The Prescott Brothers (1858)

In the small town of Fairhaven, State Massachusetts, in 1858 photography was a rarity. People didn’t turn to photographers for the sake of for pleasure, but for the sake of memory. Most often after the death of a loved one. Such pictures called posthumous portraits. The deceased was seated and put in order and photographed as if he were still alive. This was the last attempt to deceive death and save face dear a person at least on paper once cold.

October morning local photographer Elia Smerton received a strange message. The yellowed envelope was sealed with sealing wax, and inside there is a short note. “Come immediately. One of Prescott brothers died. Take the camera.” Everyone knew the Prescott name. Wealthy family owning a textile factory factory on the outskirts of the city. Elias without delay, collected the equipment and went to their estate.

When he arrived, he was greeted by a pale woman in in mourning, Mrs. Clara Prescott. Her hands trembled, lips were white. Not without saying a word, she led him along stairs to the second floor. The air was heavy, smelled of candle wax and lavender. In the room by the window stood two identical boys: twins Henry and Samuel. They were 12 years old. One sat motionless, the other sobbed quietly. “Samuel died during the night,” whispered Mrs. Prescott. “I want you to do a shot of them being together like always.”

Elias nodded. He was used to sorrow. His job required calm in the face of death. He placed tripod, installed a heavy camera and pointed the lens at the boys. Henry hugged his brother. His gaze was glassy lifeless. Samuel, according to his mother, I was no longer breathing. When the exhibition began, the room froze in silence. Elias counted down seconds, making sure no one moves. Suddenly he noticed the fingers of the deceased the boy barely moved. One light, almost imperceptible movement.

Elias froze. Maybe it seemed? Sometimes muscles dead bodies are dwindling. He knew it. But Still, something stirred inside. After how the picture was taken, Mrs. Prescott thanked him and asked don’t talk about what you saw anymore. Elias returned to the workshop to develop record. When it’s slow on the glass the outlines of two boys appeared, he felt it run down my spine cold. Henry sat with his eyes downcast, but Samuel his eyes were open. Not wide open in horror, not by chance raised eyelids. They looked straight into lens, alive, alert, as if he realized that he was being filmed.

Elias long sat in front of the photo, unable to look away. The candle light reflected in glass, and it seemed as if the boy was breathing. Fear grew in the photographer’s chest, and along with it doubt. Is he really captured not death, but life frozen between two worlds?

The next day The town of Fairhaven was shrouded in fog. In the house Preparations for the Prescott funeral were underway. The maids wore black fabrics, the carpenter nailed the coffin lid, and all this happened in oppressive silence. It seemed time itself stood still. Elios Mirton stood at gate of the mansion, clutching in his hands photo that was developed last at night. He didn’t sleep, he couldn’t. Again and again he looked at Samuel’s face, eyes who in the picture seemed to be being followed.

The whole city came to the funeral. People whispered. The Prescott Twins are always aroused curiosity. Too identical, too silent. When the funeral procession moved towards the cemetery, Mrs. Prescott walked leaning on her hand son Henry. He looked strange calm, almost indifferent. After During the service, Elias decided to approach his mother. He took off his hat and said quietly but firmly. “Mrs. Prescott, I’m sorry, but I… I must say, I’m not sure that Samuel really dead.”

The woman turned pale like marble. “Shut up, Mr. Marton,” she hissed. “You don’t understand that speak.” But the photographer did not back down. “On in the photograph his eyes were open, and I saw how his fingers are satisfied,” she interrupted, and There was panic in her voice. “You You insult the memory of my son.”

Henry looked at Elios with a cold curiosity and said: “Quiet brother sleeping He’s calm now.” These words sounded strange. Spytu did not die, but no one else dared to speak. Coffin lowered into the ground, and when the shovel was thrown the first lump of earth, Elias felt, how everything inside was broken.

Late at night he couldn’t stand it. In his head again that look surfaced, alive and meaningful. He lit a lamp and took out shovel and headed towards the cemetery. Rain drizzled. The wind moved the crowns, and in each He heard a whisper in the sound. Don’t this. But he couldn’t stop. Wet the ground gave way heavily. Every beat shovels echoed in the night. When the cover tree finally appeared, the heart it was beating so hard that he could hardly breathe. He lowered the lantern inside and threw it back cover.

