The Photograph
by Jeffrey Buford Jr.

The photograph of the house was faded. The ends of the smoked stained paper beneath the photograph were crumbling. He gently closed a book over the photograph, and sighed, joyfully relieved of the poignant memories the house had strangely conjured. The windows of the house were dark holes of limitless space, hollow eyes looking out at the inquisitive traveler. Houses are nothing more than a laboratory, designed to preserve the memories of human existence, to incarcerate the spirit of the human body. Adam gripped his chair, hands sweaty and aching with pain, fully aware of the photograph that he pulled out from the bookshelf. It injures the soul to sweep away the memories in one’s mind. Adam had a good chance at succeeding in life, he was elected class treasurer and he supported many of the can food drives sponsored by the pillars of support.

He graduated from high school with honors, courageously accepting his invitation to a very pleasant college outside of town. The classroom environment became his only problem, though he attended class regularly. Adam grew tired of his professor’s lectures and mind numbing quizzes. Something slightly peculiar happened to Adam one evening as he was walking home. One of the oldest and most highly respected professors on campus approached him.

“Adam Wheeler,” said Dr. Rosenberg. “May I speak with you for one moment?”

“Sure.”

“We’re looking for a photographer, do you know any?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Anyway, we need someone to photograph some historical locations around town. I’m not referring to the newly built casino downtown either.”

“I understand.”

“Can you help me?”

The campus was silent; many of the students nearby had already left for class or went home. The kids didn’t like hanging around outside, they preferred the quiet and comfortable environment indoors. The weather wasn’t perfect; the ground was damp with mid evening rain.

“I’m not exactly a photographer, Mr. Rosenberg.”

“I don’t care about that, Adam. Do you know how to use a camera?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s basically all you need to know, we’re going to post the pictures in our bulletin for next months seasonal activities. Many of the administrators have decided to honor our historical community.”

Mr. Rosenberg was the grandfatherly type professor, which frightened Adam in a way. He took Illinois History with Mr. Rosenberg during first semester. Adam knew very little about the old bald headed teacher many of his classmates gossiped about.

“It’s about time,” said Adam.

“This community really needs to work on educating the youth about the history of our town.”

“True!”

“But, you know how that goes!”

Adam began searching the small quiet, midwestern town for the most attractive houses, and he had a large selection to choose from. 12th street was famous for its elegant and stylish mansions, the kind of mansions with the decorative, sprawling gardens and large bay windows. Adam felt like an unwanted intruder, nervously snapping pictures of the colorful houses lined up along 12th street. Adam approached the last house on the right. Adam opened up another box of film and placed it into the camera, he snapped a picture of the house. There was something overwhelmingly haunting about the lively mansion, its arched windows and colorful singles held some kind of power over Adam. Isolated spots in the yard were bare and naked, untouched by thick, green grass. The unleveled concrete sidewalk was cracked, and the small cracks near the steps flourished with dandelions and weeds.

“What are you doing?” asked a curious, soft voice from behind Adam.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just taking a picture.”

“Of what?”

Adam questioned the voice from behind him; he didn’t like the feeling of eyes watching him. Eyes made him feel unprotected, and the voice stripped him of all of his courageousness. He pushed the 35mm camera into a small, black pouch hanging on his belt. A short old man was staring at him. His glazed eyes had examined the high-tech item he placed in his pouch.

“What was that thing?” asked the old man.

“It’s a camera.”

“Fancy little things, huh?”

“I guess so.”

“I could use one of those.”

“They’re pretty cheap, you can find one at the store.”

The old man paused, his yellow teeth could be seen through his salt and pepper colored mustache.

“Which store?”

“Any store.”

“Maybe I’ll go downtown and buy myself a camera.”

“You should do that.”

Adam could feel his legs moving, they were slowly moving away from the house. The house overshadowed much of the yard, and the sidewalk was nice and sunny. Adam stopped just as his foot was about to come down onto the top of the first step. The old man seemed to be analyzing him, stripping him with his elderly eyes.

“I have to get going,” said Adam. “I’ve got to develop these pictures.”

The old man scratched his head and looked up at the house, it seemed as if his eyes were outlining the structure.

“I understand,” said the elderly man. “Young kids are always busy these days.”

