The Last Photograph

In October 2017, I found myself driving through the winding roads of the Smoky Mountains, heading to a secluded resort that my friend Eliza had raved about. She and her family had rented a cabin for the weekend, and they had invited me to join them. The resort, nestled in a valley, was called Pinecrest Hollow, a collection of rustic cabins surrounding a small, murky lake.

I arrived on a Saturday morning, expecting to check into my own cabin, but the office informed me that all cabins were booked for the night. Disappointed, I spent the day with Eliza and her kin, splashing in the cold water and playing poker on the porch of their cabin, number 7. As evening approached, I decided to try my luck again, hoping for a cancellation.

A flickering fluorescent light greeted me in the office. A middle-aged woman with tired eyes looked up from her ledger. ‘You’re in luck,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘Cabin 2 just opened up. The previous guests left early.’ I didn’t ask why. I took the key, a heavy brass thing, and headed to Cabin 2, which was adjacent to Eliza’s, separated by a row of pines.

The cabin was quaint, with wood-paneled walls and a stone fireplace. I set down my bag and decided to take some photos to remember the trip. I snapped a few inside, then stepped out to capture the lake at dusk. The water was still, reflecting the orange sky. I took several shots, but the light was fading, so I planned to retake them in the morning.

Later, we had a potluck dinner at Eliza’s, and after the others turned in, she and I sat at the picnic table outside my cabin, sipping wine and talking until the stars were the only light. At midnight, we said goodnight. I went inside, determined to shower and watch some TV before sleeping.

The TV was ancient, with dials for knobs. I fumbled with it, getting static, then a fuzzy channel. I gave up and headed to the bathroom. As I showered, I thought I heard a sound from the living room—like a soft padding, as if something were moving across the wooden floor. I dismissed it as the settling of the cabin.

After I dried off, I went back to the living room to retrieve my phone. I noticed my camera, a small digital one, was on the table where I had left it. But the screen was lit, showing the last photo I had taken. It was the one of the lake at dusk. Only, in the photo, there was a figure standing at the water’s edge, a dark silhouette that I hadn’t seen with my own eyes.

I thought it was a trick of the light, perhaps a tree. I deleted the photo, annoyed, and went to bed. But sleep was elusive. I kept thinking about the figure. Around 3 AM, I heard a creak, then a distinct knock on the window beside the bed. My heart hammered as I sat up and saw nothing but blackness outside.

I switched on the bedside lamp. In the corner of the room, a sudden chill. I told myself it was the mountain air. I tried to sleep, but the feeling of being watched was suffocating. I pulled the covers over my head like a child.

Morning came, bright and cheerful. I felt silly for my fear. I took out my camera to take a fresh photo of the lake, but when I turned it on, a message said ‘NO CARD.’ Puzzled, I opened the card slot—it was empty. I must have forgotten to insert it. But I had taken photos earlier; they were on the camera’s internal memory, which was now wiped. The only photo on the device was the one of the lake with the figure, but it had changed. The figure was closer, and now I could see it was a woman in a white dress, her face obscured by shadow.

I deleted it again, but my hands were shaking. I decided to go to the office to ask about Cabin 2’s previous occupants. The same woman was there. ‘Oh, Cabin 2,’ she said, a hint of apprehension in her voice. ‘A honeymoon couple stayed there two years ago. The wife went missing. They found her drowned in the lake. Some say she still lingers, trying to get back to her cabin.’

I returned to my cabin, my mind racing. I packed my things, intending to leave early. As I gathered my belongings, I noticed the camera on the bed. It was on. I picked it up and looked at the screen. It showed the lake again, but this time the woman was at the window of the cabin, her face pressed against the glass, her eyes black. I didn’t delete it. I threw the camera into my bag and fled.

As I backed out of the driveway, I looked up at Cabin 2. In the window of the bedroom, I saw a figure. It was the same woman, and she was waving goodbye. I sped away, my heart pounding. When I got home, I never looked at the camera again. I buried it in a drawer. But sometimes, late at night, I still feel the weight of that gaze, and I know that the lake is not done with me.