Angel of the Waters

 When she came up to me, I didn’t think that much of it—I’d been aimlessly wandering around Bethesda Terrace for a while at that point, and I’d seen plenty of other tourists like me doing the same thing. 

“Hey, would you mind taking a picture of me? This is my first time in New York.”

She was in her mid-twenties and wearing a long, spaghetti strap floral dress with a white t-shirt underneath. She had curly red hair that just hit her shoulders, and a pair of aviators being used as a make-shift headband at the top of her head. I saw her clear as day—that much I’m sure of.

I agreed pretty quickly, only slightly hesitating when she handed me her camera. It was a dinky, old silver point and shoot—just like the type my parents used to take pictures of me back when I was a kid in the early noughties. It had a tiny digital screen on the back and a little viewfinder to look through. While I’d been expecting something a little more conventional, like her phone, I knew I could make it work. She was already far away and posing by the fountain with a big grin on her face and her hands on her hips.

I looked through the viewfinder and did my best to line up the shot. She was the only person in view, and the setting sun lined up perfectly to give her a nice, golden glow. For an amateur, I didn’t think I was doing too bad—until I actually took the picture.

The little screen on the back showed a preview of the picture I took, but something was very wrong. She was nowhere to be seen in the picture, even though I had centered her perfectly through the viewfinder. When I looked up to where she had been posing, it was like she vanished into thin air—absolutely nowhere to be seen.

At first, I figured it had to be some type of prank. I looked around me to try to see if anyone was recording me with their phone, or if there was anyone even vaguely looking in my direction, but no one seemed to notice me at all. I walked around the terrace for a while, trying to find where she went—but once it was dark, I decided it was time to cut my losses.

Now that I think about it, there were a million things I should’ve done—I should’ve asked someone else around me if they’d seen where she went. I should’ve left the little point and shoot somewhere on the ground so that she could’ve found it on her own, when and if she came back. I should’ve turned around, gone back to my hotel, and put everything out of my head as soon as possible—but for some reason, I couldn’t do it. I felt something deep and unsettling in the pit of my stomach, and I hated that I couldn’t explain what had just happened; I ended up taking the camera with me.

On the cab ride back to my Marriott, I couldn’t help myself. I turned the camera back on and messed with the nonsensical tiny buttons until the screen lit back up with the picture. It was undeniably the one I took; the Angel of the Waters cast in bronze, solemnly looking down from her peak on the fountain. In the center of the photo, there was still nothing—no sign of the redheaded girl in the long dress. Out of curiosity, I looked back at the older photos on the camera. It was like playing spot the difference—they were all nearly identical. Each photo was of the Bethesda fountain, with only minute differences proving they were their own separate picture. Some were in the snow, some with grey rain clouds in the back, some at night—but not one of them showed the woman. That was, until I scrolled to the very first photo on the camera.

There she was, dressed in the same outfit I’d seen her in. She’d obviously taken the picture herself, with her outstretched arm being clearly in view, and the angle just a little off. The fountain could barely be made out in the background. I scrolled down on the picture until I hit the option that said “more information”, seeing that the Capture Date was listed as 09/15/2003.

I turned the camera off and put it back in my bag, staying still and completely quiet for the rest of the ride. There was no way that could be accurate—that was over 20 years ago, but she looked exactly the same as when I saw her today! The feeling in the pit of my stomach grew deeper and I bit at the inside of my cheek– I couldn't help but feel the grey, all-encompassing smoke of fear creep up the base of my spine.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned on the lumpy hotel mattress, thinking only about the woman and the pictures. What I had thought were a few strange coincidences had seemed to be piling up into an inexplicable mountain of strangeness. From my perspective, I was either going crazy, or something incredibly eerie was happening. At the time, I don’t know which choice I hoped was the case.

Despite my better judgment, I got my phone out and started searching. Faster than I expected, I found an image of a poster with her picture on it.

“MISSING PERSONS”, the header read. It said her name was Cassie Anderson. The physical description fit the woman I saw perfectly.

“Cassie was last seen in Central Park while on vacation on September 15th, 2013. She was wearing a long dress and had aviator sunglasses. Witnesses say she may have been taken into an unmarked vehicle. Her belongings were left scattered behind. Cassie has not been heard from since.”

My reaction was almost instantaneous; my entire body was taken over by the dread of what I couldn't understand. I opened the window in my hotel room and threw the camera out as hard as I could. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, but as I watched it fall down to the pavement from my twentieth story room, I felt better. I didn’t want any part of whatever was going on. I collapsed back in my bed, and fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

When I woke up the next morning and looked out the window, there was no trace of the camera. As much as I had wanted it far away from me last night, it felt worse to think it disappeared into thin air, just as Cassie had. Some darker part of my intuition told me to go back to Bethesda Terrace, so stupidly, I did.

I didn’t see Cassie, but I did see something that scared me nearly as much: a man, holding an old silver point and shoot, taking a picture of the fountain. “Got it!” he said to no one, and when he looked up, his head swiveled. He seemed confused; he seemed to be looking for someone.

I booked my flight home early that day. I don’t think I’ll be going back to New York any time soon.