Clouds

I was living in my car this time last year, but eventually the bank took that as well. It relieved me of the remainder of my debts and left me with nothing except what I could carry. I lived on the street for a few days before an old friend from High School found me shivering on a park bench and took me in without any hesitation or question. 

Our history was short because we met in High School and lost connection our first year of college after I dropped out. Despite that, we lived in this modest two-bedroom house as if we were sisters and three years of unknown events had not passed between us. A few months after I moved in, she accepted an offer to be the head honcho of one of her stepfather’s grocery stores. She took it and left me, a halfway paid off lease in my name, and everything in the basement we converted into a photography dark room. 

The idea came after drinking a bottle of wine and reminiscing about our High School photography class. At first, we were reminiscing about the teacher in the intimate glow of the red lights, and then we were talking about what kind of stuff we would need for a darkroom setup.

It only took a week before it was complete, but we had no camera. We shopped every thrift store within a fifty-mile radius and came out with nothing or expensive duds that we would pawn off to a different store.

After she left, I was walking downtown and passed by an antique store boasting a grand opening banner. I noticed a dusty film camera amongst the variety of junk showcased in the front window. The three numbers on the price tag was way out of my budget, so I hid it behind an overpriced painting until I could come back. It was still there after a few weeks, but I expected that. I did not expect the burly and intimidating man behind the counter to agree to my less than generous offer. He even brought out an office box full of film, the necessary chemicals, containers, and equipment. 

When I told the man I could not afford any extra stuff, he told me that some photographer shot himself and his son pawned all this stuff for funeral money.

“I know all this shit is not going to sell, but I’m a sucker for a sob story I guess. You’re a rare type, coming in here interested in vintage film, so congratulations you have everything you need at no extra charge!” He was being nice in a sarcastic way, but his long beard still made him look jolly.

I was more than happy to take the additional supplies at no extra charge. At the time, I thought it would make it easier to turn a dollar if the camera was a dud, and I would need all that stuff to get a printed photo anyway. 

The clerk had assured me everything was in working condition, but I had to test the boast for myself. 

I went to a nice park without bums laying around or garbage fluttering about. There was a garden area with some picnic tables and a small pond occupied by flashy coy fish. The pond was encircled by a variety of vibrantly colored flowers I was sure would make a decent (or cliché) photo. 

It did. All the photos turned out well even though it was the first time I took a photo using a film camera since High School. I got a little cocky with my work and bordered the living room walls with the photographs of the flowers and the blur of the fish swimming around.

The process took all day. After I was all done, I nuked a plate of leftovers and promptly fell asleep on the couch with the plate still in my lap. 

Not much later, I awoke to the sound of porcelain shattering. 

I was immediately at attention, staring at the shards scattered around my feet, but my consciousness was still dragging itself from my dreamscape. At first, I was just staring at the broken plate wondering how the pieces got so far away from me. 

I was not about to let myself get spooked over a plate slipping off my lap and managed to back away without cutting my feet.

I swept up the mess and went to bed, but I just tossed and turned. I got sick of it and went back into the living room for some mind numbing television.

That is when I saw the photos change.

The movement on the wall caught my eye, and my first thought was bugs. When I got closer to swat them away, I realized what I was seeing was actually two blurry figures appearing in the background of every photo. The shapes looked like a woman and a small child playing by the pond, but I did not remember seeing them at the park. I also did not recall seeing them while I was processing the film or hanging them up.

I rubbed my eyes to make sure they were not tricking me and then took the photos off the wall to get a better look. I tried to wipe off the new blemishes, but the figures remained attached.

I captured the blur of her grabbing the boy as if she was picking him up and running away. In the next images, both of the figures were out of frame, and there was a strange purple cloud hovering above the trees. It lowered itself down into the trees like a fog or a mist, and then creeped out into the grass area between the small cluster of trees and pond.

I was more confused than scared until a couple photographs became nothing but a purple stain. I thought seeing the figures appear could have just been a trick of my eyes, and maybe the mother and son were there and I did not notice, but I was sure that none of the photographs came out completely purple. 

My favorite one of the clouds reflecting on the water was now the figure of the woman and child hovering over the pond as if they had fallen from the sky. The last photo showed their lifeless forms floating atop the water. 

