text: I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic--a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside. I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal--if it weren’t for the subtleties. In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run. Each successive photo told a similar story. The family, always in different settings--their quaint living room, a local park, their dining room--always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me. The last photo on the roll was different. It was taken inside the house, in what looked like the living room. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help. I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure. The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight.