説明
This happened about two years ago during what was supposed to be a solo photography retreat. I'd been going through a rough patch at work, layoffs, toxic management, the usual corporate nightmare, and I desperately needed time to reconnect with my passion for landscape photography. I found this rental through a photographer's forum, a rustic cabin on Lake Whisper in northern Michigan. The owner, an elderly woman named Mrs. Chen, had specifically marketed it to artists and photographers, claiming the sunrise views were "life-changing." The cabin was perfect for what I needed. Single-story, weathered cedar siding, positioned on a small peninsula that jutted into the lake. What sold me was the wraparound deck, Mrs. Chen had sent photos showing how it offered 270-degree views of the water. The closest neighbor was supposedly half a mile away through dense pine forest. Complete isolation for a week of creative work. I arrived on a Sunday afternoon in early October. The fall colors were just hitting their peak, and the drive in had been absolutely stunning. Mrs. Chen met me at the cabin to hand over the keys and give me a quick tour. She was in her seventies, with silver hair pulled back in a neat bun and the kind of gentle smile that immediately put you at ease. She showed me around the interior, small but well-appointed, with a stone fireplace and large windows facing the lake. Before she left, she handed me a business card and said something that stuck with me. She told me that her late husband had been a photographer too, and that he'd always said the best shots happened when you weren't looking for them. She mentioned that she'd left some of his old equipment in the closet if I wanted to take a look. Then she drove off in her little Honda, leaving me alone with the sound of gentle waves lapping against the shore. That first evening was exactly what I'd hoped for. I set up my camera gear on the deck and captured some incredible sunset shots. The lake was like glass, perfectly reflecting the orange and pink sky. I made dinner, built a fire, and felt more relaxed than I had in months. Before bed, I decided to check out the photography equipment Mrs. Chen had mentioned. The closet in the bedroom held several cases of vintage camera gear, old Nikons, light meters, even some film cameras from the sixties. But what caught my attention was a leather-bound journal sitting on top of one of the cases. The cover was worn smooth, and when I opened it, I found page after page of handwritten notes about photography locations around the lake. The entries were dated going back about fifteen years. Mr. Chen had been meticulous, noting the best times for lighting, seasonal changes, even wildlife patterns. It was like having a master photographer's guide to the area. I spent over an hour reading through his observations, making mental notes about spots I wanted to visit. The next three days fell into a perfect rhythm. I'd wake before dawn, coffee and camera in hand, and head out to one of the locations from Mr. Chen's journal. His notes were incredibly accurate, he'd marked a small clearing about a mile north where morning mist would rise from the water in ethereal columns. Another spot, a rocky outcrop on the eastern shore, provided dramatic silhouettes of dead trees against the sunrise. It was Thursday morning when I first noticed something off. I was at the misty clearing, trying to capture that perfect shot of fog rolling across the water, when I heard the distinct sound of a camera shutter. Not mine, mine was silent in the early morning air. This was the mechanical click of an older camera, and it seemed to come from deeper in the woods behind me. I turned around and called out, thinking maybe another photographer had discovered the same spot. No response. I waited a few minutes, listening, but heard nothing else. I convinced myself it was probably just a branch falling or some other natural sound that my photographer's brain had interpreted as a shutter click. But it happened again Friday morning. This time I was on the rocky outcrop, and I definitely heard it, click, pause, click, pause. Like someone was methodically taking pictures. The sound was coming from across the lake, but when I looked through my telephoto lens, I couldn't see anyone. The far shore was just trees and shadows. By Saturday, I was starting to feel paranoid. Every time I set up my camera, I'd hear that same mechanical clicking sound from somewhere nearby. Never close enough to see who was making it, but always just audible enough to know it was there. I started taking pictures of the areas where I thought the sounds were coming from, but when I reviewed them later, they showed nothing but empty forest. Saturday night, I decided to look through Mr. Chen's journal again. I'd been focusing on the location notes, but this time I read more carefully. Toward the end of the journal, the entries started to change. Instead of photography notes, they became more personal observations. He wrote about feeling watched while out taking pictures. He mentioned seeing flashes of light from the woods that didn't match any natural phenomenon he knew. One entry from about three years ago really disturbed me. He wrote that he'd developed a roll of film from a morning shoot and found pictures he didn't remember taking. Photos of himself, taken from a distance, while he was setting up his camera. The handwriting in that entry was shaky, and there were coffee stains on the page like he'd been nervous while writing. The final entry was dated just six months before he passed away. It was short: "She doesn't believe me about the photographs. Says I'm getting confused. Maybe I am. But I know what I saw in those pictures. Someone has been watching me for years. All those morning shoots, all those perfect spots, I was never alone." I barely slept that night. Every sound outside seemed amplified, branches creaking, small animals moving through the underbrush, the constant gentle lapping of waves. I kept getting up to check the windows, but of course, there was nothing to see. Sunday morning, my last day, I decided to pack up early and leave. But as I was loading my camera gear into the car, I noticed something strange. My camera bag was sitting on the passenger seat, but I distinctly remembered putting it in the back. I opened it to check if anything was missing, and that's when I found them. A roll of film. Old 35mm film, the kind that hadn't been manufactured in years. It was sitting right on top of my digital camera, and I knew for certain it hadn't been there before. There was a small note wrapped around it, written in shaky handwriting: "For the new photographer. Develop these when you get home. You'll understand." I drove home in a daze, that roll of film burning a hole in my pocket. It took me three days to work up the courage to take it to a photo lab. When I picked up the developed prints, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold them. The first few pictures were landscapes, beautiful shots of the lake at various times of day. But they were all taken from positions I'd never been to, angles that would have required hiking deep into the forest. Then came the pictures of me. Dozens of them, taken over the course of my entire week there. Me setting up my camera on the deck. Me hiking to the misty clearing. Me on the rocky outcrop. All taken from a distance, with a telephoto lens, by someone who had been watching my every move. The final picture was the worst. It was taken from inside the cabin, looking out through the window at me sitting on the deck. The timestamp on the back showed it was taken Sunday morning, while I was loading my car. Someone had been inside the cabin while I was outside, just a few feet away. I never went back to get the rest of my deposit from Mrs. Chen. I couldn't bring myself to call her, to ask if she knew what had happened to her husband's film, or if she'd ever found those photographs he'd written about. I just wanted to forget the whole thing. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder if Mrs. Chen's husband really did die of natural causes. And I wonder if whoever was taking those pictures is still out there, waiting for the next photographer to discover those perfect spots around the lake.