Melody NewYork

The house was beautiful, in that curated way that made it feel more like a showroom than a home. Every shelf displayed delicate china, every corner bathed in warm, filtered light. Even the air smelled expensive.

Elaine clicked her pen, trying to look professional, though something about the room made her skin itch. She’d done dozens of these interviews for Modern Manor — features on women with “timeless taste” and “heritage charm.” But this place was different.

Her host, Margaret Whitcomb, floated into the parlour with two porcelain cups and a smile that never quite reached her eyes. She was the kind of woman who made you feel like you were doing something wrong just by sitting on her furniture. The thought made Elaine shift in her chair causing it to groan.

“I do hope the light’s not too harsh in here,” Margaret said, setting the cups down on a delicate bone-inlaid side table. “The sun insists on peeking through the lace.”

Elaine offered a polite nod, already scanning the room for details she could include in the write-up. The crockery, the lace curtains, the antique rugs — it was all exactly what the readers wanted.

Margaret lifted a delicate saucer and sighed contentedly. “This china set belonged to my grandmother. She passed it to me after the war — bone china, you know. Nearly translucent.”

“It’s beautiful,” Elaine murmured, jotting it down.

Margaret’s smile widened. “We’ve always had an eye for elegance in this family. Even Grandfather was a collector of sorts. Odd things, mostly. Cigars, ivory carvings… pipes. He had one made from the bone of his favorite slave.”

Elaine froze.

Margaret took a sip of tea. “Or maybe it was his favorite pipe made from the bone of a regular slave — I can never remember which way he told it. Funny little details like that get lost in time, don’t they?”

Elaine blinked. “I’m sorry — did you say—”

“Mm. He was always so rough with his things,” Margaret said with a sigh, setting her cup down with a gentle clink. “Mama used to say he’d go broke from replacing everything he broke in a fit of passion. He had such strong hands. Dangerous hands.”

A bird chirped loudly from the oak tree outside. Elaine turned her head toward the window — anything to get a breath. Her eyes landed on a small framed photo sitting on a table near the sill. It showed a young Black woman in a plain dress, seated on a stool, smiling a polite smile, her eyes solemn and still.

Elaine nodded toward it. “May I ask who that is?”

Margaret followed her gaze and tilted her head. “Oh, that’s her. Our house girl. The one I mentioned.”

“The one from the pipe?”

Margaret let out a tinkling laugh. “Oh no, dear. Don’t be ridiculous. She was our favourite. We wanted to keep a piece of her with us, that’s all.”

Elaine felt something tighten in her chest.

“She and her people had the most peculiar beliefs. Said photographs could trap a soul. Can you imagine? The idea that something like this,” she tapped the glass with a long, manicured nail, “could imprison a person for all eternity. A silly little superstition, of course.”

She leaned in closer to the frame, her voice softening to something almost tender.

“How lonely it would be. To sit there, behind glass, staring out at a world you can never touch. Watching birds, hearing laughter, but never again feeling it. Just trapped — smiling your smile, even when all you want to do is scream.”

Elaine cleared her throat. “You said she was your family’s favourite, uh… slave?”

Margaret’s head snapped around. Her face, once pleasant, hardened. “Slave? She was not our slave,” she snapped. “She was our girl.”

She turned back to the photograph, her fingers brushing down the side of the woman’s face in the frame.

“She ran off shortly after that was taken,” she added quietly. “We never did find her.”

Elaine watched as Margaret set the picture down with a heavy thunk. For just a moment, she swore something in the image shifted. A shadow, a flicker — the faintest trace of a frown.

“We searched for weeks. Even offered a handsome reward if she was returned unharmed. Well… within reason,” she added, a quiet chuckle escaping her. “You can’t expect boys not to have a little fun.”

Elaine’s stomach twisted.

“Some say she passed through the woods a few towns over. Found little traces — worn cloth, a bit of hair, even a footprint. But then… nothing.”

“Maybe someone helped her,” Elaine said, barely above a whisper.

Margaret turned to her, smiling gently.

“Whatever happened to her, I do hope she had a long, happy life. Watching the birds fly by.”

             ____________________________

Elaine didn’t say a word the whole drive back. She kept replaying the conversation in her head — the way Margaret had smiled when she said those boys might have had some fun. The way she stroked the photograph like it was a pet.

She hated herself for not saying something. For nodding. For drinking the damn tea.

“Hey,” Jim called out as she pushed open the office door. “How’d it go with your duchess of bone china?”

Elaine dropped her bag by her desk. “You don’t even want to know.”

Jim wheeled over in his chair, eyes wide. “That bad?”

“She talked about her grandfather owning a pipe made out of a slave’s bone,” she said flatly. “Just—like it was a family heirloom.”

Jim grimaced. “Jesus.”

“Then she talked about their house girl that “ran off“.” Elaine made air quotes. “She talked about how she hoped the poor woman enjoyed watching birds for the rest of her life, but something about it felt…weird. The way she touched the picture of her, Jim it was so strange.”

Jim was quiet for a beat. “You okay?”

Elaine nodded, but Jim knew better. “I just need to develop this film and get this whole thing out of my head.”

“Want me to hang around? Bodyguard duty?” he said, trying to smile. “This lady sounds like a walking haunted doll collector.”

She let out a tired laugh. “I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

He lingered for a moment anyway, watching her set up in the darkroom.

As the chemicals began to soak and images started forming on the glossy sheets, she talked — half to him, half to herself.

“She said the girl believed photographs could trap a person’s soul. Like, literally hold them inside.” Elaine shook her head. “She thought it was funny.”

Jim leaned on the doorframe. “Old superstition. Still creepy, though.”

Finally, the photo finished developing. Elaine held the photo under the harsh light, her breath catching in her throat.

The woman in the background — the one in the old frame by the window —

She wasn’t expressionless anymore.

Her mouth was wide open now.

So wide it looked like her jaw had been unhinged, like something had finally snapped. A silent scream frozen in grain and gloss. Her eyes were wild with grief —  and rage.

Jim leaned closer. “What the hell…”

But Elaine wasn’t looking at him. She was looking past the scream.

Because right there, in the same image — framed by soft lace curtains and golden light —

Margaret Whitcomb stood, smiling.

That perfect, easy smile.

The kind you give when you think no one is watching.

The kind you give when you’ve never been haunted.

Elaine stared at it — at both of them. The scream behind glass and the smile in front of it.

Always Writing,

Melody NewYork