“There it is. Old Jameson’s place.” Leo squirms in the grass and looks ahead with gleeful at the, ominous, old house in the distance.
“Please explain why we are here again…” I glance around nervously in the dark, mentally kicking myself for tagging along in the first place. No moon is out tonight; it is thoroughly dark.
“Damien, my brother claims that this place has been empty for years ever since Finnius Jameson passed away,” Leo begins (immediately my mind pictures the notorious serial killer from way back in 1934), “but one time he saw someone inside the house.”
“So it’s abandoned and haunted.”
“No,” he snorts. “Obviously something’s in there, and I want to find out what. It could be a dead body in there, you know like one of his models, or there could be a fortune stashed away somewhere.”
Reluctantly, I follow him inside, wary of the darkness closing in as he shuts the door. All is dead quiet, too quiet, and the air smells of must and mildew. Glancing around, I see nothing but shadows of doorframes and a winding staircase. When I turn back, Leo is gone.
“Leo!” I whisper hoarsely. “Where did you go?”
No answer.
“Leo!” I call out louder.
The stairs welcome me, and hesitantly I climb them, wondering what I will find up on the second floor. Doors line the corridor, but one is slightly ajar. Assuming Leo went through that one, I eagerly approach it and push it open wider. Not surprisingly, the room is dark and stuffy, and Leo is not in there.
It is an old bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in white sheets covered in a layer of dust. A broken chair lies in the corner, and a black beetle comes scuttling out from underneath it, hurrying off to a new hiding place. Something else is beneath the chair as well. I approach the antique furniture and reach under only to pull out a leather-bound satchel. As soon as I grasp the bag, I hear footsteps running straight towards the room I’m in, and eventually Leo appears.
“C’mon, bud,” he says, sounding a bit shaken. “One of the tenants has arrived. We need to go now before they see us.”
Without a second thought, I shoulder the satchel and run off with him until we are far away from the ominous wake of the Jameson house.

“Mommy’s not gonna be happy with you in the morning,” says a sleepy-eyed Judy, my eight year old sister as she emerges from her bedroom.
I shush her and put a finger to my lips before climbing up the stairs to my room. Alone in bed, I thoughtfully finger the satchel and tentatively open it, pulling out the contents inside. One is a leather-bound book with the engraving of “F.J.” on it. Inside are many black and white pictures of different people- men, woman, and children with either blank stares or pleasant smiles. I turn over some of the photos to see if there are memos on the back. There are only names, which are strangely crossed out for some reason.
Disinterested, I toss the photos aside and pull out the last object from the satchel. It’s a camera, a genuine 1932 Boy Scout Kodak. I stare at the beauty in amazement and then realize that this camera possibly belonged to Jameson and that those people in the photos were the models he slaughtered years ago. I am intrigued and inspect the Kodak more closely. It’s dusty all over, but the lens seems to be the only thing that is flawlessly undisturbed. I wonder if it still works as I raise it slightly.
Take a picture.
Maybe it was the camera telling me to or maybe it was simply my consciousness urging me on.
I raise the camera and snap! the lights go out instantly. I jump automatically.
“The hell?” I mutter as I adjust myself from the slight shock. I hear a mechanical, whizzing noise and look down as the camera spits out a slowly developing picture. “Whatever…” I shake my head and gather up the rest of the photos until something catches my eye. One of the photographs has changed- or is it a trick of the light? A woman in the photo who had been looking to the side was now staring RIGHT AT ME. I look away and then look back.
I shriek in terror and drop the photograph.
Her face is… not normal. It’s… distorted, hellish, demonic with a malevolent countenance. Her eyes, those awful eyes are wide open in silent, murderous rage with only the veiny whites showing. They peer up at me from the ground as I gape in horror down at her, staring at the way her once pleasant smile now hangs open abnormally as a cavernous, snarling scream. Too frightened to move an inch, I squeeze my eyes shut and wait before hesitantly peeking at the photograph once more.
Her pose is normal as if nothing had occurred. Quivering a little, I imagine a grotesque scene of Jameson in my room, hovering over me, waiting for me to nod off with his bloodied knife in hand. The moment I close my eyes, he raises the blade. Then he plunges it in my belly, eviscerating me from my naval to my chest, spilling my intestines coated in my warm, crimson blood.
I snap out of it immediately.
Was I seeing things? I look at the photo then at the camera and then back at the photo again. Picking it up, I shove it in the satchel. I cram the Kodak in my dresser drawer and quickly jump into bed, hoping that what I had just witnessed was only my eyes deceiving me.

