The Portrait of Eleanor Vance

On the first Tuesday of October, I drove to my great-aunt’s cottage in the hills to collect a daguerreotype of my great-grandmother, Eleanor Vance. It was the only known image of her, a treasure my mother and her sister had fought over for years. My aunt had kept it in a locked drawer, but when I arrived, she was gone, leaving only a note that said ‘Take it. It’s time.’

The cottage was cold and smelled of old wood and dust. My uncle, a man of few words, let me in and pointed to the kitchen table where the photograph lay in a velvet-lined box. As I lifted it, I felt a strange weight, as if the glass was thicker than it should be. The image showed a stern woman in a high collar, her eyes dark and piercing, but as I stared, I could have sworn they moved.

I texted my friend Maya, telling her I had the picture. She asked me to describe it, and I sent her a photo. A moment later, she replied, ‘There’s a figure behind you in the reflection.’ I turned, but saw nothing. I laughed it off, but the unease grew. I decided to leave, but my uncle stopped me, saying, ‘She doesn’t like to be photographed. She’ll follow you now.’

I dismissed his superstition and drove home, but the drive was fraught. Every rearview mirror showed the same empty road, yet I felt a presence in the back seat. That night, I placed the daguerreotype on my dresser. As I tried to sleep, I heard a faint ticking, like a watch, and the sound of skirts rustling. I turned on the light, and the photograph was gone.

Panic set in. I searched everywhere, but it had vanished. Then I noticed the door to my closet was ajar, and a cold draft seeped out. I crept closer, and from the darkness, a voice whispered, ‘You took me from my home. Now you must keep me.’ I slammed the door shut, but the voice continued, growing louder, until it filled my head.

For days, the haunting persisted. Objects moved, shadows flickered, and I saw her silhouette in every mirror. I tried to return the picture, but my aunt’s cottage was empty, as if she had never existed. The only clue was a letter I found in my coat pocket, in my great-grandmother’s handwriting: ‘To the one who holds my image, I am with you always. Do not forget.’

Now, I sit in my apartment, the daguerreotype back on the table, but it’s not the same. The eyes follow me, and sometimes, I see her smile. I haven’t slept in weeks, and my reflection no longer matches my movements. I am becoming her, and I fear that soon, there will be two of us in this house, and only one will walk out.