Whatever you do, don’t smile. That is how he gets you.
“Smile.” he says.
There’s a click, a flash, and then it’s over. The baby starts wailing. For a moment, the family stands frozen, then they blink and snap back to reality.
“Thank you, Mr. Kagan.” the father says while his wife bounces the still crying baby on her hip and the other two children wait impassively. “What do we owe you?”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “Oh, don’t worry about it.” he says, his smile dripping honey. “I already have what I need.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “I’ll have the pictures send to you once they’re ready.”
The father thanks him again and then they leave, shuffling out of the room quietly. The baby has stopped crying. Maybe it knows that there is no use lamenting a fate that was sealed the moment the trigger clicked.
In his hands, his camera buzzes with the energy of five new souls.
He stays awake all night, developing the photos.
When he comes into his study in the morning, the pale light of dawn cracking through the thick curtains, she is in her usual spot, perched on the armchair. “You did it again.” she says. Her voice is cold, and it’s not a question.
He only smiles. “You’ll like them.” he simply says. “The baby seemed a bit feverish; I reckon it might join us first. The others will come soon, of course.” They always do, after all. No one lives for long without a soul.
She clucks her tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t understand why you keep doing this.” she complains, a slightly desperate note in her voice. “Is there not a point where you have enough? Is there not a point where I’m…” She doesn’t finish that sentence, but he knows what she is thinking nonetheless. Is there not a point where I’m enough?
Weaker men might turn their backs, but he stands tall and looks her in the eye. “I wish you were, love.” he says. “But you’re not, and I’m tired of having the same old argument again and again.”
She turns away, frowning. She’s going to sulk for a few days, but he can handle that. After all, time is something he has in abundance.
Two days later, the baby comes to life in its photograph, now framed and hanging in his gallery with all the others. Its wailing is loud and piercing, even over the ever-present whispers, and so he is very relieved when the mother awakens only a few hours after that and starts shushing her child.
Of course, once she is joined by her husband and other two children and they realize what has happened to them, they start wailing too, wailing and crying and begging. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard a hundred times before, so he simply shuts the door and waits for them to settle into their fate.
They all do, eventually.
The invention of color photography excites him, at first, but he comes to realize that he still prefers the crisp black and whites, the delicate shades of grey. There is something elegant to them, something delightfully subdued that he can’t help but admire.
Every time he brings a new picture home, she doesn’t talk to him for a few days. It’s becoming increasingly irritating. He begins to think that he should have taken more photos right at the beginning, that he shouldn’t have been alone with her for so many years. It has allowed her to grow attached, to fancy herself more important than his portraits, and in a way she is, but that doesn’t mean he can ever stop.
When he tells her all this she explodes, screams at him that she hates him, that he’s a monster, that he should have stopped before he even really got started. That night, he locks her in the basement and puts another girl in her place, this one young and still hopeful.
It doesn’t feel quite the same, but it’ll do.
When his detective brings the case to him, Sergeant Ross doesn’t know what to think of it.
Twelve people in total, all of them found dead in their homes for no apparent reason – no one has made a connection until now, no one has even suspected foul play, but there is something about it that just doesn’t sit right with him.
So he starts digging in. He stays awake for days in a row, living off black coffee and not much else, and he is faintly aware that this is quickly turning into a dangerous obsession, that he is headed down a path he’s been down before and swore he would never walk again, but he can’t stop.
That is when he finds the photos.
It seems like such an insignificant detail – a black-and-white photo of them in each of the victims’ mailboxes.
But it’s the only connection he can find, and when he reads the name written on the back of each of the pictures – Malachi Kagan, Photographer – something inside of him starts to buzz with the familiar thrill of a cold case suddenly gone hot again. He steps into the bullpen, lets his eyes roam over his squad.
“Detective Miller.” he says. “You’re coming with me.”
Fifteen minutes later, they’re in front of Malachi Kagan’s door.
The man, though polite to a fault, has something horribly eerie to him.
He offers them bitter-tasting tea that they drink in a sitting room hung with dozens upon dozens of black-and-white portraits, some of them looking well over a hundred years old, and Sergeant Ross could swear that the eyes of the people in the photographs follow him whenever he looks away. He can tell Miller feels uncomfortable as well; she sits straighter than she usually does, a tightness in her shoulders that betrays her nervousness.
“Mr. Kagan, we have a few questions.” says Ross into the silence, reaching for the envelope with the photos he has tucked carefully into the inside pocket of his jacket. He lets them spill onto the polished surface of the coffee table – a spattering of yet more black-and-white faces, staring with accusing and empty eyes.
“These are you work, correct?”
Malachi Kagan only inclines his head slightly. There is something in his eyes that Ross can’t quite read but that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up; he continues, if only to preserve his composure. “All the people in them are dead now.” he says. “And the only thing connecting them is your handiwork. Would you care to explain that?”
