Blackwood Manor

I stepped into what looked like the living room of Blackwood Manor with my camera slung over my shoulder. The first thing I noticed was an old blue couch that sat in the middle, its upholstery now faded and torn. In front of the couch was a coffee table, coated in layers of dust along its surface. To the right of the couch was a red armchair with sagging cushions and impressions still left behind. In the back corner, stood a grandfather clock with its arms and pendulum frozen in time.

I ran my finger along the table, leaving behind a clean trail of mahogany wood. How long had it been since someone else set foot in here?

My gaze drifted to the rear wall, lined with empty picture frames. They stared back at me as if watching my every move. I examined each one and imagined the images they once held.

I crept closer. But as I do, my eye caught on one that was different. A single frame that wasn't empty. My heart skipped a beat. There wasn’t much to see. Most of it, missing and torn away. Yet what remained made me wonder all the same. It was a sepia-toned image of a person with the same grandfather clock lurking in the background. There was a jagged white line that cut off everything above their torso, isolating it in the bottom right corner of the photo.

"Who were you?" I whispered, my fingers tracing along the edge. "And…what happened here?"

I fumbled for my camera and framed the shot, documenting it.

Click.

The aperture shutter sounded, but my mind still burned with questions. What became of this person? What secrets did this place hold?

I needed to know more.

I retreated to the entryway of the room, spinning around to survey it once more. The emptiness felt oppressive now, as if the very walls were holding in their breath. Waiting to see what I would do next.

I raised my camera again, composing my shot in the viewfinder. The abandoned furniture, the empty frames, and that haunting photograph all fit within.

Click.

With a final glance, I stepped into the hallway—delving deeper into the manor.

The first room I encountered was the bedroom, a diorama of faded luxury. A four-poster bed dominated the space, its once brilliant white curtains now tattered and claimed to mold.

Click.

The bathroom told a different tale. Cracked tiles and a rust-stained bathtub.

Click.

In the kitchen, remnants of long-ago meals lingered. Dusty ceramic sat in open cabinets, and an ancient wood-fire stove stood in the corner.

The air felt thick here, as if countless conversations still hung in the air.

Click.

I went to push open the back door and—

"What do you think you're doing here?"

The words sent a jolt through my body.

I wasn’t alone here after all.

I slowly twisted around until I found its source. There, standing in the kitchen doorway, was a woman, who wasn’t there before.

I blinked hard, unable to form words. She was young, like me, but her outfit seemed out of place in the modern world. She wore an intricate blouse with lace on the collar and cuffs. The fabric was a muted cream color that contrasted her dark brown hair, which was pinned up in an elaborate style. Her long skirt, a deep forest green, brushed the floor, its hem slightly dusty from the worn wood. And a delicate cameo brooch adorned her throat, catching the dim light through the window.

Her outfit looked like she had stepped right out of the early 1900s, perfectly preserved, but also utterly bizarre for someone her age to wear.

But who was I to judge.

Before I could fully process anything more, she spoke again.

"This is private property. You cannot be here without a tour guide."

I blinked again. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't know. I was just looking around.”

Her gaze fell to my hip, curiosity replacing the stern look in her eyes. "What’s that?"

I glanced down. “That’s my camera. I work for The Tabloid—I'm a photographer.”

She continued to stare for a moment longer before returning her gaze to me. But then, her face lit up with joy, the change so abrupt it was almost startling.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?” The woman said. “I'm Clara. The local historian. I have been studying this place for years.”

Well, that explained her outfit. She dressed up for the tourists that would visit Millbrook.

“A pleasure to meet you, Clara. My name is Alex.” I said with a small smile. “Do you live around here?”

"Yes,” she replied. “I work and live in the little Welcome Center down the road. Want me to show you around?"

"I would be honored." I beamed.

We exited the manor with the late afternoon sun starting to set, the sky painted with a golden hue. Moving down the creaky wooden steps, we made our way onto its gravel path, the ground crunching beneath our feet.

"What makes you stay in Millbrook?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. It's a small town, after all, and I wondered what kept her tethered here.

"Well, I've always felt a connection to this place," Clara responded, her gaze drifting off into the distance. "There's something about it that just speaks to me."

I nodded even though I didn’t understand. "How long have you been the local historian?"

"Oh, for as long as I can remember." She chuckled. "It started as a hobby at first. I'd spend hours in the library, poring over old books and photographs. But, before I knew it, I was the go-to person for all things Millbrook."

