Work Text:
[1]
A large photo of your grandparents at their wedding. James and Mary stand in front of the chapel, arms intertwined. Mary leans her head on his shoulder, clutching a large bouquet of white and red roses. It’s a bright, tender moment, but gray clouds creeping from the corner spoil the shot.
The edges are slightly faded but still show signs of care. Next to the photo is an old note with neat creases. Dark brown, almost-black ink spells out, “Will you marry me?” It’s neatly pasted into the album.
[2]
Three children in the yard. A tall blonde boy—your father, face unscarred—stands underneath the tree, frowning at Emma and Samuel. The blonde girl carries a glass jar in her hands, looking up at the brown-haired boy with a slingshot. It’s hard to believe that they’re triplets. In the background, just beyond the white picket fence, is a blurry figure. You can vaguely make out a crow’s head.
This picture is yellowed with age, and you can make out faint pencil marks traced over the paper. A noose over Emma’s head, and fiery crosses over Samuel’s eyes. Thin lines mark out antlers over Albert’s head. The vandal is clearly him.
[3]
Your aunt and uncle’s wedding. You’ve only seen them in photos. Ida’s red hair—just like yours—spills over her shoulders like a wet snake, dark blood against white cloth. Samuel beams at the camera. His wife holds a fan of tarot cards instead of flowers. Emma and her son Frank are low in the foreground.
A jagged tear across your uncle’s face mars all features save for his mouth. There are also thin perforations, mostly centered around Samuel’s body. You notice that whoever took a knife to the photo was careful not to touch Ida.
[4]
Emma crouched in the yard with your cousin, showing him the small flower garden. Frank clutches his mother’s hand, eyes magnified by his round glasses. A teddy bear dangles in the other. He seems to be looking at something off-camera, expression vacant.
Tearstained and slightly wrinkled, as if clutched in someone’s hands for too long. It probably happened sometime before Frank came out of the well, hair and beard down to his chest, vengeance in his heart. Tacked beside the photo is a newspaper clipping of your aunt’s obituary.
[5]
A family photo, hastily cobbled together. Ida, Samuel, and your cousin Leonard cluster together. Albert, scar extending across his face, glares into the lens, hideously angry. Your grandmother Mary sits in the rocking chair. Her hair is nearly all white, a stark contrast to her blue dress.
The picture is in pristine condition. Leonard told you that right after the camera flash had gone off, Mary died. It terrified him, her gaping, nearly-toothless mouth, the concept of death laid bare to a mere child. Something else had happened too, but he wouldn't say what.
[6]
An older Leonard in military uniform, leaning on a motorbike. There’s a metal helmet on his head and a rifle in his hand. He’s beaming, much like his father in the old wedding photo. Off to the side, you think you can see a dark figure with antlers.
There are no dramatic tear stains or creases. You know this is because even if your cousin had died in the trenches, there would be no one to mourn him. Not even you. Everyone would be gone soon.
[7]
Albert, in a chess game with Frank. Father has aged, the hair left on his head grayed. His mouth is set in a straight line. Your cousin Frank sits opposite him, clean-shaven, with an equally grim expression. The atmosphere is incredibly uncomfortable—Albert knows that Frank is here to kill him for all those horrid years at the bottom of the well.
You added this photo into the album, not for any sentimental reason, but because it documents the sacrifices. The edges are clean and bright, highlighting the scar on your father’s face. He was not a good man. But he created you, and you now have a clear purpose.
[8]
You, Frank, and Leonard in the parlor. Each person has a medallion around their necks. Everyone looks anticipant, eyes not entirely focused on the lens. There’s definitely a figure by the parlor window; you can make out nothing but two white pinpricks for eyes.
The picture is clean and glossy. You neatly tack it to a new page, then return the album to its shelf. Dust off your dress. It is time to complete the ritual. Low humming in the air intensifies as you descend into the cold basement, gold medallion, hanging from your neck.
The past is never dead. It is not even past.
[9]
Green fabric spilling across a table, covered by red, blue, and darker green patterns. There is a flash of human skin in the corner. A baby’s hand, tiny fingers curled loosely around a patch of the dress.
You tuck the photo inside a rip, the album’s thick cloth covering swallowing the image up. She—Laura—is the last Vanderboom. The dress will be hers when she is older. There will be no more dark blurry figures, at least for now.
[10]
A view from the Vanderboom attic. Beyond the lush forest lies the lake and the mountain range. There is a large white building in the middle of the lake, but its lights have all gone dark. Protruding from the forest: a cave, the chapel, the mill. Patches of green and red denote cleared fields. A lonely cow grazes.
It is the last photo in the album. Glossy for now, it will no doubt age and crack until the Lake has become an entirely different place. There is no reason for you and Laura to stay in such an empty house—it is time to move on. The album is closed and left on its shelf. A new narrative has begun.