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executive retail outlets might look like as he placed the framed photo on his filing cabinet, leaning it against the wall. He did not like it so much as to put any effort into hanging it and he could see it quite clearly from his desk.

He was leaving for lunch on a mild, sunny day, planning to take a walk and enjoy the late summer air, when he noticed something about the photograph. He took it from atop the filing cabinet and looked at it more closely, crossing to the window to let more light shine on the odd frame. He held the photograph a few inches from his eyes, as if that would correct his obviously flawed view. He turned the frame from side to side but, not matter how he angled it, the photograph now showed the woman glancing at the camera. He was certain that he could not see her eyes when he bought the thing, but now she was clearly looking toward the camera.

He put the frame back on the filing cabinet, telling himself that he must be mistaken. He would check with his wife and see what she remembered of the photograph. Perhaps the bright sunlight on the day he bought it had skewed the image somewhat. Whatever the cause, he knew one thing for sure-images in photographs do not move.

Events of the day drove the thought from his mind and he forgot to mention it when he got home. The photograph remained in its place and out of mind, sitting on the cabinet as if biding its time.

The first chill winds of fall were making life a little tougher for the smokers who gathered, like accountants around a lottery winner, outside the office building, when he next noticed the photograph. He had come into his office and hung his jacket on the hook behind the door-he delayed wearing an overcoat as long as possible in the vain hope that his decision would somehow shorten the winter-when he felt the brush of the feather. He put it down to the cold but his gaze was drawn to the filing cabinet and to the suddenly upsetting object on it.

He was trembling as he turned on the overhead lights and held the photograph at a better angle to reduce the reflected glare.

He closed his eyes tight for a few seconds, as if the action would somehow change what he had seen. When he reopened them, the image leaped into his brain and challenged it to decipher what his eyes were seeing.

The woman in the photograph was staring straight at the camera and, in essence, right at him. Her eyes were dark and intoxicating, her smile an invitation that she reinforced by reaching out her hand. Despite the idiocy of the motion, he reached out his hand in return.

His wife found the photograph, lying atop the filing cabinet. She had come into his office in an attempt to find some clues as to his disappearance several weeks before. She smiled sadly as she remembered how he had found it and then she turned it over and looked at the image.

Fear was a feather that brushed the back of her neck ever so gently.

Learn more about this author, Anthony Waugh.
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