I couldn't help but notice how at ease Clara seemed, despite the eerie atmosphere. She moved with a grace that felt almost unnatural.

"And the manor? What can you tell me about it?" I asked.

Clara's step falters for just a moment. It was so brief I almost missed it. "Ah, Blackwood Manor. That's the most important story there is. The Blackwood family was once the most prominent in Millbrook, but their legacy was... complicated."

“What was so complicated about it?”

Her eyes sparkled. "Well, the Blackwoods were quite the enigma. I've spent countless hours piecing their tale together, waiting to tell it to the eager tourists who stopped by."

We paused at a rusty gate and Clara ran her hand along its metal. “They lived at the very end of Millbrook's main street, you see. That grand manor you found yourself in."

I nodded.

"The funny thing is, they rarely ventured out. But when they did..." her voice trailed off, a hint of awe creeping in. "Oh, it was quite the spectacle!”

She mimicked the excitement, clasping her hands together. "‘The Blackwoods are coming to town!’ People would shout. Children would dash home to put on their Sunday best. Shopkeepers would hurriedly sweep their storefronts."

I could almost see it—the small town frantically preparing for the royal visit.

"And why all the fuss?" Clara continued. "Well, the Blackwoods were known for their generosity."

She giggled, shaking her head. "You should have seen how folks fawned over them. It was as if the Blackwoods could solve all of their life's problems."

Her expression then changed, growing more somber. "But then, one day... nothing. No Blackwoods in town, no lights in the manor windows. At first, people thought they'd gone on a trip. But days turned to weeks, weeks to months."

I leaned closer. "And no one knew what happened?"

"Not a soul.” She shook her head. “It was as if they had vanished into thin air. Leaving behind their possessions, their wealth, and their legacy. Soon after, the residents of Millbrook started to leave too. Searching for a better life outside of town.”

Clara turned to me, her eyes bright. "To this day, it still remains Millbrook's greatest unsolved mystery. What could have made an entire family disappear without a trace?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. Seems strange to me."

She pushed through the gate, its hinges groaning in protest. "C'mon, let me show you the Welcome Center." She said, ascending the steps to an old cottage.

I glanced back at the manor, its haunting silhouette stamped against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Then, my eyes darted to my Jeep, still parked at the town gates.

"Hold on. Let me grab my things," I called out.

"Okay. I'll wait for you inside," she replied, disappearing into the cottage.

I jogged back to my vehicle, popping open the back seat. I fished out a black container with a distinctive red rim from my duffel bag—my developer tank.

I carefully removed the film from my camera and made sure it was protected from the light. With practiced movements, I transferred the film into the tank, screwing the cap on tightly, and giving the tank a gentle shake. I zipped up my duffel bag with my other hand, pulling up on the strap. I closed the door and made my way back to the Welcome Center.

I stepped through its doorway and set down my bag, observing my new surroundings. The interior was nothing like a welcome center at all. It was an old, lived-in cottage. Its faded wallpaper peeled at the corners and mismatched furniture crowded the small space. Clara turned to me when she heard me come in, her eyes immediately drawn to the developer tank in my hands.

"Whatcha got there?" she asked.

"It's for developing the film," I explained, holding up the tank. "I'll need to keep agitating it periodically to get the best results."

Clara's eyebrows shot up. "Doesn't that take a long time?"

I shook my head. "Not anymore. It used to take hours. Now only a few minutes."

"Incredible!" Clara exclaimed, her eyes growing wide.

I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't know that?"

"No," she admitted, looking slightly embarrassed. "And your camera looks so futuristic. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

I’m a little caught off guard by her comment. My DSLR was far from futuristic—it was practically an antique now.

How long had she been here alone? How long had she distanced herself from the outside world?

I opened my mouth to ask, but something stopped me. There was an innocence to her that I couldn’t quite explain.

I moved over to the sink and dumped the chemicals out, rinsing the film with cold water. Then, I carefully gathered the negatives and allowed them to dry on a laid-out dish towel.

While we waited, I returned to my duffel bag and retrieved a small device from inside.

"What's that?" Clara asked.

"It's a portable printer," I explained. "It can reverse the negatives and print out black-and-white photos right here."

Her eyes widened. "Wow! Technology has come so far!"

I retrieved the negatives and loaded them into the printer. With a soft whir, it begins to work its magic, crisp and clear photos emerging from its open mouth.

