deep, penetrating cold, as though she had been standing in ice

water. Caldwell continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. Since then, I have observed
her closely. She mimics the behaviors of a child, my child. But there are moments when the facade slips. Moments when I look into her eyes and see something else looking back at me. Dr. Caldwell, Sullivan interjects gently. Children often go through phases of unusual behavior. Perhaps no.

Caldwell cuts him off firmly. This is not a phase. The night before last, I found a dead sparrow in Elizabeth’s dollhouse. When I confronted her, she said she was practicing. When I asked what she was practicing, she smiled and said, “Being alive.” Sullivan feels the hair on the back of his neck

stand on end.
“What are you suggesting, doctor?” “I don’t know,” Caldwell admits, running a hand through his graying hair. “But I believe your camera has captured something that our eyes cannot readily see.” “There is something wrong with Elizabeth’s eyes in your photographs because there is something wrong with

Elizabeth or whatever is pretending to be her.
” Sullivan retrieves the newly developed photograph, still damp from the chemical bath, and shows it to Caldwell. The doctor stares at it, his face paling. “This confirms my fears,” he whispers. “Mr. Sullivan, I believe that something has taken my daughter’s place.

Something that is learning to imitate her, but cannot perfectly replicate human eyes in your photographs. But that would suggest something beyond our understanding of natural law,” Caldwell finishes. Yes, I am aware of how this sounds, particularly coming from a medical professional, but I know my

daughter, Mr. Sullivan, and that he points to Elizabeth’s image in the photograph, is not my daughter.
The conversation continues late into the night with Caldwell sharing more observations. Elizabeth no longer eats with the family, claiming she fed earlier. She speaks in languages neither parent recognizes when she believes she is alone. Most disturbing of all, the family dog, once devoted to both

twins equally, now cowers in fear when Elizabeth approaches. What do you intend to do? Sullivan asks finally.
I don’t know, Caldwell admits. How does one confront such a thing? Who would believe me? I would be labeled a lunatic, my professional reputation destroyed. Could it be a medical condition? Sullivan suggests, still reaching for rational explanations. Some rare disease affecting her behavior and

appearance.
I have considered every medical explanation. Caldwell says, “I’ve examined her as thoroughly as possible without alarming her or it. There is no physical disease that could account for what I’ve observed, and no disease could explain how she knows things she couldn’t possibly know. Details about my

grandmother who died before the girls were born.
Words in languages none of us speak.” As Caldwell prepares to leave, he makes a request that chills Sullivan to the bone. Continue developing these photographs, Mr. Sullivan. Document everything. If something should happen to me or my family, there must be a record. Surely it won’t come to that.

Sullivan protests, but without conviction. Caldwell puts on his hat.
His movements those of a man carrying an unbearable weight. I pray it won’t, but whatever has taken my daughter’s place is not benign. It watches us. It learns from us. and I fear it has plans for Abigail as well. The following day, Sullivan cannot concentrate on his work.

William notices his distraction, but attributes it to fatigue. Perhaps you should rest today, sir. The Harrington wedding photographs can wait until tomorrow. No, no, Sullivan insists. Work is the best remedy for a troubled mind. But his hands shake as he measures chemicals, and twice he must

restart a development process after errors that would shame a firstear apprentice. By late afternoon, Sullivan has made a decision.
He will visit the Caldwell home again, ostensibly to take additional photographs for a family album, but in reality to observe Elizabeth more closely. If Dr. Caldwell’s fears have merit, and the evidence of his own photograph suggests they might, then documentation of the anomaly becomes not merely

a professional obligation, but a moral one.
He arrives at the Caldwell residence as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. The house seems unusually quiet as Eleanor answers the door. Mr. Sullivan, she greets him, surprise evident in her voice. We weren’t expecting you. Forgive the intrusion, Mrs. Caldwell. I

