The Frame

In the quiet suburb of Elmswood, where mist drifted lazily over manicured lawns, and the scent of autumn lingered in the air, lived Oliver—a young man with an insatiable curiosity for the strange and uncanny. One brisk afternoon, as shadows lengthened and the neighbourhood settled in, he stumbled upon a quaint boutique, tucked away between a coffee shop and a vintage bookstore.

The sign above the shop's entrance, half-hidden by ivy, read: "Arcane Antiquities." Intrigued, he stepped inside, his brown hair almost invisible against the dark wooden walls. The shop was a blend of old-world charm and contemporary oddities—a haven, where every object seemed to whisper of secrets and enchantment.

Amongst the shelves lined with antique books and peculiar relics, Oliver's attention was drawn to an ebony frame of intricate design. Its carvings curled like vines with maroon ends as if they had been dipped in coloured ink. Despite a creeping sense of unease, Oliver was captivated by its presence. He purchased the frame and hurried back to his apartment—a modern sanctuary filled with the glow of strobes and soft boxes, nurturing his life as a photographer as he worked within the hum of city life.

Carefully, Oliver placed a photograph into the frame—a haunting image of an abandoned mansion bathed in moonlight — that he'd taken the night before. Its windows were dark, but as he let the picture settle within the frame's confines, a silence fell over the room and he could swear that one of the mansion's windows flickered, only to return into its shadowy form once more. 

He put the frame up, ignoring his sudden fright.

That night, in the glow of his laptop resting on his coffee table, he sat, viewing his masterpiece on the wall. From the corner, the aged hands of an old grandfather clock were ticking away the hours, chiming softly in sync with Oliver's growing unease. "Dong," said the clock, in tune with his trembling heart, as he kept gazing against the photo he once had adored.

Then, he noticed a subtle shift—a distortion in the captured scene, a movement at the edge of perception appeared. In the doorway of the mansion, a figure began to form. It hovered between the realms of reality and imagination, its features obscured yet undeniably present. Oliver's pulse quickened with a mix of wonder and fear, threatening the view of the world he held so dear.

He turned to his laptop once again, thinking that this must be a dream when his grandfather's clock suddenly chimed that it had stricken three. Strange, Oliver thought. He could swear it had been four o´clock just a moment ago. But maybe he was just too tired to keep up with the dinging sound of the old clock. Yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that something once again had shifted.

He jumped back, hitting the backrest of the chestnut sofa. The spectral figure, though still indistinct, appeared to have moved closer to the foreground of the photograph. But it could not be.

Oliver's breath quickened as he stared at the photograph. He rubbed his eyes, hoping to erase the ghostly apparition. But when he looked again, the figure remained, now slightly more defined—a shadowy silhouette with hollow eyes that seemed to bore into his soul.

Desperate for answers, Oliver reached for his phone and snapped a picture. He quickly opened the image, but to his astonishment, the figure was absent. Only the original, eerily quiet mansion remained. His heart pounded as he glanced back at the frame on the wall. The figure had advanced further, now standing just outside the mansion door. Oliver paced in his apartment, thoughts racing. He needed to get away. To leave this place until he could escape whatever apparition that was haunting him.

Then, the old clock chimed two. But that couldn't be right. It had been three before, and four earlier than that, even if that didn't make any sense.

Oliver's resolve broke as he once again found himself drawn to the frame. The figure now stood at the end of the mansion stairs, its features more distinct than ever. The hollow eyes that stared back at him had no whites, only darkness and malevolence filled their sockets.

"Who are you?" Oliver whispered, his voice trembling. "What do you want from me?"

The figure didn't respond. Instead, a cold, oppressive silence settled over the room. The air seemed to thicken, making it hard for Oliver to breathe. He could feel the weight of the figure's gaze pressing down on him, a relentless force that refused to let go.

Desperation clawed at him. He had to do something—anything—to break free from this nightmare. With trembling hands, he grabbed the frame and tried to pry the photograph out, but it was as if the picture was fused to the bloody vines clinging to its surface.

His mind raced, searching for a solution. He remembered the old folktales about breaking curses and spirits bound to objects. Destroy the vessel, and you destroy the spirit. But as he raised a trembling hammer above the frame, a chill washed over him, and the figure seemed to once again shift, almost imperceptibly, as if daring him to follow through.

Oliver hesitated. What if destroying the frame made things worse? What if it bound the spirit to him forever? He lowered the hammer, fear and uncertainty paralyzing him.

The clock chimed again, the sound echoing through the room like a death knell. One o'clock. The time seemed to mock him, each chime a reminder of his dwindling hope as it counted down.

As the minutes ticked by, Oliver felt his strength ebbing away. The room grew colder, the shadows deeper. The figure now stood at the very edge of the photograph, its hollow eyes locked onto his.

The old clock struck midnight and Oliver's vision blurred, his thoughts becoming sluggish. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the figure stepping out of the frame, its form solidifying in the dim light of his apartment. After that, the world went cold before it returned, only to reveal his own face outside the frame, smiling back at him before lifting the hammer, smashing the frame until every inch was at a loss. 

In the quiet suburb of Elmswood, where mist drifted lazily over manicured lawns and the scent of autumn lingered in the air, Oliver's apartment became a place of eerie silence. The photograph, now empty, hung on the wall as a grim reminder of his fate.

But in that silence, the echoes of his final, desperate plea lingered, mingling with the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock, a haunting testament to a soul forever lost, because as many of you know, curiosity, has its cost.