The Photo of Louis Harpen

"Wow! Look at this dress I found! It might fit you!" My annoying little brother said, flagging an old French maid's uniform. "Why don't you try it on?"

"Don't be ridiculous. That thing looks like you could blow on it and it turns into dust." I had no intention of wearing such a filthy garment. There were a few holes in the front, surrounded by brown stains and smothered in dust; it looked like it may have been authentic. "You know what. Screw it. I may have well have some fun today." Our mother was forcing us to clean up this junk heap. She said it built "character" and would give us something to do other than play flappy bird on our phones.

I slipped on the tightly fitting rag, wriggled through it until my head popped up, and bent my arms to fit each into its puffy sleeve. I swirled for my brother, who laughed at the sight, and pranced to the mirror across the dim and dusty attic. I whipped the cloth hanging over it aside and looked into the filthy mirror, only to see a filthy girl staring back.

For a pose, I slipped my hands into the front pockets, and felt a thin, rugged crumpled piece of paper find my index finger. I took it out, stared at its gray surface, and smoothed it out. A handsome man wearing a tuxedo stood next to a Native American in front of the Eiffel Tower.

"Holy crap," I said, astonished this photo had survived, presumably, a century. "I found a photograph in this pocket." I turned it over, and read it aloud, "Louis Harpen, left and Henry Weles, right. Eiffel Tower, twenty-eight January 1899. Hey, Luke, at the bottom is says something else. Listen to this, 'December third, 1998. To whom this may concern - do not look in the mirror.'" A wave of terror struck me. I sat down, careful not to sit between planks of wood, and read this silently over and over again.

My brother was peering over my shoulder, when he finally asked, "Did you look?"

I nodded.

"Emery!" He pointed at my hand, which was shrinking into the ugly gown I now sullenly regret wearing, and it disappears into the cloth. Luke covered his mouth in horror, and hugged me tight. I hugged him back with nothing but a torso, and within seconds, the dress had no occupant.

Luke stood beside the dress, crying, and saw the photograph laying on the floor. He picked it up and with great astonishment, saw me looking back at him. He turned the photo over, and read the names to himself : Louis Harpen, Henry Weles, Emery Berme. As I look at my brother's panicked and frantic face, I notice I can also see the surroundings of the photograph as well. Next to me is a white man dressed up as a Native American, and next to him, a grey faced man in a tuxedo. The Native slowly turned his head to face me and said, "Am I in hell?"

"Unlikely. This is a photograph." Hastily, I ask, "how long have you been here?"

"Who knows. A month, two decades, seven? Time means nothing here, as you will soon find out."

"Why are we stuck in this pose?"

"We ain't, except we only think we are because this is a photograph. Since people in pictures aren't supposed to move, we do not move. It only just occurred to me when I saw you look at me with those beautiful hazel eyes. Why do you think I turned my head?"

He spoke these words with a slight southern accent, and presently he held out his hand. I grabbed it, and he swung me around, and for a moment I felt fresh air between my legs, for they must have swung out of the picture.

"Aha. I thought that might work," He brought me closer to him and said, "although the air feels stale and heavy, it is as light as an astronaut in space. Come, ma'am, maybe we ought to check out this scene." He took my arm in his, turned away from my brother, facing the magnificent tower.

"Wait!" Luke boomed. He poked the picture with a finger, and the film separating reality from the photo stretched around the finger, rejecting it.

"I'll be back, Luke. Honestly, where could I go?" And with that, we walked off, to investigate an old Parisan tower.

"Why didn't the tux man come with us?" I asked Henry.

"I believe he is a part of the photograph. We are trapped like him, the only difference is he is meant to be here. This is his picture. At first I thought he might be dead, because I never even heard a heartbeat, but soon after I begun to understand he is original." We considered this briefly, and came to an almost telepathic agreement that this was the right answer.

Before us stood a leg of the big steel tower, and beyond it was a black and white setting. A still couple sat on a bench forty or so yards away, beholding a fountain spurting water that stood still with the couple. Water droplets were still in the air, anxious to finally settle back in the pool below to be reused. This wish will never come true.

Henry began climbing the leg of the tower. He moved swiftly, like a spider which climbs with a certain agileness up a water spout. I know exactly what he will do, and I fear it is my fate too. I decide to take off the dress which made a copy of itself in the photo-realm, for I do not want to die a maid. I climb after Henry, find it hard to grip the cold, dusty metal, and smartly walk the stairs instead.

At the top of the tower, a brown sunset lay in front of us, and to the right is an odd window out of this world, still facing my brother's worried look.

"Luke, everything will be all right. Tell mom I ran away. Tell her I didn't tell you where I am going to go."

"Emery!" Luke shrieked. He gasped as he saw me jump, and that's when I woke up. I find I'm back in the attic, it is completely dark, and the photograph is in my hand. I look at the back frantically, and there is only one name on it: Louis Harpen. Beneath the name, it said: Private Investigator. I release my anxious breath through my nostrils, and look closer at the picture. Behind the stern man, about twenty yards away, two mangled bodies lie on the ground, flesh and guts spattered about. Behind them is a bench overseeing a fountain spewing water. The bench is empty.