had an idea for a series of family portraits and wanted to discuss it with you and Dr. Caldwell.
Ellaner’s smile seems strained. My husband is attending to a patient and will not return until late. The girls are in the garden with their nurse. Would you care to wait in the parlor? Sullivan follows her inside, noting the heavy atmosphere in the house. The curtains are drawn despite the early

hour, and the air feels unusually cold.
“Is everything well, Mrs. Caldwell?” he inquires gently. Elellanor’s composure falters momentarily, as well as can be expected, Mr. Sullivan. We have had some challenges with Elizabeth recently. Dr. Caldwell believes it may be a nervous condition. From the garden, Sullivan hears children’s

laughter. One voice bright and clear, the other oddly modulated, as if practicing the sound.
May I see the girls? Perhaps I could take a few informal photographs while they play. Children often appear most natural when engaged in activities they enjoy. Eleanor hesitates, then nods. Of course, this way to the garden. In the garden, Abigail is playing with a hoop, rolling it across the grass

with a stick.
Elizabeth sits on a stone bench, watching her sister with unnerving intensity. The nurse, Mrs. Finch, stands nearby, her attention fixed on Elizabeth rather than Abigail, who would typically require more supervision due to her active nature. Mister Sullivan has come to take more photographs,

Elellanar announces.
Abigail drops her hoop and runs to Sullivan with childish enthusiasm. Will you make us look pretty in the pictures again? You always look pretty, Miss Abigail. Sullivan replies kindly. I merely capture what is already there. His gaze shifts to Elizabeth, who has not moved from the bench. Her eyes,

which appeared almost black yesterday, now seem to have lightened to match her sister’s brown color exactly.
The change is subtle but unmistakable to Sullivan, who has been paying particular attention to this detail. Hello, Miss Elizabeth, he calls to her. Would you like to join us? Elizabeth slides off the bench with fluid grace. Have you come to take more pieces of us, Mr. Sullivan? she asks, her voice

a perfect mimickry of childish curiosity.
I’ve come to take more photographs. Yes, Sullivan confirms, choosing his words carefully. Elizabeth comes to stand beside her sister, taking Abigail’s hand in hers. Sullivan notices Abigail flinch slightly at the contact. Mrs.
Caldwell, would you permit me to take a few photographs of the girls here in the garden? The natural setting would make for charming portraits. Eleanor agrees, and Sullivan retrieves his camera from the case he brought with him. As he sets up the equipment, he observes the twins from the corner of

his eye. Elizabeth whispers something to Abigail, who shakes her head vigorously, her expression frightened.
When the camera is ready, Sullivan positions the girls near a flowering rose bush. Now look toward the camera and smile. He instructs through the viewfinder. Sullivan sees it again. The stark difference in their eyes, but this time he notices something else. Elizabeth’s pupils seem to reflect the

light in an unusual way, almost like the eyes of a cat caught in lamplight. The exposure is taken and Sullivan prepares for another.
As he adjusts the camera, he hears Mrs. Finch gasp. Turning, he sees that Elizabeth has pricricked her finger on a rose thorn. A drop of blood wells on her fingertip, but instead of crying as a child might, Elizabeth stares at the blood with fascination. “Does it hurt, dear?” Mrs.

Finch asks, moving to assist her. No, Elizabeth replies, still staring at the blood. It’s curious, isn’t it? So much importance placed on such a fragile vessel. Mrs. Finch exchanges a worried glance with Eleanor, who quickly intervenes. Elizabeth, let Mrs. Finch clean that for you. We don’t want it

to become infected.
Infection is for the weak, Elizabeth states matterofactly, but she allows Mrs. Finch to take her inside, leaving Abigail with Sullivan and Eleanor. Once Elizabeth is out of earshot, Abigail tugs at Sullivan’s sleeve. Mr. Sullivan, she whispers. Elizabeth isn’t Elizabeth anymore. Sullivan kneels to

