My Grandpa's Old Photos Show Something That Shouldn't Be There, And Now I Hear It
I’ve always been fascinated by my grandpa's old things. He passed away a few months ago, and I’ve been helping my mom clear out his dusty old house, a place that always felt a little… heavy. Not haunted, exactly, just like the air itself was thick with unspoken memories.
Last week, I was in the attic, sifting through boxes of forgotten junk, when I found a wooden chest. Inside, among old war medals and yellowed letters, was a small, leather-bound photo album. These weren't the typical family snapshots; these were art. Black and white landscapes, portraits with deep shadows, all taken with his vintage medium format camera. Grandpa was a hobbyist photographer, and he was good.
Most of the photos were of the local area from the 1950s and 60s – the old mill, the covered bridge, the dense woods that surround our town. But as I flipped through, a recurring theme started to emerge. In many of the landscape shots, particularly those of the deep woods near the old logging trails, there was something… off.
It wasn't immediately obvious. It was always in the background, half-hidden by trees or obscured by shadow. A vertical distortion, almost like a smear, or perhaps a figure too thin and too tall to be human, just barely peeking out from behind a trunk. At first, I dismissed it as a developing error, or a trick of the light. Film can be finicky.
But then I got to a series of photos taken in autumn, the leaves vibrant but falling. There was a clearing, and in one shot, closer than before, was it. It wasn't a smear. It was definitely a figure. Tall, impossibly gaunt, with long, thin limbs. Its head was tilted, almost too far, and where its face should have been, there was just… blur. Like a hole in reality. No distinct features, just a dark, smooth absence. And it was looking directly at the camera. At Grandpa.
I shivered, the hairs on my arms standing up. This wasn't a trick of light. It was in multiple photos, over a span of years. Grandpa had been documenting something, or perhaps, it had been documenting him.
I showed the photos to my mom. She just shook her head, a strange, distant look in her eyes. "Your grandpa spent too much time in those woods," she murmured, almost to herself. "Always looking for something that wasn't there." She wouldn't elaborate.
Since then, I haven't been able to shake the images from my mind. Every time I close my eyes, I see that tall, faceless figure. And then the sounds started.
It's faint at first, usually after midnight. A soft, rhythmic thump… thump… thump… It comes from the woods behind Grandpa’s house, which borders our property. It’s not like an animal. It’s too regular, too deliberate. Like something dragging itself, or perhaps, like something slowly… walking. Each thump sounds heavy, wet, and somehow… wrong.
I tried to tell myself it's just the wind, or a branch falling. But it’s getting closer. Last night, I heard it right outside my window. The thump… thump… thump… was directly beneath me. I froze, not daring to move, my breath caught in my throat. It stopped there for a long moment, then slowly, agonizingly, moved away, back towards the deeper woods.
I pulled out the album again today. There's one last photo I hadn't properly looked at. It’s a close-up, a selfie of Grandpa, grinning, holding up a fish. But over his shoulder, through the screen door of his old hunting cabin, blurred but undeniably there, is that same impossibly tall, faceless figure.
And now, as I type this, I hear it again. Closer than ever. It's not a thump anymore. It's a dragging, scratching sound. Like something trying to get in.
I don’t know what Grandpa found in those woods, or what he was trying to capture. But I think it saw him, too. And now it knows I found the old photograph.
I hear a faint scratching on the window downstairs.
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
annaxmalina
