Clara walked down the crowded street, an unsettling scene of déjà vu washing over her. She glanced again at the photograph – the scene had certainly changed. While Grace’s street had been dusty, empty, Clara’s was busy and full of life. The tarmac road was lined by houses, their small neat gardens shining green in the bright winter sunlight. It was picture perfect.

“Isn’t it perfect?”

Clara jumped. The voice had spoken clearly over the sounds of cars and laughing children. He was standing alone, in the middle of the road, his old-fashioned camera out of place in the modern scene. Everybody aside from Clara herself seemed oblivious to him. Cars glided past the man, as if he wasn’t there. She frowned – surely it was not a normal occurrence? Surely people would notice? Perhaps, she thought, he was part of some show or museum – a realistic look into the past. He looked harmless enough.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Clara replied hesitantly.

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“If you liked it, I could capture you too.”

Clara blinked, stunned.

“Excuse me?”

“On the camera. It is such a lovely day, perhaps you would like to remember it . . .Grace,” he replied, the fixed smile on his face widening slightly.

Clara blanched. Here she was, on the same road, on the same day, maybe even, she supposed, at the same time and she hadn’t been suspicious of a strange, seemingly invisible man with an old-style camera. Not for the first time since Joseph came to visit, Clara could not believe her foolishness. Then again, she reasoned, perhaps like Joseph this man was able to make her feel safe and doubt even the most obvious danger.

“I’m sorry I think you’ve got—” Clara paused, staring at the street around her; all colour seemed to be draining from the scenery.

The once bright green was becoming dull, flowers losing bold petals. It was as if someone had poured water over the picture, washing out all the ink. Colour poured down the glittering tarmac road, slipping into the drains like tidal waves of paint. It was odd, scarily so. Yet so beautiful, mesmerizing.

Clara’s heart quickened, her breathing hitched. Everything was slowing – voices deepened and slurred, birds seemed to stop in mid-flight, wings flapping in slow motion. She turned slowly, sluggishly, suddenly tired. She blinked lazily at the photographer. His appearance, soft and inviting before, was now dark and menacing.

He grinned, his gap-toothed mouth opening wide. Dressed in black. Face changing. Almost recognizable.

Clara paled as she realized who he was.

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