the child’s level.
What do you mean, Miss Abigail? She looks like Elizabeth, but she’s not her. She told me that soon she’ll be me, too, and then no one will know the difference. Elellanar quickly interjects. Abigail, that’s enough. You mustn’t tell stories about your sister. But, mama, it’s true. She doesn’t sleep

anymore.
She stands by my bed all night watching me, and sometimes when she thinks no one is looking, her eyes go all wrong. Sullivan sees genuine fear in the child’s expression. Before he can respond, Dr. Caldwell’s voice calls from the house. Ellaner, who is visiting at this hour, Caldwell appears at the

garden door, medical bag in hand, his expression darkening when he sees Sullivan. Mr.
Sullivan, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Sullivan rises to his feet. I had some ideas for additional portraits, doctor. Your wife was kind enough to allow me to take a few informal photographs in the garden. Caldwell’s gaze shifts to the house where Elizabeth and Mrs. Finch have

disappeared. Where is Elizabeth? She pricricked her finger on a thorn.
Eleanor explains. Mrs. Finch has taken her inside to clean the wound. Caldwell’s jaw tightens. I see. Mr. Sullivan, might I have a word with you in private? They move to a far corner of the garden out of earshot of Elellaner and Abigail. Have you observed anything unusual today? Caldwell asks

without preamble. Sullivan nods.
Her eyes appear to have changed color to match her sisters exactly. And there was something strange about how they reflected light in my camera, almost like the eyes of a nocturnal animal. Caldwell runs a hand over his face. Last night, I found her in my study reading my medical texts on human

anatomy.
When I asked what she was doing, she said she was learning the details. Mr. Sullivan, I fear for my family, especially for Abigail. What do you intend to do, doctor? I’ve written to a colleague at Mscatonic University who specializes in unusual phenomena until I receive his guidance. I must protect

my family as best I can.
Their conversation is interrupted by a scream from inside the house. Both men rush toward the sound, finding Mrs. Finch in the hallway, her face ashen. Doctor, come quickly. She gasps. It’s Elizabeth. There’s something wrong with her eyes. They follow Mrs. Finch to the washroom where Elizabeth sits

calmly on a stool, a bloodied towel in her lap. When she looks up at them, Sullivan has to stifle a cry of shock.
Her eyes have changed completely. The irises now vertical slits like those of a reptile. The surrounding area an unnatural amber color. Elizabeth Caldwell approaches his daughter cautiously. The girl tilts her head at an odd angle. The shell is failing, she says in a voice that seems to echo

strangely in the small room. I required a stronger vessel, but this one was flawed. The eyes are always the hardest to maintain.
What are you? Caldwell demands, his voice shaking. What have you done with my daughter, Elizabeth? Or the thing wearing Elizabeth’s form? smiles, revealing teeth that seem too sharp, too numerous. Your daughter invited me in, doctor. Children are so wonderfully open to the unseen, so willing to

share their space, their lives, their bodies. Sullivan backs toward the door, his heart racing.
This confirms their worst fears. Elizabeth has been taken, replaced by something inhuman. “Where is my daughter?” Caldwell asks again, his voice breaking. “Here, but not here,” the entity replies. She sleeps within while I wear her form. Soon she will sleep forever and I will have learned enough to

perfect my disguise.
Then perhaps I will try her sister. Two is always better than one. Don’t you agree? Eleanor appears in the doorway. Abigail clutched protectively in her arms. She stares at Elizabeth in horror. Edward, what is happening to our child? Before Caldwell can respond, Elizabeth stands. Her movements

unnaturally fluid. The charade grows tiresome.
She says, “I had hoped to maintain this form longer, but your photographer has complicated matters with his machine that sees too clearly.” She turns to Sullivan, her reptilian eyes fixing on him with malevolent intelligence. “You should have stayed with your chemicals and your pictures, Mr.

