A boy goes to the market.
He wants to buy a comic book, but the only books they sell are old pulp magazines and novels for adults who love long russian last names.
So the boy decides to buy a family album for his mother because she always wanted one of those.
He doesn’t know why she needs that. He doesn’t feel the need to store his memories.
On the way home, the boy notices that the album is still full of photographies.
They show a man.
First the man is young and has very shiny black hair.
Sometimes there is a woman in the pictures, always black and white. Sometimes there’s another woman. They seem happy.
As the pages go by, there are less and less women until there’s only one left. She seems happy, even more.
Then, all of a sudden, there is a television.
Then, all of a sudden, there is a dog.
Then, all of a sudden, there is a baby.
A few pages later, the baby is a boy like the boy himself, and a bit later, a man like the boys big brother.
And the man grows older and as his hair turns grey, he seems to get better at framing pictures. The colours are brighter, the composition looks more like one of those movies the boy goes to see with his father.
Then, for a few pages, the pictures become weird.
There are no people anymore. Only forms, and lights in the distance. And some fog that is too white to be real fog.
The boy thinks that maybe these are images of a war. But which one?
And the pages go by as the boy walks home.
And the woman is gone now, and the dog, and the other boy too.
Even the man is nowhere to be seen, because he hides behind the camera.
Sometimes he takes pictures of his television and there is a faint reflection on the screen which shows an old man. He has no hair at all.
And as the boy scrolls through the pages, all he can see are pictures of the television, always taken from the same spot until the screen gets flooded by white noise.
The last image is black.
“Oh my!” thinks the boy because he knows he witnessed an old man’s death.
He closes the family album and notices there’s a number written on it. The number is: 52°21'20.0"N 4°54'26.2"E
He doesn’t know what it means.
The boy throws the album in the grass, right next to a signpost on a parking lot, next to the river — which says nobody is allowed to park there. He doesn’t want to give it to his mother anymore.
The boy is not stupid. He saw enough movies with his father to know that some books are haunted.