Author: Dennis Page 38 of 178

On a chilly October night during a ghost tour in Norman, a simple Polaroid photo of a haunted barbershop becomes a developing nightmare.

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The October night breeze had teeth, and I zipped my hoodie to my chin to ward them off. Our ghost tour group huddled together on the downtown sidewalk as our guide, Jeff Provine, gestured toward an old barbershop. Its striped pole was faded and motionless, the glass of the large front window clouded with age. My date, Rebecca, leaned in close, her arm brushing against mine. She’s been wanting to come on the tour after devouring Jeff’s books on Oklahoma’s haunted history, but none of her friends were brave enough to join her, although the tour itself was more of a walking history tour. I had to admit, listening to his tales as he led us through the quiet streets of Norman was a perfect way to spend a fall evening.

Jeff lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper.

“They say,” he began, “that if you take a photo of this barbershop at night, sometimes you capture something extra. A man in a brown overcoat and hat, staring right back at you.”

A ripple of nervous excitement went through the group. Immediately, a dozen phone screens lit up the darkness, their digital shutters clicking in a quick volley. Rebecca was among them, eagerly snapping a photo before inspecting the result with a disappointed frown. Like everyone else, her screen showed nothing but an empty, dark storefront.

As the group shuffled toward the next stop, Rebecca tugged on my sleeve, pulling me back for a moment. Her eyes sparkled with a playful challenge.

“You should try with your camera,” she insisted, “with no one around.”

When we’d met up earlier, she’d been fascinated by my Polaroid camera, calling it a fun, vintage hobby she’d never encountered someone bringing on a date before. The weight of it in my hands felt deliberate. Each photo was a permanent, tangible moment, a single truth captured in chemicals and paper—a stark contrast to the endless, editable digital snapshots everyone else was taking. I was about to dismiss the idea, but the irresistible smirk she wore was a dare I couldn’t refuse.

As Jeff began a story about the restaurant next door, I raised the camera. The world flattened into the small viewfinder. I focused, held my breath, and pressed the button. The whir of the mechanism and the sharp click felt unnaturally loud in the quiet street. The camera spat the blank photo into my hand.

I slipped the developing print into the warmth of my hoodie pocket, and we hurried to rejoin the group. A few stops later, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, Rebecca asked to see the picture. I pulled it out. She held the photo delicately, tilting it to catch the light, her breath fogging the plastic surface as she searched its glossy depths.

“I think you got something here,” she whispered, her voice tight with excitement.

She showed it to me. In the reflection of the barbershop window, there was a murky, sepia-toned stain that hadn’t been there in person.

“That looks like a brown smudge to me,” I said, though a faint chill traced its way down my spine.

“Well, maybe it needs to develop more,” she replied, her optimism unwavering.

I didn’t argue. The night was perfect, and she was too cute to disagree with. I tucked the Polaroid back into my hoodie pocket, the cool plastic a solid weight against my chest.

The rest of the tour was a pleasant blur of local history and macabre tales. We learned about a gangster buried near his hideout just east of town and lingering spirits in historic homes, but nothing felt as immediate or personal as the strange blemish on my own photograph.

When the tour concluded, we ended up walking back toward campus under the dim glow of streetlights. The air had grown colder, and the streets were mostly empty now.

“So,” Rebecca said, breaking the comfortable silence, “did the photo ever fully develop into a ghost?”.

“I haven’t checked,” I admitted with a laugh. “I was a little too busy enjoying the company.”

She smiled at that, a genuine, heart-stopping smile. “Me too. I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too,” I repeated, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with my hoodie. We reached her car, and for a moment, we just stood there.

“You’ll have to send me a picture of all the Polaroids you took tonight,” she said, finally breaking the pause. “Especially if the ghost decides to make a full appearance”.

“Deal,” I said. “Drive safe.”

She gave me one last wave before getting into her car and driving off, leaving me alone in the quiet street.

Later, back at my apartment, the silence felt vast after the cheerful chatter of the tour. My roommate was out of town for the weekend, visiting family. The only company I had was the dozens of Polaroids strung across the dining area walls, a colorful mosaic of my life that he always said brought warmth to the bland, beige apartment. As I emptied my pockets onto the rustic white dining table my parents had passed down to me, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Rebecca, just as she’d promised: “Photo evidence please! 😉”

I arranged the dozen prints on the table and snapped a picture with my phone. Before sending the text, I zoomed in on the barbershop photo. The smudge wasn’t just a smudge anymore. It had resolved into a shape: a tall, gaunt figure in a hat and overcoat, his form indistinct but undeniably human. I sent a close-up to Rebecca and, on a whim, forwarded it to Jeff. A moment later, my phone rang with a FaceTime call from Rebecca.