Sullivan. Now you are part of this.
” The electric lights in the washroom flicker and dim. Sullivan feels a coldness that goes beyond physical chill. A sense of ancient malice that fills the room like a tangible presence. Leave my home, Caldwell commands, stepping between the entity and his wife and daughter. Release my child and be

gone.
Elizabeth laughs, a sound like breaking glass. Your authority means nothing to me, healer of bodies. I am older than your bloodline, older than your civilization. I take what I wish. Sullivan, acting on instinct rather than courage, raises his camera and triggers the flash powder.

The room fills with brilliant light for an instant, and Elizabeth shrieks, not in the voice of a child, but in an inhuman whale that makes the mirrors crack and the windows rattle. When the light fades, Elizabeth crumples to the floor like a marionette with cut strings. Caldwell rushes to her side,

checking for signs of life. She’s breathing, he announces, relief evident in his voice, but unconscious.
Elellanar hurries forward, still holding Abigail. Is it? Is that thing gone? I don’t know, Caldwell admits, lifting Elizabeth’s eyelid gently. The eye beneath is normal. Brown iris, round pupil. It appears so, at least for now. Sullivan stares at his camera in wonder. The flash powder. It must have

disrupted whatever hold that entity had on her. Light against darkness, Caldwell murmurs.
Perhaps the oldest remedy of all. They move Elizabeth to her bed, where Caldwell examines her thoroughly. He finds no physical abnormalities, though her pulse is rapid and her skin unnaturally cool to the touch. Sullivan remains with the family, unwilling to leave them alone after what they have

witnessed. As night falls, Elizabeth remains unconscious.
Abigail refuses to sleep in the nursery, so a makeshift bed is prepared for her in her parents’ room. Sullivan keeps vigil outside Elizabeth’s door, his camera ready, though he doubts the efficacy of another flash if the entity should return. Shortly after midnight, Sullivan hears movement from

within Elizabeth’s room.
Opening the door cautiously, he sees the child sitting upright in bed, her expression confused and frightened. “Mr. Sullivan,” she calls, her voice small and unmistakably that of a child. “Where is Mama? Where is Papa?” “They’re nearby, Miss Elizabeth.” Sullivan assures her, keeping his distance.

“How do you feel?” “My head hurts,” she whimpers. “And I had terrible dreams.
There was something inside me, Mr. Sullivan. something that wasn’t me. Using my eyes to see and my mouth to speak. Sullivan approaches slowly. Do you remember anything else about these dreams, Miss Elizabeth? The girl nods, tears welling in her eyes. It was angry at you.

It said your camera could see its true nature, and that made you dangerous. She looks up at him, her eyes now perfectly normal, filled with childish fear. It’s still here, Mr. Sullivan. Not inside me anymore, but nearby, watching, waiting. Sullivan calls for Dr. Caldwell, who rushes to his

daughter’s side. After a brief examination, he embraces Elizabeth tightly. “My child,” he whispers. “My own dear child.
” Elizabeth clings to her father. Papa it wants Abigail now. It told me so. It thinks she would make a better vessel. She stumbles over the unfamiliar word. Eleanor joins them, bringing Abigail, who approaches her twin cautiously at first, then with growing confidence as she recognizes her sister’s

true nature restored.
What do we do now? Eleanor asks, her arm protectively around both girls. If that thing is still here, still watching us. Caldwell turns to Sullivan. Your camera revealed what our eyes could not see. Perhaps it can help us again. Throughout the night, Sullivan takes photographs of the house. Every

room, every corner. As he develops them in a makeshift dark room setup in Dr.
Caldwell’s study, a pattern emerges. In several images, particularly those of shadowy areas, there appears a faint elongated silhouette that should not be there, a presence without a physical form. By dawn, they have a plan. Dr. Caldwell has read of rituals to banish unwanted entities, combining

elements from various traditions. Eleanor, raised in the Catholic faith, contributes prayers and symbols.
Sullivan’s contribution is light, powerful, purifying light to expose what lurks in darkness. The ritual begins at noon when the sun is at its highest point. The curtains are drawn back in every room, flooding the house with natural light. Caldwell recites ancient words of banishment while Eleanor

leads the twins in prayer.
Sullivan moves through the house using mirrors to reflect sunlight into the darkest corners, followed by bursts from his flash powder to illuminate spaces the sun cannot reach. The atmosphere in the house grows heavy, oppressive. The temperature drops despite the summer heat outside.

