I Found A Photo Album In Her Attic

For those of you who saw my last post, I found more disturbing family memorabilia in my grandma’s attic. I didn’t mean to find it. That sounds stupid, I know. I was in the attic to find my family history. That’s the whole point. But I wasn’t looking for this.

After Daniel’s journal, I told myself I was done. I packed it back into the box, put everything back where I found it, and went home. I didn’t sleep much that night. The images formed in my mind while reading that journal played like a horror movie I couldn't escape. I was afraid that I'd see him in my dreams, standing there all disheveled, welding a kitchen knife. And yet, day after day I couldn't shake the urge to know. I didn’t want to go back.

But a week later, I did.

I told myself I was just organizing. Grandma’s attic is a mess. Boxes stacked on boxes, old furniture covered in sheets, Christmas decorations from decades ago. Someone should go through it eventually. Might as well be me. That’s what I told myself. I didn’t tell myself I was hoping to find more.

The album was inside a plastic storage bin labeled “PHOTOS – KEEP.” In all caps, written in black marker. Her handwriting.

I’d already gone through most of the other photo boxes trying to find a photo of Daniel. But all I found was normal stuff. Birthdays. Weddings. Christmas mornings. Awkward school pictures. The kind of things every family has. But this one was different.

It was wrapped in a cloth first. Not plastic or paper like you might see them do at a book store. Cloth. Like something fragile. The album itself was old, with a thick brown leather cover. It had no title. No name on it. Just perfectly smooth edges, as if it had never been opened before.

I sat on the attic floor and opened it. I fully expected there to be nothing in it. But it was full of photos. The first few pages seemed fine. At first. It appeared to be perfectly normal photos. Pictures from the late seventies, maybe early eighties, with faded colors and rounded corners. I could see my grandma in her twenties and my grandpa before he went gray. Aunts and uncles I recognized from other albums. Picnics. Birthdays. Backyard barbecues.

Then I noticed him.

He was in the background of the fourth page. At first, I thought he was just some neighbor’s kid. In the photo, my grandma is holding a cake. Everyone’s smiling. Balloons were tied to a fence. A typical birthday setup. But behind them, near the tree line, is a boy. He’s standing half in shadow, and isn’t part of the group. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t blurred like someone walking by.

He’s just… there. Looking straight at the camera.

I stared at it for a while before moving on. It was definitely creepy, but it could easily be explained away. Just a weird kid. Someone who had a bad day and snuck into the photo. Could be anything, really. Probably nothing. Probably.

But on page five, he was there again. In a different photo, clearly taken on a different day. I could see my aunt opening presents in the living room. He’s in the doorway. Half-hidden. Watching.

I flipped to page six, where I saw a family reunion. People sat around picnic tables. There were dozens of people. He’s sitting alone on a bench in the distance. Same clothes. Same posture. Same empty look. My stomach tightened. I flipped back. Page four. Page five. Page six. It was definitely him. Same haircut. Same thin face. Same dark jacket. Same eyes that never seemed to catch the light. He hadn’t aged. At all. I kept going.

On page seven he was behind my mom at a playground. Page eight he’s reflected in a window at Thanksgiving. Page nine he’s standing at the edge of a funeral photo. That's where I stopped. The funeral picture was for my great-uncle Harold. He died in a car accident in the early nineties. Everyone in the photo is crying. Except for the boy. He’s standing behind the mourners. Hands in his pockets. Watching.

I checked the back of the photo. 1991. I flipped back to the earlier ones. 1978. 1979. 1980. The same boy. Same face. No change. His lifeless eyes fixed on the camera. Even when he was too far away to make out his eyes, I could still tell. He was staring. Seemingly staring right at me. My hands started shaking. I told myself it was a coincidence. Families have friends. Neighbors. Distant relatives. Maybe he just showed up a lot. Maybe he stopped coming later.