What he saw deprived him breathing. Samuel’s body was not like he was left. He was not lying straight, but sideways, as if trying to get up. On the inside of the lid was visible deep scratches. Nails torn off, fingers in the blood. Frozen expression on the face his mouth was open in horror, as if he was screaming the very end. Elias pulled back, the lantern slipped out of my hands and hit the ground. The flame went out, leaving him in pitch black darkness. Only the sound of rain and your own heartbeat accompanied his flight from cemeteries.

When in the morning the residents found open grave, Prescott house plunged into despair. The family announced photographer to madmen, desecrated by memory their son. But Alice knew he wasn’t wrong. He saw the evidence. Samuel was alive when he was buried. And now the peace of the city was disrupted forever.

In the morning in Fairhane they started talking about everything at once. Newspapers, merchants, neighbors. Every retold his version of what taken by photographer Elias Smerton. Alone others said he was crazy that he was drunk, the third thing he paid for blasphemy. Prescott family filed a complaint demanding rebury body and prohibit Elias from approaching their possessions. His workshop was thrown with stones, and someone is above the door carved out the word madman with a knife.

Despite all the accusations, Elias couldn’t force forget yourself what you saw. At night he I dreamed of those scratches on the coffin lid, blood on the boy’s fingers, slightly open mouth trying to exhale its last “Help.” He woke up in the cold sweating, panting. Soon he felt it seems like the nightmare never ends even during the day. One night he heard a knock. Three clear knocks on the door, slow, uniform, as if someone knew that he waiting.

Elios opened it, but there was no one outside the threshold it didn’t turn out. He thought it was a joke neighbors’ children, and returned to the room. But when I sat down at the table, I noticed photograph of Samuel lying under glass, was turned face up, although he remembered that he had put it in a drawer. He took the photo in his hands. In the twilight of the oil lamp the image seemed different. Eyes the boy became darker, his lips slightly opened slightly.

Elias with trembling fingers brushed the glass and suddenly felt as if the cold pierced my skin. For a moment he it seemed that he heard quiet breathing, subtle, but persistent and with every During the day new strange things happened. In his dark room where he developed photographs, constant gas lamp. Sometimes he noticed children’s footprints on the floor, as if someone had walked barefoot through the dust. A at night you could hear through the thin walls crying, short, strangled sobs, like from a child who can’t find his way home.

Elios stopped sleeping. He became be afraid of your own workshop, but also I couldn’t leave. The photograph was drawn to itself, as if he demanded that someone hear him. He started looking at him magnifying glass and noticed that something I haven’t seen before. On the collar Samuel had a tiny mark that looked like like a fingerprint, but too fresh, as if left after death. He I realized that I had to talk to him again the Prescott family. Perhaps there there was a truth hidden that could do anything explain.

In the evening he dared to approach to the mansion. The light in the windows was dim. The house seemed empty. It smelled inside mold and dampness, as if he had been there for a long time no one ventilated. The door opened Mrs. Prescott, pale and haggard, teary eyes.

“Go away, mister Mrton,” she said tiredly. “We we lost one son and now we are losing second.” “What do you mean?” asked Elias, but she just lowered her head. B in the depths of the house a quiet and intermittent laughter. Elias turned around and I saw Henry on the stairs. Boy’s face was pale, his eyes sparkled strangely cold light. “He’s back,” Henry whispered. “Samuel is not sleeping. He is still with me.”

When Elios crossed the threshold again Prescott estates, the house seemed to him otherwise, as if extinct. The air was heavy, the walls were covered with a shadow of dampness, and the cold was walking through the corridors, as if someone opened all the windows. Mrs. Prescott sat by the fireplace, wrapped in woolen scarf, and didn’t look up, when he entered. Her face is drawn, her lips trembled, eyes were empty, like a man who lost not only his son, but and reason.

“I beg you, leave us in peace,” she said quietly. “That’s it It’s over, we want to forget.” But Elios doesn’t could have left. “Mrs Prescott, I must know what happened. Your boy is not died an ordinary death. I saw the tracks. you you know that too.”

The woman fell silent and then suddenly she clutched the hem of her dress with her hands, as if she was about to tear it out of the fabric the truth. “You don’t understand,” she whispered she. “It started with an illness. She was called dormant fever. People fell asleep on for a few days, and sometimes forever. The body became cold, the breath froze, my heart barely beat. Many they were considered dead. We thought that Samuel left, and the doctors confirmed it.”

