Cameras never lie

Henry was a photographer, freelance and somehow forever just one step behind whatever was necessary to make a name for himself. That said, he had managed to get a landscape or two featured in named magazines, and if he happened to have framed the article they were featured in and stored it safely in his room, that was rather between himself and his dresser. For something that was considered a glorified hobby, the fact that it was something that brought him joy managed to be far more important than any intention to monetize his pleasure. The world simply made more sense when he could see it through the lens of his camera, little details that the untrained eye might overlook but could be highlighted as something beautiful if he chose for it to be. 

It was precisely this reason that following his accident, one of those things that left the mind and body thoroughly rattled and seemed to linger far beyond its welcome, he felt it was vital to get out there with his camera as soon as he possibly could. Sure, he required a cane at his side, sturdy and reliable decorated with a sticker of a teacup that a friend of his – one of very few - designed and hoped might help brighten his spirits about it all, but he did not lose so much trust in himself that he was not willing to take a risk or two in the pursuit of those things that gives life its meaning. He’d promised himself that once he was well enough to get around on his own, he’d treat himself to a trip to take some photos. Nothing serious, and entirely for himself. A promise like this, made entirely for one’s own self was the sort of promise one simply had to keep.

There was a lake a short bus ride from his little home. It was a fairly popular location during the summertime, low trailing willow trees creating secretive paths to stroll, the sunlight twinkling cheerfully as if to invite boaters to traverse its surface, tooting its horn in a merry greeting to picnickers and joggers alike. Summertime was, however, a good several months away and so the wintertime chill ought to be doing its job of deterring those who might get in the way of his shot. It would be the first time in far too long that he took his camera out anywhere, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity to get back into the flow. Even if it was just early enough for the weight of slumber to still drag at his heels, a sluggishness that would not shake off quite as efficiently as he could dismiss his blankets. 

Just as the lake itself came into view, he promised himself he’d pick up a coffee to reward himself for his morning’s successes with a coffee from the new little coffee shop his neighbour had recommended one afternoon when they crossed paths. 

A perfectionist to his core, at least in this very specific area, Henry took his time trying to find what he thought would make for a good shot. How much would the reflection of the willow trees add to the overall composition and how much would distract from the lake’s role as the subject matter? Would there be a greater impact if he were to highlight the size of the water body or the depth that even frequent visitors underestimated? Did the little team of ducks emphasize the area as a living ecosystem or make the shot a little too busy?

Apparently, all of his fussing and fine tuning for his shot was all for naught. 

There was a local legend, which as all local legends were, had been stretched and distorted for the sake of sensation, that surrounded the lake. It claimed that back during the years when they had yet to settle on a consistent theme of attractions to draw in visitors, there had been a company that took people out on a stylized tugboat for what was supposed to be a unique dining experience. This part was quite true, the building that had served as its office of operation having been long since repurposed for picnickers and the occasional sports group. What took this from the realm of just one of many failed businesses and into that of legend was why the business failed. It was said to have been a freak weather event one afternoon, the clear sky swollen by an angry storm, the unfortunate lakefarers were stranded upon tremulous waves before being swallowed up by the water, dragging the unfortunate gaggle of tourists and curious locals to an early grave with alarming suddenness. In such rush to cover up the whole ordeal to hide their mistakes, the boat and all aboard were left to their watery tomb rather than dredging them up to return them to the grieving families. 

As the water was so deep, it was near impossible to see the bottom, and so there was no real way to confirm how much was true and how much was sensation.

Until now, apparently. 

There, clear as day on his camera’s display, was the image of a boat floating upon the lake. Cheery red and with a few people waving off the deck to him. For a moment, he worried that he had damaged the camera somehow, an image burnt into the screen after being left open on it for too long at some point. But as rational as this could be, two things proved this to be quite untrue. The first was the fact that he knew he had only taken photos of boats on a handful of occasions, and those were of hearty seafaring vessels, and the one on the display of his camera was clearly designed for more gentle waters. The second and more alarming of the two was that there was nothing at all strange in the photo of the treeline he took just after to make sure the camera was not beyond repair. 