Kagan leans back in his armchair, a slow, predatory grin curling his thin lips. “An unfortunate coincidence, I would think.” he says. “I don’t see how the fact that I took pictures of them has anything to do with their deaths. How did they die, if I may ask?”
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss details of an ongoing investigation.” says Ross coldly. “So you maintain that you took pictures of all of those people shortly before they died, but you don’t have anything to do with the deaths themselves?”
Kagan gives a smooth shrug. “I wouldn’t know about shortly.” he says, still smiling. “I don’t know when exactly they died. But yes, I took photos of them. And no, I didn’t kill them.”
Before Sergeant Ross can answer there is a noise from deep inside the house, and it is unmistakable – a scream, muffled through paneled walls and heavy doors, but still so piercing it rings in Ross’ ears, echoing even into the following silence.
For the first time since they have arrived emotions flash over Kagan’s face – shock, quickly followed by fury. He stands with the speed and fluidity of a cat, body turned towards the door, but Ross has training and years of experience on him; he is on his feet already, and Miller follows quickly, her gun in her hand with a looseness that belies the shooting skills Ross knows she has.
“Don’t move, Sir.” she says, her voice firm. “Is there anyone else in the house?”
A muscle in Kagan’s jaw twitches, even as he schools his face back into an expressionless mask. “Just me.” he says. “I must have left the radio on in my studio; I am terribly forgetful sometimes.”
“You won’t mind if we check it out then.” Ross says, his tone deliberately light. Kagan nods after a moment, but there is another flash of anger than he doesn’t quite manage to hide. “Of course not.” he says, a cold edge in his voice.
“Perfect.” says Ross. “Lead the way, Mr. Kagan.” He exchanges a glance with Miller, who nods, understanding. She slides her gun back into its holster but keeps one hand on it, smoothly slipping into position behind the photographer.
They follow him down a dim hallway, the wallpaper faded and stained where it shows between the countless photographs. At its end is a heavy wooden door; Kagan unlocks it with a large brass key from his pocket and pushes it open, revealing a narrow staircase leading down into the darkness.
“After you.” Ross says dryly at Kagan’s hesitation. The man’s lips twitch, almost as if he is baring his teeth, but he obligingly flips a switch, plunging the stairwell into dusty yellow light, and descends, Miller and Ross following closely behind.
There is another door at the bottom. Kagan unlocks this one too, and when it swings soundlessly inwards Ross’ breath catches in his throat, surprised. The room behind is nearly completely empty, all bare stone and dusty floors, but on the wall beside them hangs another framed photograph, larger than most of the others. In it a young woman sits in an armchair, hands folded in her lap, dark hair spilling down her shoulders; it would be a beautiful picture, if it weren’t for the fact that the woman’s face is twisting in anger.
“Kill him.” she says. “He did this to me, to all of us. Kill him.”
Ross is too slow. The shock of a picture looking at him, speaking to him, roots him in place for a moment, and by the time he moves it’s too late. Kagan stands by the door, shut behind him, twirling the key in his pale, long-fingered hands. “What an unfortunate situation.” he says, unperturbed by the two guns pointed at him, something horribly sinister lurking under his still impeccably polite tone. “You won’t believe her, I hope?”
“He is lying, shoot him now!” the woman shrieks in her frame, moving like she is real, like she is alive. “He trapped us, he’ll do it to you too, he…”
Kagan makes a rapid cutting motion with his hand and the woman silences immediately, clutching at her throat like he has stolen her voice. “That’s better, yes?” he says. “Now, I’m sure we will find some way to resolve this.”
Miller finds her voice before Ross does, his eyes still jumping between Kagan and the woman in the photo, silent now but her face brimming with hate. “Look, I don’t know what is going on here, but drop the key and kick it over here, now.” she barks. “You are under arrest.”
Kagan smiles. “Ah.” he says. “I am afraid that will not be possible.”
Ross sees it happen almost before it does. Kagan reaches into the inside of his jacket, and Miller, jumpy from this impossible thing they have just witnessed, pulls the trigger. The shot echoes through the narrow room, making his ears ring; faintly he hears the woman in the picture scream, sees Kagan fall.
“Fuck.” Miller says. Her voice jolts him back to reality and he turns to look at her, the gun trembling in her hand. “What the fuck is going on here?”
Ross opens his mouth to answer, to say that he has no idea either, that something very wrong is going on in this house, but before he can his gaze finds the picture and the words die in his throat. The woman has crumpled, a dark stain spreading slowly at the front of her dress, her head tipped forward, and Ross knows what he will see before he whips around again.
Kagan, unharmed, grins at him. “That’s one life gone.” he says. “Do you have enough bullets for the rest them?”
The picture that is published with Sergeant Ross’ obituary contains no soul at all.
The picture in Malachi Kagan’s gallery does.