Mike wasn’t a professional photographer, but he had a deep appreciation for the craft, especially its history. His small apartment overlooking Mahoning Avenue was cluttered with photography books and a modest collection of vintage cameras gleaned from thrift stores and online auctions. He loved the mechanical ingenuity, the tactile feel of old metal and leatherette, the unique character each lens imparted. His latest acquisition, found dusty and forgotten in the back of a Girard pawn shop, was an Argus C3, the quintessential American “brick” camera from the mid-20th century. It was scuffed, the leatherette peeling slightly at the corners, but the lens seemed clear, and the shutter fired with a satisfying clack.
He paid ten dollars for it, feeling a small thrill at rescuing the humble machine. Back home, he spent an evening carefully cleaning the body, polishing the lens, and checking the rangefinder mechanism. It needed work, but seemed fundamentally sound. Sourcing the correct 35mm film took a bit of effort, but he eventually loaded a roll of standard black and white film, eager to see what kind of images the old Argus could produce. It felt like holding a piece of history, a simple, rugged eye that had likely witnessed decades of everyday American life. He wondered what moments – picnics, parades, family gatherings – had passed through its lens before it ended up in that pawn shop.
His first test roll was deliberately mundane. Shots of Mill Creek Park’s familiar bridges and trails, the architecture of downtown Youngstown, his cat sleeping in a patch of sunlight, the weathered texture of his own apartment building’s brickwork. He developed the film himself in his makeshift bathroom darkroom, the acrid smell of fixer filling the small space. As the images slowly emerged on the paper under the dim red safelight, he felt the familiar sense of anticipation.
The initial results were… interesting. The photos had a distinct vintage quality, exactly what he’d hoped for. The lens was reasonably sharp in the center but softened towards the edges, with noticeable vignetting that darkened the corners. Some frames showed minor light leaks, streaks of brightness along the edges, which he attributed to the camera’s age or perhaps his own imperfect loading technique. Overall, he was pleased. The Argus worked, and it had character. He hung the prints up to dry, satisfied with his ten-dollar find.
It was only later, examining the dry prints under a bright desk lamp with a magnifying loupe, that he noticed the first anomaly. It was a photo of Lanterman’s Mill in Mill Creek Park, a picturesque, often-photographed scene. But in the dark shadows beneath the mill’s wooden structure, near the water wheel, there was something… extra. A faint, translucent shape that looked disturbingly like a human figure, slightly hunched, partially obscured by the shadows. Mike frowned, adjusting the lamp. He knew no one had been standing there when he took the shot; he’d waited specifically for a clear view. He checked the negative – the shape was there too, embedded in the emulsion. Strange. Must be an odd light leak, a chemical stain from developing, or maybe just pareidolia, his mind seeing patterns in the random grain. He set the print aside, slightly puzzled but not yet alarmed.
He shot another roll the following weekend, paying more attention. He revisited some of the same spots, deliberately composing shots to include areas of deep shadow or reflective surfaces like windows. When he developed this roll, the anomalies were more pronounced, and undeniably present. In a photo of the abandoned storefronts along West Federal Street, a ghostly figure seemed to peer out from a darkened doorway. In a picture taken inside St. Columba Cathedral, faint, wispy shapes hovered near the altar, unseen by the few worshippers present. And in a simple photo of his own living room, taken at night, a shadowy form seemed to be sitting in his armchair, barely visible against the dark upholstery.
Mike felt a chill crawl up his spine. This wasn’t light leaks or processing errors. The shapes were too distinct, too suggestive of form. He dug out photos he’d taken of the same locations with his modern digital camera – nothing. The figures only appeared in the Argus photos. The old camera was capturing something that wasn’t there, something invisible to the naked eye.
Driven by a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, Mike started experimenting. He took the Argus everywhere, shooting roll after roll. Patterns began to emerge. The anomalies appeared far more frequently in older locations, places steeped in history or associated with strong emotions. Cemeteries, like Oak Hill where many of Youngstown’s founding families rested, were particularly active photographic subjects. Photos taken there often revealed multiple faint figures wandering among the headstones. Abandoned buildings, like the derelict Warner Theatre downtown or the decaying remnants of industrial sites along the Mahoning River, yielded images thick with shadowy forms and strange mists. Even his own pre-war apartment building wasn’t immune; photos taken in the hallways or basement often showed fleeting shapes or inexplicable light orbs.