I turned the page and the photos began to change. They weren’t group shots anymore. They were individual portraits. I saw my aunt Linda sitting on a couch. The boy is behind her chair. Closer now. Almost touching her shoulder. On the next page my uncle Mark in his driveway. The boy is standing beside his car. Two feet away. The next page shows my dad’s younger cousin Rachel when she was a baby, crawling on the ground. The boy is standing right behind her. So close his shadow touches her shoes. Rachel looks uncomfortable, like she’s about to cry. Then I noticed. Her eyes are looking sideways. At him.

My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I kept flipping. Each photo is later in time. Each time, he’s closer. Each time, the person looks worse. Tired. Pale. Thin. Scared. My aunt Linda’s later photos show her with dark circles under her eyes. Uncle Mark’s hands start shaking in pictures. Rachel looks hollow as she grows up.

Then the deaths start. Obituaries taped beside photos.

Linda – “Unexpected illness.”

Mark – “Suicide.”

Rachel – “Accidental overdose.”

Each obituary is neatly glued next to a photo of them with the boy standing right beside them. Smiling. For the first time. I almost dropped the album. His smile is wrong. It wasn't too wide. It was more like it was… too empty. I can't really explain it. But it felt wrong. Like he’s trying to copy what happiness looks like.

I wanted to stop. But I didn’t. The next section was labeled in pen: “RECENT” I could tell that it was hers. Her handwriting. Grandma’s. The first “recent” photo is labeled 2006. And on the back is written a name… “Daniel.”

He’s standing in front of his house with a backpack on and a typical awkward teenage posture. He looks completely normal. And behind him… I already knew. The boy is there. Standing at the edge of the driveway. Watching.

The next few photos follow Daniel at school, at a store, in his yard. And in each photo, he’s always there. Always closer. Always watching. The last photo of Daniel shows him sitting in the back of a squad car with the door open. There are no other police cars in view. The picture appears to have been taken from the inside of what I assume is Daniel's house, pointing out the front door or a window or something. Two officers are facing away from the camera, trying to hold Daniel in the back of the car. His hands are cuffed behind his back, and he’s leaning out of the car, pushing against the officers, teeth bared. He looks like a wild animal. And in the reflection of the police car window… The boy. Smiling.

I closed the album and sat there for a long time. My throat felt tight. My chest hurt. Every instinct told me to leave, and every excuse told me to stay. That's when I noticed the last page of the closed album. Sticking out of it was a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out, leaving the book closed, and opened it. It was a recent print of a digital photo. The clearness of the image gave that away. It was glossy. Not faded. Not old. The photo was taken in my grandma’s living room last Christmas. I remembered that day. We all came over, opened presents and took pictures.

In the photo, I’m sitting on the couch. Laughing. Holding a mug. Everyone else is blurred in motion. Except me. And behind me… far back in the hallway, he’s standing there, looking straight at the camera. At me. And on the back, in Grandma’s handwriting: “Symptoms starting.”

I don’t remember putting the album back. I don’t remember driving home. I just remember locking my door, checking my windows. Turning every light on, and sitting on my bed, staring at nothing. The other photos I could maybe explain away if I tried. But I remembered last Christmas clearly. There was no boy there.

Grandma called me last night, and I didn’t answer. She left a voicemail, sounding tired. She said: “Sweetheart… Did you find what you were looking for?” And that's it.

I haven’t gone back. I keep seeing him in reflections. In dark screens. In windows. Sometimes even when I blink. I wish I hadn't looked for answers. I can't help but feel like he's here. It's crazy to believe. I know that. But right now I don't have any way of explaining those photos. It's almost like Grandma wasn’t collecting memories. It's like she knows. I'm scared to ask her. Scared to go back. But I know I won't be able to stay away for long. I can already feel something. Something getting closer to me. Either my own paranoia, or I'm in serious danger. Do I stay sane? Or let myself believe? I have to talk to her before I decide.

I'll keep you guys updated about my situation. Maybe if my grandma doesn't actually know anything I may still find some more answers up in her attic. Or maybe I'm just going crazy. One way or another, I'll find out soon. I'm sure of it.