“I told you!” she practically shouted, her face beaming from my screen. “I told you so!”

“Okay, okay,” I laughed, feeling a genuine thrill. “Maybe you should come over and make sure this man in brown doesn’t try to kill me.”

“Maybe I should,” she shot back, a playful glimmer in her eye. “You know, to make sure you don’t die. Text me your address.”

She said she’d be there in fifteen minutes. As I scrambled to tidy up, I gathered the Polaroids from the table. As I stacked them, my blood ran cold. The man in brown wasn’t just in the barbershop photo. He was in all of them. In a picture of the historic Sooner Theater, he stood under the marquee. In a shot of a lamppost outside The Depot, he lurked in the background. The same hat, the same overcoat, the same unnerving stillness in every, single print.

“This has to be an exposure glitch,” I mumbled to the empty room. “Maybe the lens flared, or a chemical in the film was bad.”

He wasn’t haunting the barbershop. He was haunting the photos. He was haunting me. I stacked the photos face down on the dining table, as if hiding them would make him disappear.

I decided to tidy up—get my mind off things. I was straightening the sheets on my bed when the doorbell chimed, sharp and jarring in the quiet apartment.

I rushed to the door, a smile on my face, but when I opened it, the hallway was empty. A sterile, fluorescent silence stretched in both directions.

“Hello?” I called out.

Only the low hum of the building answered.

I closed the door, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. My phone showed no new messages from Rebecca, and it had only been ten minutes. Just as I was about to put it away, a text from Jeff came through.

“Thank you,” the message read, “but I should warn you that those who were able to capture a photo of the barber said he haunted them until they got rid of the picture. 😉”

I chuckled, but the sound was thin.

He was joking, of course.

He had to be.

As I turned back toward the living room, I froze. The Polaroid prints were no longer in a neat stack on the table. They were scattered across the apartment, strewn from the doorway to the center of the room. Every single one had landed face up, a dozen identical figures in brown staring at the ceiling.

Then the doorbell rang again, louder this time, more insistent. My breath hitched. With trembling hands, I gathered the photos, the cold plastic feeling slick against my skin, and shoved them into the back pocket of my jeans. I walked to the door and pulled it open.

He was there. The man from the photos stood before me, but he wasn’t alone. He held an old, straight razor—like a barber would use—to Rebecca’s throat, the steel pitted with rust but gleaming dully under the hall light. His other hand was clamped over her mouth, muffling her terrified sounds. Clumps of damp earth clung to his three-piece suit, and the air around him carried the faint, musty smell of a freshly dug grave.

“I want the photos,” he demanded. His voice was a dry, rasping sound, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. The rusted razor pressed a fraction deeper against Rebecca’s skin, and a thin, dark line of blood welled up on her throat. Her eyes were wide with a terror that rooted me to the spot.

Without a thought, my body obeyed. I pulled the prints from my pocket and thrust them toward him. His hand, cold and insubstantial as smoke, passed through mine to take them. The violation of that touch was worse than any physical blow—a deep, cellular cold that seemed to suck the warmth from my very bones. He had the photos. Then he smiled, a lipless, joyless gesture, and shoved Rebecca at me.

I scrambled back to my feet and slammed the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned the lock, then another, my hands shaking. I needed a barrier, something solid between us and him.

When we looked at the peephole, he was still there. He wasn’t looking at the door, but down at the photos in his hand. He slowly, deliberately, began to walk away down the hall. But instead of turning toward the stairs, he turned to face the wall. And then he walked straight through it, his form dissolving into the walls like smoke.

He was gone.

But in a way, he wasn’t. A cold spot lingered where he had stood, a patch of air that refused to warm. And the smell—the faint, musty odor of a freshly dug grave—clung to the entryway.

The sun began to bleed through the blinds, painting the room in pale, morning light. Rebecca and I ended up staying up all night, huddled together on the couch. It was intimate, but not in the way I had hoped.

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After the love for my previous short story, I’ll Never Walk Sutton Wilderness in the Dark Again, I was inspired to write another semi-realistic horror piece. This one was inspired by a story by Jeff Provine where people on his ghost tour would capture a photo of a man in a brown suit at the barbershop in downtown Norman, Oklahoma. So, yes, that part is true! I thought having the man come to life to reclaim the pictures would be a spooky tale for the season.

Thanks to Janine De Guzman for bringing the photographic moment to life.

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Thank you for reading and Happy Halloween!