Chapter 2 - The Photographs That Shouldn't Exist
My breath caught in my throat. I stared at Mark. His face had gone entirely pale, the color draining from his lips as if he’d seen a ghost.
"Mark... what is this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Why are your initials on this?"
"I... I don't know, Sarah. I swear to God I don't know," he stammered, pulling at his collar. "It has to be a coincidence. My grandfather had the same initials. You know that."
Frank looked between us awkwardly, picking up his toolbox. "Look, folks, I opened the wall like you paid me to. But whatever personal history you've got going on here, I'm out. I don't want any part of this."
Once Frank left, Mark used a pair of heavy pliers to snap the antique brass latch on the cylinder. The lid slid off with a hiss of released air, revealing a thick stack of faded photographs wrapped in wax paper, alongside three cassette tapes and a heavy leather journal.
I reached down and picked up the top photograph.
It was a photo of our house, taken decades ago. Sitting on the front porch was a young woman holding an infant. But standing behind her, smiling warmly into the camera, was a man who looked 100% identical to my husband.
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On the back of the photo, written in dark blue ink, were the words: “Mark and baby Sarah. July 1986. Before the real nightmare began.”
My heart slammed against my ribs. My name is Sarah.
