The Photobook Bride

Thomas would have loved it.

He believed old houses remembered things that people had long forgotten.

The mansion had been empty for nearly thirty years. At least, that was what the realtor told her. He said it with a nervous laugh as they walked through the front wrought iron gates, as if the place had simply been forgotten rather than abandoned.

He paused at the threshold, rubbed his finger over cracked paint and faced Anthea.

“Let me know if you find anything… unusual.”

In the following days, she fell into a deeper love with the estate. It sat at the end of a narrow cobblestone road, wrapped in towering oaks and climbing ivy.

The mansion itself rose behind them like something out of a faded world—three stories of dark red brick and tall, narrow windows, their glass dull with dust and age.

Most buyers would have called it an outdated, expensive to repair nightmare. It was useless as a rental without numerous repairs.

But Anthea saw the potential. She had bought it herself after years of long hours, empty evenings, and a thriving career that had left her successful enough to purchase an old mansion and lonely enough to want one.

Now, four weeks after signing the papers, the inside looked like a battlefield of home renovation. Walls, fixtures, and even the old floorboards had been pried up and stacked in neat piles along the hallway.

She stood barefoot in the center of the spacious living room, a crowbar in one hand and a flashlight in the other, staring down at the section of floor she’d been working on all afternoon.

As she pulled the boards, one revealed a small square cavity beneath it. The space was perhaps the size of a shoebox, and it became apparent that someone had hidden something here.

Anthea crouched and reached inside and her fingers brushed against old leather.

She slowly pulled a large book free, fine dust falling from the edges as it came into the light.

The leather cover of the photobook was dark brown, almost black with age, and bound with a thin brass clasp that had long since tarnished.

Anthea sat cross-legged on the floor and opened it

The first photograph was sepia-toned and carefully mounted on thick paper. A man and a woman stood together in front of the very mansion she now owned.

Judging by the clothing, the photograph had to be from the early 1900s. The man wore a tailored suit with a stiff collar and waistcoat, his posture straight and commanding. One gloved hand rested lightly on the woman’s waist.

Anthea noticed something strange. The woman’s face was distorted and hard to make out. She frowned and turned the page. It was another photograph with the same man, but a different woman this time. Her face blurred. A faint chill crept along Anthea’s arms.

She flipped to the next page. And the next.

Each photograph showed the same thing. The same dark-haired man. A different woman standing beside him every time. And every single face had been distorted.

Except his. Anthea paused, studying him. Whoever he was, the camera had loved him.

His features were sharply defined even through the grain of the old photograph—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and dark eyes that seemed to pierce directly through the page.

There was something unsettling about that gaze. As if he had known someone would be looking at him someday. Anthea felt herself staring longer than she meant to, studying the striking features of his face.

Ridiculous, she thought. It was just a photograph. Still, she couldn’t quite pull her eyes away.

He was handsome in a way that belonged in old oil portraits or marble statues rather than grainy photographs hidden beneath floorboards.

Some of the photos of the women had faded writing underneath. The cursive was dainty and feminine. Anthea couldn’t figure out the words exactly, except for one: Closer.

She flipped to the next page, and there were no more photos, just empty sleeves. Her thumb brushed lightly against the corner of the page.

And the room flooded with a blinding light.

Anthea gasped and squeezed her eyes shut as the world around her seemed to tilt sideways.

The air felt suddenly thick, heavy, pressing against her lungs.

There was nothing but an unwelcome vertigo and a trill ringing her ears.

Then—

A distant clock ticked and the scent of something unfamiliar lingered in the air—polished wood and rosewater instead of dust and renovation debris.

Anthea opened her eyes and the living room was gone.

She was sitting cross legged in a large, dimly lit hallway, illuminated by warm gas sconces fixed to the walls.

Her flashlight was gone, along with her overalls and paint-stained t-shirt.

In their place was a heavy dress of pale ivory muslin, the fabric brushing softly against the floor as she moved.

The dress was unmistakably vintage—tight through the bodice with delicate lace along the sleeves. The kind of old fashioned gown she had only ever seen in period dramas. It was restricting and she felt the tightness in her ribs.

“No,” she whispered under her breath.

“This can’t be.”

The mansion hallway stretched before her, polished and pristine, nothing like the dusty renovation zone she had left moments ago.

A mirror hung along one wall. Anthea stepped toward it slowly. The woman staring back at her looked the same. But the gown, the hair pinned loosely at the back of her head, the soft glow of lamplight—it all felt impossibly wrong.

She quickly looked towards any possible exit. All she saw were ornate doors around her. Panicked, she approached the first door she saw, her sight focused on the handle. She let out a hushed curse as she fumbled trying to open it.

Somewhere nearby, a floorboard creaked and Anthea froze.

Footsteps approached from the other side of a nearby door.

Then a man’s voice called out, sharp with irritation.

“Hurry up, Anthea.”

The sound of the door handle turning echoed through the hall and before she could move, the door creaked open and the same man from the photographs stepped into the hall.

Up close, he was even more striking than the old images had suggested. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looked perfectly tailored to his frame. His dark eyes settled on her instantly.

“You’re my wife now,” he said coolly.

Anthea stared at him, speechless. Her shock took over any fear that was still left from the arrival. The man exhaled and pinched his brow in obvious impatience.

“Don’t act dumb,” he continued. “I have no patience for it. Just behave pleasantly in front of the guests and we won’t have a problem.”

He turned toward the door and held out his hand without looking back.

“They’re waiting for us in the foyer.”

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he added:

“Come along, Anthea.”

To her surprise, she responds almost automatically.