He also noticed recurring figures. A tall, thin man in what looked like old-fashioned work clothes often appeared near the sites of former steel mills. A woman in a long dress sometimes materialized near the older mansions on the North Side. These weren’t just random blurs; they seemed like specific entities tied to specific places. Could the camera be photographing ghosts? Residual hauntings? He started deliberately seeking out places with known tragic histories or local ghost stories, his Argus becoming a tool for documenting the unseen.
What were these things? Looking closely at the prints, the figures varied. Some were translucent and wispy, classic ghostly apparitions. Others were darker, more solid-looking but clearly out of place, like figures from another time momentarily superimposed onto the present. They rarely seemed aware of the camera, often facing away or interacting with unseen elements in their own spectral environment. Were they echoes of the past, trapped in a loop? Or were they aware entities, existing on a different plane of reality? The photos offered tantalizing glimpses but no definitive answers.
Mike became obsessed with the camera’s history. Who had owned this Argus C3 before him? He examined it minutely. No serial number databases existed for such common cameras. The pawn shop owner had no memory of who sold it. He researched the history of spirit photography, wondering if a previous owner had modified the camera, perhaps using special lenses or techniques to capture the supernatural. He found stories of trickery involving double exposures and pre-exposed plates, but also accounts of photographers who genuinely believed their cameras could bridge the gap between worlds. Was his Argus one such camera, either by design or by accident?
He also considered if the camera had been present at some tragedy, its lens somehow sensitized by exposure to intense emotion or death. Had it photographed an accident, a crime scene, a funeral? The camera’s past remained stubbornly hidden, leaving Mike to speculate about the origins of its strange ability.
How did it even work? Was it the lens, perhaps containing unique impurities in the glass that allowed it to perceive wavelengths beyond the normal human spectrum? Was it a reaction between the specific film emulsion and some energy the camera focused? Or was the camera itself merely a conduit, amplifying Mike’s own latent psychic sensitivity (if he even had any), allowing his subconscious perceptions to imprint onto the film? Could a spirit be attached to the camera itself, adding the figures to the photos it took? The mechanism remained a mystery, defying easy explanation.
The constant stream of images revealing an unseen world began to take a psychological toll. Mike found himself growing paranoid, constantly scanning shadows and reflections even without the camera, wondering what spectral figures might be standing just beside him, unseen. Familiar places felt alien, crowded with invisible presences. Sleep offered little respite, his dreams filled with the translucent figures from his photographs. He became withdrawn, his obsession with the Argus consuming his time and thoughts. Trying to show the photos to friends resulted in skepticism or worried looks; most dismissed the figures as smudges, developing errors, or tricks of light. He felt increasingly isolated with his disturbing knowledge.
He faced a dilemma. The camera offered undeniable proof of… something extraordinary. He could use it to become famous, a paranormal investigator with irrefutable evidence. He could dedicate himself to documenting and understanding this hidden dimension. But the fear was growing. What if the figures were aware? What if drawing attention to them, capturing them on film, provoked a reaction? The shadowy form in his armchair was particularly unnerving. Was it watching him? Was continued use of the camera dangerous, drawing unwanted attention from the other side?
He considered getting rid of the Argus. Selling it felt irresponsible. Destroying it felt… wrong, almost like sacrilege, and he harbored a half-formed fear of supernatural backlash. For weeks, he vacillated, sometimes drawn to the camera’s power, other times repulsed by the unsettling reality it revealed. Finally, driven by mounting anxiety, he made a decision. He carefully wrapped the Argus C3 in cloth, placed it in a sturdy box, and drove out to a remote section of the vast Mill Creek MetroParks. He buried the box deep beneath the roots of an old oak tree, marking the spot only in his memory.
Back in his apartment, the world seemed quieter, emptier, but also safer. He stopped developing film, put his darkroom equipment away. Yet, the images remained burned into his mind. He couldn’t walk past the Lanterman’s Mill overlook without picturing the hunched figure in the shadows. He couldn’t sit in his armchair without a prickle of unease. He found himself scrutinizing everyday photos taken with his phone, searching the backgrounds and shadows out of habit, half-expecting to find an anomaly.
One afternoon, months later, he was looking through a box of old family photos and found a picture of himself as a child, playing in his grandparents’ backyard in Youngstown. It was a simple snapshot, taken with a cheap instant camera. But as Mike looked closer, his blood ran cold. There, in the background, partially hidden behind a lilac bush, was a faint, shadowy figure, watching him. A figure he’d never noticed before, but whose form now seemed chillingly familiar. The Argus was buried, but the unseen world it had revealed was everywhere, hidden in plain sight, waiting to be captured, or perhaps, just waiting.