“Honestly, Damien, are you screwing with me?” Leo asks in disbelief. Earlier I explained what had happened last night since our adventure in the Jameson house, but Leo pronounced it as a load of bull. “There’s no way-“
“Just look at it!” I snap, shoving the picture in his hands. “In fact, take the entire stack and flip through them yourself. I’m telling you they weren’t always like this.”
Leo looks at me, startled. “Damien, you’re scaring me a bit,” he says earnestly. “Maybe it’s as you said before: trick of the light?”
Before I can say another word, Judy stumbles into my room, breathless just as we were heading out the door. “Where are you guys headed?” she squeaked.
“No where…” I mutter.
“Out climbin’ trees,” Leo answers benevolently, aside from my blunt reply.
She follows us outside, and I instantly grow annoyed. I know deep down I shouldn’t be acting this way, but from the previous events last night I am fairly shaken up. Unfortunately my behavior is revealed when we approach the old tree in our frontyard. After a few minutes of swinging in the tree like crazed monkeys, Leo descends from a branch stating he has to use the bathroom and leaves temporarily.
Judy gazes at the tree. “I wanna try.”
I sneer although I shouldn’t. “Try all you want, but you can’t go higher. You’re only a girl anyway.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I wish I didn’t say them. Judy gives me one look and jumps to the first branch. I watch anxiously and hold my breath as she struggles to regain her footing and settles in a sitting position. My anger subsides and cools down to mellow annoyance.
“All right, Judy. You made your point, now just come down from there. You’ll f-“
“Holy- Judy! How’d you get so high up?” Leo’s voice interrupts my concern. “Stay there just like that. Lemme get a picture.”
I turn abruptly and notice the camera he reveals from behind his back. It’s my camera. Old Jameson’s Kodak.
In the mere seconds of thinking what to do, I remember the horrific apparition in the photograph. I remember the lights going out. I remember the photos of the people Jameson slaughtered. I remember the names all crossed out as if insinuating that the deed was done.
“Leo!” I scream. “Don’t-“
Too late.
Snap!
Leo presses the button automatically. Judy smiles beatifically up high in that tree. Her smile fades. Snap! The branch gives way beneath her. My lungs are caught in my throat; I can’t breathe. She’s at least nine feet in the air. I hear her shrieking scream, watch her tiny body fall so, so fast.
Slam!
Her body meets collision.
Snap!
The awful sound of her neck breaking instantly when she hits the asphalt.
Crack!
Her petit skull opens immediately and her brains- her brains! spill over onto the driveway. I watch in horror as her thin legs quiver for a moment and then lie still. She is dead.
“JUDY!” I shriek and rush over to her immobile frame, holding her close to me. Something warm, wet, and sticky seeps through my shirt, and I realize that it is her blood, leaking out of her head- her blood! “Why is there so much blood?” I howl.
Leo simply stares a few feet away utterly dumbfounded, completely horrified. “Damien… Is she… Is she d…?”
“Get out of here, you bastard!” is my only reply to him.
“Damien…”
“I said get out of here!”

Leo is confused. The dirty little…
LS: Damien I’m so sorry about what happened.
Seen at 2:57 pm
Why did you do it Leo??
LS: Do what???
Seen at 2:59 pm
I didn’t cause her death Damien!
? :/
Seen at 3:00 pm
DAMIEN
Seen at 3:18 pm
Are you still goin’ on about that goddamn camera???
Seriously?
Seen at 3:21 pm
Never mention her death to me again Leo.
LS: ??
I DIDN’T CAUSE THIS
Seen at 3:30 pm
I cant believe u
DID YOU SEE HER FALL?!?!
LS: Ya no sh*t
I’m SORRY ok
Seen at 3:35 pm
Low life.
LS: Excuse me????
It shoulda been you.