Clara and I huddled together, inspecting each one. The bedroom with its four-poster bed, the bathroom with its cracked tiles, the kitchen with its ancient stove—all captured perfectly.

"These are amazing, Alex," Clara breathed, her fingers hovering just above their surface, careful not to touch.

I smiled, pleased with the results. Yet it was short-lived. One of the photos was completely black, most likely the image of the ripped photo. There wasn’t enough light. I frowned. But as I reached for the last photo, something changed. The air seemed to thicken, and a chill ran down my spine.

The photo of the living room was no longer empty. It was now full of figures occupying the space—a family, posed for a portrait.

Clara gasped. "The Blackwoods.”

I stared at the photo. But the room was empty before. Wasn’t it?

"That's impossible," I muttered, more to myself than to Clara.

But there they were, clear as day. A stern-looking man in a suit, a woman with an outdated hairstyle, and a boy—all staring directly at the camera.

At us.

"It's magic!" Clara exclaimed, her eyes shining brightly. "We found them!" She sounded overjoyed. Her innocence and enthusiasm were oddly endearing, despite the unsettling situation.

"Why don't we bring this photo back to the manor?" I suggested, surprising even myself with the words. "Frame it for the future visitors of Millbrook."

Clara's face lit up even more. "That's a wonderful idea!"

Her excitement was contagious, and I found myself smiling along.

We gathered the photos together and stepped outside, the evening air cooler now. The sky was a canvas of deep purples and oranges with the sun sinking beyond the distant forest.

We approached the manor once again and Clara took the lead, pushing open the heavy front door.

"Where should we put it?" I asked, my voice echoing in the empty foyer.

Clara considered for a moment. "How about the room where you took the photo? It seems fitting, doesn't it?"

I nodded, unable to argue with her logic. We strode over, our footsteps echoing through the halls.

As we entered, I paused in the doorway. Noting that nothing had changed since I had last left. Yet it still felt as haunting as the first time I set foot in it.

Clara moved forward, gripping the photo between her thumb and index finger. I followed closely behind until we reached the rear wall, but as she went to take down an empty frame, something caught her eye.

"I don't remember this one," she murmured, leaning in to examine the ripped photograph still clinging to the wall.

I stepped close enough to then witness Clara's eyes widen, a mix of shock and recognition flashing across her face.

"Wait a second," she whispered.

With trembling hands, she held up my recently developed photo to the torn one on the wall. And then, all the air escaped from my lungs.

The two pieces perfectly aligned, completing the picture.

The family didn't have one child—they had two.

There was the stern man, the elegant woman, the boy we saw before, but now... there was a girl. A young woman who looked exactly like Clara.

My gaze shifted between the photograph and the girl next to me, noticing the uncanny resemblance.

Clara stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the image.

"Clara," I said. "Who... who is that?"

She didn’t respond. Instead, she traced the outline of the girl, but when she finally spoke, her voice sounded distant.

"It’s me," she whispered.

I blinked hard. But…how could that be? She was right here next to me.

Then, the room started to shift and distort, like a mirage in the desert. The dusty, decrepit surfaces started to clean themselves, years of neglect melting away. The tattered furniture regained its former glory, upholstery mending and wood polishing to a rich shine.

The grandfather clock in the corner, which had been still and silent moments ago, sprung to life. Its pendulum swinging with a steady rhythm, and the gentle tick-tock filling the air.

"Clara?" I whispered. "Are you seeing this?"

But she didn't respond. She had returned her gaze to the middle of the room with her eyes transfixed to something just beyond my line of sight.

I turned slowly, following her stare until I saw it. My heart stopped. People had materialized out of thin air, their forms solidifying right before our very eyes.

But these weren’t just any people.

These were the Blackwoods.

The man adjusted his tie, while the woman smoothed her dress. The young boy fidgeted, looking around curiously. And finally, there she was, a young woman that looked like a splitting image of Clara. Now alive and well.

"We're home," the man announced, his voice rich and authoritative.

The woman gave him a serene smile. "It's good to be back."

I stood frozen, unable to process what I just witnessed.

The Blackwoods had returned. And they were moving around the room as if we were not even there.

"Clara," I managed to croak out, reaching for her hand. "What's happening?"

But when I turned to look at her, I'm only met with empty air. Clara had vanished and left me alone in a room full of ghosts. Yet now, I was watching from a new perspective altogether.

From behind the picture frame.