“That’s true.”

Adam jumped down the steps and he followed the sidewalk until he came to the end of the block, he looked down the street and as he began to cross the old man shouted at him in a very loud and enthusiastic voice.

“Young man!”

“Yeah.”

“What kind of pictures are you taking?”

“I’m taking pictures of historical houses,” said Adam. “It’s kind of like an assignment.”

“Like a class project?” he asked

“Exactly.”

Adam crossed the road and when he turned around to shoot the old man a final, nervous look of fright, he discovered that he was gone. Strange thoughts filled his mind, thoughts of failure and heartache.

What if the pictures turn out to be hideous?

The walk home was peaceful and refreshing, the smell of the leaves freshly pasted on the ground brought childhood memories back to him. He ignored the scent of his youthful years, leaving his past to stand alone in the dark.

The next morning, Adam dropped off his role of film and waited outside of the drug store. His leg was moving up and down, up and down. He didn’t want the pictures to come out all distorted and ugly, he wanted to give Mr. Rosenberg a collection of nice photographs. Every time he thought about the old mansion on the end of 12th street, the old man entered his mind.

When Adam held the photos in his hand he thought about Mr. Rosenberg. He wanted to please Mr. Rosenberg, and even if the pictures didn’t come out very well he tried his best to take the damn pictures. He opened the small orange colored envelope and pulled out the photographs. He quickly examined each picture. He smiled at his photographs.

He was pleased with every picture he took, however there was one picture that he didn’t feel comfortable with. It was the picture of the last house on the end of 12th street. The picture moved; the grass in yard appeared to be blowing back and forth in the air. The windows filled up with moving lights. The peculiar photograph, perhaps haunted by the inhabitants of the house, spoke in a strange and foreign tongue.
Mr. Rosenberg was pleased with Adam’s efforts, Adam had successfully captured many of the towns’ most elaborate, historical homes.

“Wonderful, you did an outstanding job, Adam.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, these pictures are great!”

Mr. Rosenberg let the pictures fall across his desk; he began to separate the photographs. His eyes were searching for something, and when his eyes found that strange something Adam’s heart skipped a beat.

“Where did you find this photograph?” he asked Adam, holding up the photograph of the astonishing house that moved.

“12th street I think.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You saw the house with your own eyes.”

“Exactly.”

By now, Adam thought Mr. Rosenberg was loosing his mind. He glared at the photograph and took a deep breath.

“This house burned down many years ago.”

“What?”

“You seem surprised, Adam. This house has been gone for many years. I don’t know how you managed to come up with this picture, maybe you found it in your grandmother’s photo album or something, I don’t know. I imagine I can find a place for this picture in the bulletin.”

“I didn’t find that picture in my grandmother’s photo album, Mr. Rosenberg. I saw the house with my own eyes. I was there yesterday, and I met an old man, too.”

Mr. Rosenberg chuckled, he gathered all the photographs together and placed them on the edge of his desk.

“You’re a wonderful student, Adam. I’ve always admired your dedication and your ambition, but I don’t see why you feel like you have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“Calm down, Adam. It’s going to be all right, I’ll publish the photographs in the bulletin.”

“I don’t care about the bulletin, Mr. Rosenberg. I care about you believing me. I took that picture yesterday, look on the back.”

Mr. Rosenberg turned the photograph over and to his own amazement he found that Adam was telling the truth.

“I can’t believe this,” he said. “Come with me, Adam. We’re going to find the house.”

The car stopped at the end of 12th street, and when Adam saw the large, empty lot overgrown with weeds and bushes he almost fainted. Mr. Rosenberg killed the engine.

“So, this is it,” said Mr. Rosenberg.

An old man approached Mr. Rosenberg and Adam; perhaps the old man had come out of nowhere. He stood on the sidewalk, a few feet away from the car and pointed at Adam.

“I know you,” said the old man. “I saw you here yesterday taking pictures.”

“Yeah, that was me,” said Adam.

“I bought me one of those cameras, can you believe that? I took a whole bunch of pictures. I have a question for you, son.”

“Yes,” said Adam.

“Why were you taking pictures of an empty lot?”

“Well,” said Adam. “Maybe I was seeing something entirely different from your eyes.”

 

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