#4 The Last Exposure

As Chief Technical Officer at Optivision Technologies, one of the world’s top camera manufacturers, Daniel Mercer had heard it all - claims of cursed cameras, haunted film and even superstitions about photographs stealing souls.

He laughed them off. Magic didn’t belong in a world of precision optics and digital sensors.

That’s why, when a research report crossed his desk about an Amazonian tribe - the Kayara - refusing to be photographed, claiming cameras corrupt the soul, Daniel barely skimmed it. Superstition had no place in his world.

But then, three weeks later, a Kayara tribesman appeared in the city where Optivision is based, standing in the rain outside the headquarters.

Daniel was called down to reception, unbeknown to who was asking for him.

A man stood - he was gaunt, drenched, and clutched an old, battered camera - a model Daniel had never seen before.

The man locked eyes with Daniel, raised the camera, and pressed the shutter.

Flash.

Daniel blinked. A piercing cold shot through him, his stomach lurching like he’d been yanked from his own body. The street blurred for an instant, and a sickening dissonance settled deep in his gut—like a fragment of himself had been peeled away.

The tribesman whispered something in a language Daniel didn’t understand. Then, without another word, he placed the camera at Daniel’s feet and vanished into the city, swallowed by the crowd.

Daniel left the office and took the camera home. He told himself he wasn’t shaken. It was just a camera.

But that night, he found himself staring at it for hours. The casing was old but unmarked by any manufacturer. The lens was unlike anything he’d ever seen—too deep, too dark, like it swallowed light rather than captured it.

Finally, curiosity won. He turned it on.

There was one photo in the gallery. A picture of him. Taken at the exact moment the tribesman had snapped it.

But his reflection in the glass doors behind him was missing.

Impossible. Old software. A glitch?

The next day, people at work barely reacted to him. Conversations faded when he entered the room, as if they had forgotten him mid-sentence. The barista at his usual coffee shop didn’t recognize his order. His phone calls went unanswered.

By the end of the week, it was worse. His mother paused when she picked up the phone, hesitating before saying his name - as if it no longer felt natural on her tongue.

Daniel’s face still stared back from mirrors. But in every photo, every video, his eyes were different—unfocused, distant, as if something was slipping away.

Daniel checked the camera again, after leaving it for days on a shelf at home. There was a new photo.

A shot of his apartment. Taken from inside.

Daniel dropped it, heart hammering. The room was empty. Or was it? He closed his eyes tight praying he was in a bad dream.

And then he heard the shutter click.

From behind him.