In the nursery, where they believe the entity first attached itself to Elizabeth, the ritual reaches its climax. Show yourself, Caldwell commands, his voice firm despite his fear. You have no claim here. No right to these children or this home. A shadow darker than natural darkness begins to

coalesce in the center of the room. It shifts and writhes, taking on vaguely humanoid form before dissolving back into amorphous blackness.
You cannot banish what you do not understand. A voice hisses from the shadow, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. I have walked your world since before your kind learned to speak. I will find another vessel, another child with an invitation in their heart. Not here, Elellanar declares,

standing protectively before her daughters.
Not today, Sullivan positions his camera, aiming directly at the shadow. Light reveals truth, he says, triggering the flash powder. The entity shrieks as the brilliant light cuts through its form. Sullivan continues, igniting flash after flash. Each burst accompanied by Caldwell’s words of

banishment and Elellaner’s prayers.
The shadow begins to fracture, pieces of darkness breaking away like shards of black glass. A howling wind fills the room, though no window is open. The entity makes one final desperate lunge toward Abigail, but Elizabeth steps in front of her sister, her expression defiant. “You can’t have her,”

Elizabeth states firmly. “You can’t have any of us.
” With a sound-like thunder contained in a small space, the shadow implodes, collapsing in on itself until nothing remains but a lingering chill that soon dissipates in the warm summer air. The Caldwell family stands in silence for a long moment. Then Elizabeth turns to her parents. “It’s gone,” she

says simply.
“I can feel that it’s gone.” In the days that follow, life gradually returns to normal for the Caldwells. Elizabeth’s behavior is once again that of a typical six-year-old girl, though she retains fragmented memories of her time as host to the entity. Abigail no longer fears her twin, and the

sisters are inseparable once more.
Sullivan completes the family portrait as originally commissioned, capturing the Caldwells in a moment of genuine happiness. In this final photograph, both twins eyes appear perfectly normal, reflecting light as human eyes should with no hint of the darkness that had briefly inhabited Elizabeth.

Before leaving Blackwood to return to his studio in Boston, Sullivan visits the Caldwells one last time. Dr. Caldwell takes him aside, speaking in hush tones. We will never speak of what happened here, Caldwell says.
The world is not ready to acknowledge such things, but we will remember and we will be vigilant. Sullivan nods in agreement. The photographs I took during the incident have been destroyed, save for one which I have sealed away. Some truths are too dangerous to share widely, but too important to

forget entirely.
As Sullivan boards the train that will take him back to Boston, he carries with him a small leather case. Inside is a single photograph, the original portrait of the twins, where Elizabeth’s inhuman eyes reveal the truth that others could not see. He does not know if he will ever show it to anyone,

but he understands its value as evidence of things beyond ordinary human perception.
Years later, in 1956, long after Sullivan has passed away, the photograph finds its way into the archives of the Society for Psychical Research. Experts examining the image with modern technology zoom in on the twins faces, noticing the striking difference in their eyes. Debates ensue about

photographic anomalies, double exposures, and the limitations of early 20th century photography.
But a few researchers, those willing to consider possibilities beyond conventional explanation, recognize the photograph for what it truly is. Evidence that sometimes what the camera sees is more honest than what our eyes perceive. that sometimes what appears to be a sweet portrait of identical

twins can reveal a momentary glimpse into the darkness that occasionally finds its way into our world, wearing a human face, but possessing eyes that are anything but human. And somewhere perhaps that ancient entity still watches and waits, seeking another child with an invitation

in their heart and enough innocence to believe that sharing oneself with a friendly shadow is nothing more than an exciting game.