EIGHTEEN YEARS LATER
It was him. He knew all along, and the presence of the Kodak mocks me everyday, reminding me of what it was used for.
Our friendship ended the day after Judy’s death.
I can’t be a friend with a murderer.
But now I have my weapon. Perhaps he’ll openly believe me when I use it on him. Perhaps he’ll be remorseful. Perhaps he’ll beg for his life. Perhaps I’ll kill him with it.

I test my Kodak. A stray cat saunters along the sidewalk, heading toward the bushes. Snap! goes the click of the button.
The next day the beast lies dead along the side of the road; ants surround its entrails.
I take a photo of the driver, who had run over the poor mongrel as he steps into the front seat.
Minutes later at an intersection, a larger truck collides into his vehicle, killing him instantly.
I kill the truck driver for killing.

Leo had struggled the entire way to the Jameson place or whatever was left of it; I could hear him kicking around in the trunk. Ruins upon ruins of the three-story house meet my eyes, a sight I had not gazed upon in eighteen years. What other secrets will unfold inside that godforsaken building? I lead Leo into the house with a knife at his ribs and march him upstairs to where I had found the Kodak. Though bound and gagged securely, Leo makes plenty of noise until a quick jab at his side warns him to keep quiet.
He is crying as I dump him against the wall. I enjoy this, watching him suffer as I had suffered. Pulling out the camera, I set it on the floor in front of him.
“Remember this?”
Leo chokes on his tears. Of course he cannot speak. He incoherently begs for his life as I draw in closer.
“Did you know that she loved you?” He says nothing. “No. Of course you didn’t, you filth. Do you have any idea what I’m about to make you do?” I indicate the camera and grin wildly. “I’m going to make you believe.” As I remove the cloth from his mouth, I add, “Better take this thing off.”
Leo cries out immediately, “What do you want from me?”
I am so close; I am in his face. “I want to hear you scream,” I growl, “just like she did.” Raising the camera to his face, I say with a laugh, “Now smile!” Without hesitation, I take a picture, lower the camera, and wait for the photograph to develop. Nothing happens.
My smile fades. Why wasn’t this working? After every single useless death- was it all in vain? I plotted this, schemed to be my sister’s avenger, and my problem was staring me in the face, fearfully anticipating the moment when his thread of life would be cut. Temples throb, and fists clench, clench around my knife so tight that the knuckles whiten. With a shriek of frustration and murder, I whirl upon Leo, knife raised in the darkness.
He screams in terror, which turns to pain as I shove my blade into his abdomen, viciously twisting it within his insides to have the thrill of hearing another bellow of agony.
Friends never stab friends in the back.
Instead, I plunge the knife into his chest not just once or twice but multiple times until he cannot scream anymore. The only sound he utters is a groan of anguish and then a gulp as he chokes on his own blood. Grabbing his hair, I thrust his head back with grunts of satisfaction and slide my knife across his throat.
Blood spurts and sloshes onto the wood floor as his body crumbles to the side. I pull away, breathing heavy and glancing at my bloodied blade.
Why is there so much blood?
A short laugh erupts from my lips, and then I sober, running my hands through my already sweat-soaked hair. Leo was dead. The Kodak never killed him. I killed him. The realization hits me like a searing bullet to the gut as I stumble backwards and slump against the wall opposite the corpse. There was nothing wrong with the camera. Maybe I was crazy enough to believe there was. All those “murders” were accidents, merely accidents. Leo never killed Judy… but I killed Leo.
The Kodak lies amidst the pool of Leo’s blood and tentatively I reach over to grab it and lift it to my eyes. Knowing what I know now, I almost wish it would kill me, slaughter me just like I slaughtered my best friend. I chuckle ruefully at the thought and snap a photograph automatically.
Someone turns out the lights.
I hear footsteps, like chains scraping against the wood floor, molten chains of hell.
Quicker than any breath I draw, cold hands drag me down, many hands, hands of hell, dragging me to my prepared demise. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it does work after all. Irony is a cruel thing.