I would have thought I was still dreaming if there had not been several loud knocks on the door, followed by demands to open for the city police.

I tossed the stack of photographs to the side, rushed to the door in a panic, and then skidded to a stop. I took a deep breath, walked back to the couch, and shoved the stack under the cushion I planned to sit on if any officers barged in. I considered just bolting for it, but the shouting and pounding came again and brought me to my senses. 

After taking a moment to collect myself, I went to the door.

I opened it just enough to see an old man in a black sport jacket and dark denim jeans standing in front of the door and behind him was an officer in full uniform. It was too dark to tell she was a woman until I heard her feminine voice tell dispatch that I was home and they had eyes on me.

“Sorry to wake you so late in the night Ms. Jacks. I’m Detective Lewis and this is Officer Wright, and we just want to ask you a couple questions. May we come in?” The detective in the sport jacket asked nicely. I thought he was a good-looking man, probably in his late forties but still fit, and seemed genuine. I would have stepped aside if it was just him, but I did not trust the officer because the way she turned away and whispered into the walkie-talkie on her shoulder.

“You can come in and ask me anything you want, but I’m going to have to ask the officer to stay out here.” I said with as much confidence as I could muster. 

The officer stepped forward to say something, but Detective Lewis put a hand up to stop her. “No problem, I just want to talk a moment”, he said with a most charming smile. Unfortunately, for him, I am a mature woman of color, and I have gotten good at reading the motives of middle-aged white men just by looking at them. 

This detective was no different, even though he was playing the friendly cop. I knew it was just a tactic. His being overly nice and agreeing to come into my home without back up was a subtle power move that may go unnoticed to most people, but not me. A rational cop would make the rational decision and tell me it was just protocol or some bullshit, but his actions revealed that he was not at all concerned about me, a small-framed black woman in her middle age.

I made a subtle scoff and moved to make room for Detective Lewis to come in. The officer took another step, but I already turned my back to her and swung the door shut.

Detective Lewis was courteous enough not to snoop around, but that was as far as his courtesy went. He said the park security cameras caught me entering and leaving the park around the same time a murder took place, and that they saw I had a camera in my hands. I managed a simple enough lie about leaving it on the bus, but he remained suspicious of my innocence and asked if he could take a swab of the inside of my cheek and look around.

I let him take the swab, but was firm that if a search was necessary I wanted to see a Judge’s signature on a warrant. He promised to come back in a few hours with it.

Even though there was little proof of my guilt, I believed Detective Lewis would be back. I knew I had to get rid of the photos while I still had the chance, but I had no idea how I was going to achieve that. 

Suddenly, my mind was whirling with ideas. Some were not so bad, and others were simply dumb and impulsive. Regardless, I stayed on the couch in panic, looking at reflection on the black mirrored screen of the television. It was half an hour before I finally reached over for the remote and turned it on. I thought it would ease my racing thoughts, but the evening news only brought more panic and confusion.

The handsome well-dressed anchor wanted to start with bad news first and announced that a young mother and her son were found in the pond at McKinley Park. He told the public that police were swift and arrested the father and ex-husband after he was seen entering and exiting the park by witnesses and security cameras. The anchor assured everyone that the police were certain they got their man.

I stopped paying attention to the news when the anchor switched the topic to other current events. 

I could not stop thinking about the detective that showed up and made me certain that I was their top suspect.

I did not remember seeing the arrested man in reality or in the supernatural world that I captured on camera, but I got up and went through the stack of pictures again. I was hoping that they would be back to normal and I could explain to myself that I saw the weird fog and figures because I was half-asleep. 

Of course, that was not the case. It was the same creepy and horrific images I watched change, and there was no man. 

I shoved the stack back under the couch cushion, knowing the police would easily find it in a search, but I did not have any better ideas. The only thing I thought I could do was think of an explanation.

Luckily, Detective Lewis and his goons never came back.

It is now six months later, and the trial to determine the father’s guilt has ended with a guilty verdict. I have followed every move in the case as closely as I could, and given the man’s airtight alibi and lack of physical evidence, I thought there was a chance he would get off easy. The prosecution surprised me and everyone else with a damning piece of evidence that was not in any of the news articles or broadcasts.

