The Photograph

 This is going to serve as my suicide note, but more importantly as a warning. If you go to garage sales or antique stores, don't buy old photographs.

It started about a week ago. I live alone. I have no family or friends, and my job I now work permanently from home. I started working from home during the pandemic, and my boss told me and the other employees we could continue to do so if we wanted to. Being the anti-social butterfly (or maybe house fly) that I am, I opted to stay at home. This got boring after about a year. The outings to get groceries weren't exactly exciting, so I finally decided it was time to do some exploring. A new antique store had recently opened and I was starting to see more and more garage sales popping up again. I figured I'd check out a few of the garage sales early on the weekend, and then go by the antique store last.

When I got to the newly opened antique store I was surprised by the state of the building. It had been set up in an ancient, dilapidated house on the outskirts of town. I'd gone past the house on a few occasions and it always gave me the creeps. Why it hadn't been torn down yet remained a mystery. An even bigger mystery though was why anyone would have turned it into an antique store. I pulled up the driveway, put the car into park, and stepped out. I walked up the creaking front steps onto an ivy and moss covered front porch. A sign hung on the screen front door that read OPEN. I went inside.

The rich, heavy smell of incense filled my nostrils and I almost coughed with how strong it was. The whole house was covered in thin, lazy wisps of smoke. The walls were covered in art work, photos, and various tools and even some old clothing items. The floors were jam-packed with dressers, desks, tables, chairs, trunks and bins, and all sort of odds and ends. The tables were adorned with knick-knacks of all kinds and even the walk space had various rugs with price tags on them. As I slowly walked down the main hall, taking in all the objects and items, a voice rang out from behind me. I jumped.

"Good day, sir." It was a short and frail looking old woman. She was wearing a purple dress with a thick and bushy overcoat. Her gaunt face gave away her frailty, as did her graying and scattered bits of hair. Her eyes were graying over, and I was sure she was blind. She was quite frightening looking to be honest, but I knew that was mean to think. Her voice though, sweet and youthful sounding, was anything but scary. After the initial shock of hearing her voice I immediately realized what a lovely voice she really had.

"Good day," I replied with a smile. "How are you doing?"

"Oh quite fine, thank you," she replied. "Can I help you find anything?"

"No, thanks, just browsing around."

"Well I have something you might like, deary." She motioned for me to follow her. I shrugged to myself and went with her. She brought me down a side hall and into what must have been the master bedroom. She bent down on the far side of the room and when she turned she held in her hands an old photograph framed in wood. It looked like rough branches and twigs intertwined and twisted together to form the borders, and they looked incredibly old. The photo within the frame was an old black and white picture of four people. A man, a woman, a man, and a woman, in that order. They were all arm in arm and were smiling happily out at me. They stood in the middle of a field with a clear sky overhead and a beautiful, full looking forest behind them. I instantly liked the photo. I didn't even stop to question why I liked it so much, or how the old lady had known I would like it so much.

Next thing I knew I was in my car heading down the driveway, with that picture sitting in the passenger seat next to me. The old lady was waving at me from the front porch in my rear view mirror. She had a broad smile on her face, and for a moment she seemed to look much younger, and almost different, than before.

When I arrived home I went to my bedroom and put the picture upright against the wall on my dresser, right where I could see it and enjoy it. I lost track of time, but I realized I was getting hungry. It was already almost eight o'clock, so I went to the kitchen to make some dinner. I decided I was going to look at my picture while I ate my food. I brought my plate of chicken salad sandwich and coleslaw into the bedroom and sat down on my bed. I looked up at the picture as I took a bite of my sandwich.

I stopped mid-bite. The picture had changed. At least I thought it had. The two women were now standing next to each other, and the two men next to each other. I could have sworn they weren't like that before. I know they weren't. Sitting here writing this down, I remember it all now. They had definitely changed in the picture. They still wore the same smiles and cherry expressions as before. I decided I had imagined it at the time, or remembered it wrong or something. Anything to rationalize it. I went to bed shortly after, unable to finish my dinner.

I woke up the next day and got ready to start my work, barely paying any attention to the photo. I felt sore and achy, not at all rested, and figured I had slept wrong. I usually slept alright but this morning I was not feeling up to par. I started my work, and on my first break I decided to go in and take a look at the picture. I froze.

The picture had changed again. The four people now stood as they had initially, man-woman-man-woman, but now the sky had clouds in it, and all the trees in the forest behind were bare. No leaves to be seen, and even the field looked as if it was mostly dirt instead of grass. The people were no longer smiling, but stared blank-faced out at me. Then I began to feel a crushing sense of hopelessness. It was a feeling I had never felt before. It washed over me causing my whole body to feel numb. I stared at the picture and then I fell to my knees. Tears flooded my eyes as I began to cry uncontrollably. I sobbed until I fell asleep. I didn't wake up until later in the night. I got up off the floor and turned on the bedroom light. I looked immediately at the picture. Four happy, smiling faces stared at me, though this time much closer than before. The hopelessness was still there, but less intense, and I simply turned off the light and crawled into bed.

