The Final Portrait

Eliza Carstairs lay weak and trembling in her bed, her face pale and her breath shallow. Henry sat beside her, holding her frail hand, watching the once-vibrant woman he loved slip away. She had been ill for weeks, and the doctor had quietly warned Henry that the end was near. Eliza’s fear was not something she could easily face—she was gripped by a terror of death itself, a dread that kept her awake through long nights, clutching Henry’s hand as though he could hold her here in this world.

“Henry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I don’t want to die. I’m afraid.”

He squeezed her hand, forcing a reassuring smile even as his heart broke. “Don’t speak of death, my love. You’re not going to die,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her forehead.

She shook her head, her eyes wide and pleading. “You can’t promise that. I can feel my life slipping away.”

Henry leaned in close, his voice gentle yet firm, as though he could speak her fear away. “Even if you do go, Eliza, you won’t really die. Our love will live on. And one day, we’ll be together again.”

She managed a faint smile, the first he’d seen in days. “Together?” she echoed, almost to herself.

“Always,” he whispered. “You’ll always be with me.”

She sighed, some of her fear softening, her eyes drifting closed as she finally found a brief moment of peace. Henry sat with her through the night, watching as her breath grew shallower, until by morning, she had passed, leaving her body pale and still.

In the days that followed, Henry arranged her funeral with care, determined to honor the love he had promised would keep her alive. He ordered a delicate lavender gown for her and lavender flowers for her hair—her favorite scent, just as she’d loved in life. Yet he found himself unable to let go, haunted by her final words. He decided to commission a portrait of her, hoping it would help him hold on to her memory, to feel her presence with him always.

He contacted a photographer named Mr. Dalton, who arrived at the Carstairs residence with quiet professionalism. He did not ask many questions, understanding the delicate nature of his task. Mr. Dalton moved with care, setting up his large camera and moving carefully around the room, each step measured and respectful.

As he prepared his equipment, Henry positioned Eliza in a sturdy chair in the center of the room. She was dressed in her lavender gown, her hair arranged in soft waves, with a single flower tucked in beside her ear. Though she was dead, Henry insisted that her portrait be of her as if she were still alive, seated and poised, as if merely taking a moment to rest.

Mr. Dalton adjusted the scene, making slight adjustments to the way her hands rested on her lap, tilting her head just so, until she looked peaceful, almost lifelike.

"Are you ready, Mr. Carstairs?" Mr. Dalton asked in a low voice.

Henry nodded, swallowing back the lump in his throat. "Yes. Please…just make her look…as she was."

The photographer nodded, understanding more than he let on, and adjusted the lens. He took only one photograph, capturing her in a single, timeless moment. Mr. Dalton worked in silence, finally lifting his head after the shutter clicked. “One image will capture all you need, Mr. Carstairs.”

Henry nodded, his heart pounding as he took in the final, captured likeness of his wife.

Mr. Dalton carefully developed the photograph in his mobile darkroom just outside, handling the fragile glass plate with care. When he returned, he handed the daguerreotype to Henry, who stared at it, transfixed. In the image, Eliza looked serene, her eyes closed, her delicate hands clasped, a perfect likeness.

That evening, as Henry sat alone in his parlor, a storm began to rage outside. Lightning flashed across the windows, casting eerie shadows around the room. The photograph of Eliza sat on the mantel of the fireplace, watching over him. He found himself unable to take his eyes off it.

With each crack of thunder, each burst of lightning, the image seemed to change, subtly shifting as shadows danced across her face. At first, Henry thought it was only the play of the storm’s light, but as he moved closer to the image and stared harder, he realized something unsettling.

Her eyes, once closed in peaceful rest, were now slightly open.

Another flash of lightning, and her lips appeared to part, as though she were trying to speak. A shiver ran down Henry’s spine as he watched her expression shift, her mouth beginning to form words. Henry, he thought he heard, faintly carried on the howling wind.

Another flash, and the photograph darkened, the shadows thickening around her face. Henry’s pulse quickened. He stumbled backward, knocking over a candle, which clattered to the floor, extinguishing in the darkness. His eyes never left the photograph as he watched Eliza’s face twist, her expression contorting, as though her image were trapped in some terrible, silent scream.

Finally, with one last crash of thunder, the entire house plunged into darkness.

The next morning, Mr. Dalton returned to the Carstairs home to collect payment, as Henry had promised. The storm had broken, and a strange stillness hung over the house. Mr. Dalton knocked several times, but there was no answer. The door was unlocked, so he let himself inside, calling out for Henry.

“Mr. Carstairs? I’ve come to retrieve my payment.”

But silence greeted him. Frowning, he entered the parlor, where the dim morning light revealed Henry’s figure slumped in the chair in front of the fireplace, his face pale, his body unnaturally still. Mr. Dalton’s heart pounded as he stepped closer, noticing that Henry’s lifeless eyes stared ahead, his hand clutching the daguerreotype.

With trembling hands, Mr. Dalton reached for the image, his curiosity overcoming his horror. But as he lifted it, his breath caught in his throat.

Eliza was no longer alone in the image.

Beside her, seated in the same pose, was Henry, his eyes wide and vacant, his expression as contorted and horrified as hers. They sat side by side, locked in the same terrifying gaze, hands nearly touching, as though bound together in eternal unrest.

Mr. Dalton staggered back and screamed. He turned and bolted from the house, leaving the photograph where he had dropped it, its glass case shattered on the floor. As he fled, he could have sworn he smelled a strong trace of lavender hauntingly following him back out into the morning light.