Most of the buildings around the park are privately owned businesses and restaurants. The structure that towers above all the others is a very old castle-like church. The church has been experiencing some vile men urinating on the historic monument and responded by installing security cameras. One of the cameras faced the area around the pond, and the jury watched as the defendant pushed his wife into the water. His son was holding her hand and disappeared under the water with her. 

They slowed the video down so everyone could see a couple minutes of struggles and splashing. The prosecution then explained that after hours of examining the video and comparing it to injuries left on the victims, it would seem that he knocked his wife unconscious and then held his son beneath the water. 

In light of the recently discovered evidence, the prosecution added more charges and the punishment changed from a life sentence with potential of parole, to a death sentence. It only took the jury five hours to come to a guilty verdict, and then armed guards took him away.

It has been two days since the trial ended and I have barely slept. 

I keep having a reoccurring nightmare that I was the one on trial and sentenced to death. The judge brings the gavel down and then I appear in a dimly lit cell that is completely empty besides me and some vents near the ceiling. A familiar purple mist creeps out the vents, and rolls down the cool concrete slabs that shaped the four walls, ceiling, and floor. As it rolled and curled its way towards me, it became so thick it looked more like water than mist or fog. When it finally touched my feet and they felt wet, I knew for sure it was actually water coming out of the vents. It did not make the sounds that water does, but instead the purple drink was silent like air. The purple liquid rushes up to my chin, hesitates a moment, and then thrusts me upward into the ceiling.

That is when I wake up. 

The nightmare starts each time I start to dream, and I cannot make myself wake up until it is over. I just have to endure it, even though I know it is not real.

I thought my subconscious was telling me to stop fucking around and get rid of the pictures. I should have gotten rid of them a long time ago, but I felt like Detective Lewis was just waiting for me to mess up. Plenty of time has passed since he came to visit to swing his weight around, and I still have not thought of a sensible excuse for the pictures. No matter how often I wanted to turn them in, I know it only means I would be turning myself in, so I thought keeping them under wraps until I had a complete plan was in my best interest.

Just a few hours ago, I answered an unexpected call that changed everything.

When the automated operator asked if I wanted to accept a call from an inmate in prison, I knew it had to be the man I helped sentence to death. He was rambling about how he was not crazy, but was hearing voices and they would not stop repeating my phone number until he called it.

He went quiet for a moment, and then told me that he was also plagued by sleepless nights at the mercy of a nightmare on replay. He said even though he was not there, in the dream he is watching me aim my camera at a towering indigo fog as it consumes his wife and son. It spits them out into the water, and when their bodies float up to the surface, the fog transforms into his own reflection.

“When I first had that dream of you, I woke up to voices telling me that you saw something you weren’t supposed to. You have something that you’re not supposed to.” The man quickly blurted out in a panic. Up until then he was talking normal, but then his breathing got heavy and close to the phone. “Get rid of whatever is on that camera. They told me those cops were fakes, just dummies to see if you give up the evidence. They must make sure I die and don’t get an appeal, and you have something that could make that happen. Get rid of it. Get rid of it or they will cut the loose end, do you understand?” The man was yelling into the receiver. I could hear other inmates shouting back and guards barking commands in the background. I heard a loud thump and the line disconnected.

It sounds crazy, but I believe him. I believe everything and I am setting the fire to burn those cursed images right now.

I needed to get this all out before I burn the words, memories, and evidence that would tip the scales so maliciously balanced by something that I cannot find the words to describe. I guess it could be supernatural, aliens, or more likely, a being completely beyond knowledge or comprehension. Either way, I am not going to get in its way.

As I finish writing this to solidify my own sanity, I am noticing the smoke from the fire is acting strange. Instead of rising toward the sky, it is staying in the yard as if there is a transparent bubble surround. 

The smoke has not turned purple, but I know the unknown presence is surrounding me. I can feel it urging me to finish what I started, and I intend to do that but I have one last thing to say.

I am forever changed. No matter how hot the pictures and this letter burn, and no matter how deep I try to bury what happened, I have to live knowing it all really happened.

It all really happened.