The next day was uneventful. Every time I looked at the picture it remained the same. The four faces, smiling, happy, and close, so very close. I barely got any work done. I felt physically and mentally weak. I couldn't focus on anything. I ended up calling my boss to tell him I was sick. I actually thought that I was coming down with the flu or something. Maybe even COVID. But I had no symptoms. I didn't have a fever, no sweating or coughing or sneezing. By the end of the day I started to realize it was all mental. I'd never felt this way before. It was this crushing weight. It was depression. All the while those four happy faces smiled at me, but I didn't like them anymore.

The next day things really began to get bad. I woke up in a cold sweat. The bed sheets and pillow around me were soaked and I was cold and clammy. I was breathing heavily. I sat upright in bed and began to shiver. It was cold in the room. I could see my breath. I could actually see my own breath it was so cold. I reached over and turned on the light next to my bed. I looked at the picture on my dresser, and I burst into tears. The four people were still smiling, but now they were all laughing as well. They were bent over laughing, in obvious and dramatic poses. They were laughing at me. I knew they were. I felt ugly and ashamed. I was nothing. I sat and cried for hours. When I finally got out of bed I felt angry. I went over to picture and picked it up, glaring at the four comedians standing in that stupid field in front of those stupid trees. I screamed at the picture and I flung it across the room. It hit the mirror on the opposite wall and shattered it. I screamed again and rushed over to it. It had landed face up. The people were still laughing. Laughing and now pointing at me. I fell to my knees again, the tears welling up inside once more. It was hopeless, all of it was hopeless. I picked up a piece of glass from the broken mirror and I sliced my upper forearm. I had never cut a day in my life, I never understood why people did it until that moment. The relief. The sweet sensation of feeling something other than nothingness. I watched as blood trickled out of the cut and rolled down my skin, felt the gentle tickle of it. It was good. I looked down at the picture. They weren't laughing now. But they were still smiling so smugly. A single drop of blood fell from my arm and landed in the center of the picture. I nodded approvingly and got up. I went to wash and bandage my arm, and then I went out to the kitchen to get something to eat.

I did not go back to my room until later that night. I mostly watched TV throughout the day, not having the strength or desire to do anything else. It was mindless and numbing but it was something. Every now and again I would squeeze the cut on my arm just so I could wince a little at the pain. The sweet, sweet pain. When it got late I finally felt tired. I knew I had to go to bed. I went into the bedroom and to my horror the picture was now sitting atop my dresser again. The blood that had dripped on it was gone, and the four faces now looked angry. They were now glaring at me, and their fingers were still pointing. I felt ashamed again, embarrassed. I felt myself begin to cry, but this time I stopped myself. This time I got angry right away, and this time I grabbed the stupid picture off my dresser and I went outside. I opened the trash bin and threw it inside with all my might.

"And stay in there you bastards!" I shouted at the top of my lungs before slamming the lid shut. I stood breathing heavily, my chest heaving up and down, glaring now at the lid of the bin. My breath finally started to slow and I began to feel a bit better. It didn't seem so dark now. It didn't feel like I was having the breath, life, and my very soul crushed out of me. I went back inside and into the restroom to wash my hands. I washed them and then stared at myself in the mirror. I was fine I told myself. I thought maybe I was sick with the flu, and this was all some sort of crazy fever dream.

I woke up the next day to the sight of the damn picture back on top of my damn dresser. I opened my eyes and felt dread as the four faces leered down at me, triumphant and malicious smiles spread wide on their faces. I sat up quickly and stared in disbelief.

"No!" I shouted. "No I threw you out! You're not here!" I screamed so loud. But then it washed over me once again. That complete and utter hopelessness. I had lost. There was nothing left. Nothing except...

I got up and ran to my dresser drawer. I pulled out a book of matches and grabbed the picture. I went into the bathroom and threw the picture into the bathtub. Then I went to grab papers. I piled papers underneath and around the picture and lit a match. I lit the papers on fire and watched as they and the picture became engulfed in flames. This had to work, but something in my gut knew the real outcome. And sure enough as the flames began to die down I saw that the picture was still wholly intact as the papers turned to ash around it. I shook my head and then looked at myself in the mirror. Yes. Hopeless.

The next few days I did nothing but lay in bed, watching the picture. The people continued to beam down at me, nothing but hateful glee in their eyes. Finally today I got out of bed so I could write this down. I know I have no choice. My arm keeps hurting, almost like it's telling me to do it. I know I have no choice. I can hear them laughing now. The four of them are laughing in the picture again, and I can hear them. Their laughs are echoing around my head now. I think I can even feel them moving around me. Circling me, pointing at me, mocking me. I'm going to go kill myself now, I think just slit my wrists. I'm going to put the picture in my top dresser drawer, and hopefully once I'm gone it will stay there.

Whoever finds this, don't look in the dresser. Don't look at the picture. Bury it somewhere deep and forget about it. And whoever reads this, whatever you do, don't by old antique photos. You never know what, or who, you're bringing home with you.