Elios listened, and was overcome by a heavy feeling. He remembered how the boy looked like in the photo. Not dead, but as if frozen in some kind of deep sleep. “Why didn’t you wait?” he asked. “Why didn’t they give him time to wake up?”

Mrs. Prescott began to cry. “I asked my husband wait, but Henry he said that feels like his brother’s soul has left his body. He assured us that Samuel would no longer It hurts that you have to let go. Henry was always stronger, more decisive, and we listened to him.”

Elias frowned. “you you want to say that the child insisted on your brother’s funeral?” The woman nodded. “Henry has changed since that day. He became silent, did not leave his room. Sometimes I heard him talking to by someone. When I asked who he was with says he answered: ‘With him.’ He’s now everywhere.”

Elias felt blood freezes. “Where is he now?” Mrs. Prescott slowly raised her hand and pointed down to the basement. “He’s there. It doesn’t come out anymore third day, he just laughs at night.”

The photographer went down the creaky stairs The basement was dark and smelled wet soil and wax. In the corner by the wall Henry was sitting. He held her on his knees the very photograph that Elias took. Face the boy was illuminated by the flickering light of a candle, and this made the expression seem unreal: half alive, half otherworldly.

“Henry,” Elias called, trying to speak softly. “Why are you here, son?” The boy slowly raised head. His eyes flashed in the twilight. “Because he’s still here,” he whispered. “He didn’t leave. I hear how he’s breathing.” Elias came closer and saw. There was only one in the photo now boy. The second one disappeared, leaving an empty place nearby. Henry smiled as he looked at this place. “He’s inside me now,” he said. he. “We are no longer two. We are alone.”

Fire in Prescott estate broke out deep at night. No one ever knew what happened it was caused by a candle left without supervision or something else that is not could be explained. Flame grew quickly, as if someone had poured evil force in him. When the neighbors They came running, the house was already on fire. Screams were heard from the basement, but soon everything it became quiet.

When the fire was put out, there was no time of the stately mansion are the only ones left charred walls. Bodies were found in the ashes Mrs Prescott and her son Henry, hugging each other, as if at the last minute they looked for salvation, but did not find it. Elio Smerton learned about the tragedy in the morning. Him It was reported that the Prescott house burned to the ground and no one survived.

He stood there for a long time road, looking at the clouds of smoke, rising above the hill where yesterday This was a gloomy place. Not in the chest there were no words, no tears, only heaviness. He felt the end was inevitable as if everything was going towards this from the first minute, when he pressed the shutter. Via working for several days, dismantling ashes, found among the ashes strange an object, a surviving photograph.

On glass there was no hood, no cracks, as if the fire did not touch her. People said that this is impossible. Alice took the photo for himself. He wanted to destroy it, but could not. Something in him held, attracted look, made me look again and again. He put the photograph on the table and began to look at it. Were on it again two boys: Henry and Samuel. Only now the expression on their faces has changed. Henry looked calm, almost happy. Samuel, on the contrary, seems came to life. His eyes were wide open. Mouth slightly open, as if he was about to inhale. It seemed to Elias that a barely noticeable haze appeared on the glass, like breathing in cold air.

At night he woke up to the sound of a quiet tapping on glass. The same one lay on the table photography. The knock was repeated, as if someone from within tried to attract attention. Elias picked up the lamp and came closer. For a moment he Samuel’s face seemed to move. The boy’s eyes turned slowly and the gaze fell directly on him. Elias screamed and dropped the lamp. Fire flared up, but immediately went out without causing harm. When he looked again picture, everything was the same.

On the next morning he sold his workshop and left Firehaven. The city turned its back from him, but he didn’t care. He I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t. Photography accompanied him all his life. He tried to get rid of it, threw it into the river, buried in the ground, even burned, but she always came back. Many years later the photograph appeared in antique shop. The seller said that glass reacts strangely to light. If look for a long time, the boy’s eyes seem come to life and their lips move.

Some claimed to have heard faint tapping when standing next to each other. Historians still argue whether there was Prescott history is fiction or a tragedy hidden from everyone. But those who I saw the photograph with my own eyes, We are sure it captures the moment when life refused to give in to death. And somewhere in the depths of the glass there is a boy is still waiting for him to finally will hear.