It was not entirely outside the realm of possibility for his mind to just be playing tricks on him so, for good measure, he took a cautious shot of the lake again. Just as he had hoped would not be the case, he caught the back end of the boat as it carried on its loop. 

Henry flicked back and forth between the photographs, each depicting something that he knew simply was not there in reality. Could not be there, nowhere in the area ran a boat any larger than a paddleboat, but his camera had not lied to him before, so it did not make sense that it would have decided to pick up a bad habit all of a sudden. But there was no reason for it to have started showing ghost ships either, but it was content with doing that, so perhaps it was not so out of the question. 

An additional photo showed what had previously been the far side of the boat, a young couple posed as they leaned out to wave to people on the shore. An awkward half smile crossed his face, his hand raised in a clumsy wave. Clumsy from the fact he did not quite know if the passengers in boat, dressed in daycoats more at home at a time before film could speak, could even see him from the shore and also several decades away. But it looked like there was a little more enthusiasm behind the two in the next image, as best he could tell from the series of still images, so he could guess that they were able to see him. Or some sort of equivalent, but that seemed like the sort of idea that, if he allowed himself to trail for too long, the photographer was quite sure it would give him more of a headache than he had the time to deal with.

Now, there was a rational part of him that knew he probably should tell someone what he saw. Some confirmation that he was not suffering from sudden inexplicable bout of insanity, but it was the idea that this was exactly what was happening that left him drumming his fingertips against the handle of his cane. Surely there wouldn’t be any side effects to his pain medication that would cause hallucinations so localized that it would only appear in photographs of lakes, because that would just frankly be weird and almost impossible to preempt. 

How would one even test for it? Take everyone who has ever caused unintentional potentially irreparable harm to their legs out for a photoshoot by the lake on the offest of off chances that any of them happened to pick up the image of the unfortunate passengers of a sunken boat? There would be no way to even propose it, let alone find anyone willing to be recruited for the trials. They’d probably just think he bumped his head a little harder than the doctors had assumed if he happened to mention that, during his recovery period, he had started to see ghosts. 

But anyways, they all seemed so happy on the boat, he’d hate to think that by bringing it to light he might risk doing something that would jeopardize that. If they were ghosts, they had clearly not passed on to wherever it might be that the dead wound up after drowning, but their haunting did not seem too terrible. If the universe had decided they were allowed to play out their ill-fated voyage to what might make for a happier end, then why should they not be allowed to set it right this time? If what he was seeing was a reflection of the past, a sort of afterimage burnt into the very fabric of the universe of the lake, there really was not anything he could do about it anyways so it was better if he were to just leave it alone. 

Even if he did mention anything, and by some strange turn of events he was believed unequivocally, what would come? They’d dredge the lake and risk damaging the fragile ecosystem just to drag out the bodies of those who were better left to their eternal nothingness. They had found their graves beneath the water and there was no reason for that to be any more of a true grave than disappearing a body beneath the soil. If the spirits were as happy as the photographs showed him, then it would be just cruel to spoil it for them. Even if it had killed them, until their demise it had clearly been a wonderful time so he supposed it would be kinder to let them have their fleeting happiness than deny them the chance to be anything but dead, their death defining them in a way that he would hate if he happened to be the one doing the haunting.

So, Henry did not do anything at all. At least he didn’t do anything about the photographs of the ghostly passengers on the equally ghostly passengers. What he did do, instead, was return his camera snug and safe to its case, slung about his neck with a novelty keychain of a game he enjoyed. Before he left the lake, he lifted a hand to the air and, before he let himself question what he was doing, waved to the empty lake.

Of course, he had no way of knowing if this was returned, but he wanted to consider this as his way of saying an unspoken ‘I see you there, you haven’t been forgotten’ to anyone or anything that might have needed to be reminded that dry land had not forgotten them so entirely. 

Anyways, he had promised himself a coffee after he had done with the lake for the day and coffees were infinitely more tangible than trying to find some impossible explanations for why he was being given a glimpse of the dead. 

He just hoped that it was only the spirits of the lake that showed up on his camera, it would be a bit of a bother if he had to take into consideration local hauntings every time he wanted to take his camera out.