Part 3
They asked specifically to have it done there rather than in my studio. Thomas Witmore inherited the house from his uncle last spring, the old Kzwick place on Thornhill Road. Harrison’s expression changed immediately. His face pald slightly, and he set down the photograph he’d been holding. The Kzich estate, “Are you certain?” “Absolutely certain.
” They insisted, said they wanted to commemorate the baby’s first months in their new home. The doctor walked to the window, staring out at the morning traffic on Main Street. Horsedrawn wagons delivering goods. Workers heading toward the mill. Women with shopping baskets heading to market. Normal everyday briarwood going about its business, unaware of the conversation taking place above the photography studio.
Edmund, Harrison said slowly. How much do you know about the history of that house? Only that it’s been empty for years. Nathaniel Kzich lived there alone for decades, died last winter, and the property passed to his nephew Thomas. Harrison turned from the window. Nathaniel Kzwick was my patient. I treated him for various ailments over the years, and toward the end he told me things, stories about that house that I dismissed as the ramblings of an elderly mind affected by illness and isolation.
But now looking at this photograph, I’m not so certain. They were merely ramblings. Edmund felt a chill run down his spine despite the warmth of the studio. What kind of stories? He claimed the house had a presence, not a ghost, exactly. He was quite specific about that. Something else, something that watched.
He said it had been there since the house was built in 1847, perhaps even before. He told me that every family who had lived there eventually experienced episodes, moments when they felt observed, when they saw things that couldn’t be explained, when photographs and mirrors showed things that shouldn’t be there. The photographer thought about the Whitmore session.
The babies had been unnaturally calm. The whole family had seemed almost entranced during the exposure. At the time, Edmund had been grateful for their cooperation. Now he wondered if something else had been at work. Did Kzich ever provide evidence? Edmund asked. Proof of these claims? Not in any scientific sense, but he showed me photographs once.
Family portraits, casual snapshots, images taken throughout the house’s history, and in several of them. There were anomalies, shadows where there should be none, reflections that didn’t match the scene, faces in windows when the house was supposed to be empty. Harrison pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, flipping through pages covered in tight, precise handwriting.
I documented everything he told me, though I never truly believed it. Kzich claimed that whatever resided in that house had a particular interest in children. Not harmful exactly, but intensely curious. He said it would watch them, study them, sometimes even, and here’s where his account became truly disturbing, inhabit their expressions temporarily during moments of stillness, like when a photograph was being taken.
Edmund felt his mouth go dry. Inhabit. Those were his words, not mine. He described it as something ancient, trying to understand human life by briefly looking through children’s eyes. He claimed he’d seen it happen once with his own younger sister when they were children living in that house.
During a portrait session in the 1850s, his sister’s expression changed for just a moment, became aware in a way that frightened everyone present. The photograph from that session showed exactly what he described. He kept [music] it locked in a drawer, unable to destroy it, but unwilling to look at it. What happened to that photograph? I assume it burned with most of Kzik’s possessions.
There was a small fire in the upper floor of the house shortly before he died. He claimed he started it deliberately, trying to destroy certain items. The fire was contained to one room, but smoke and water damage affected much of the upper story. Edmund looked back at the prince hanging on the line. The third baby’s eyes seemed to follow him as he moved.
Should I tell the wits? Harrison considered this carefully. Tell them what exactly? That their infant may have been momentarily possessed by some undefined presence while you took their photograph. That their new home might be host to something unexplainable. We have no proof, Edmund. just an unusual expression in a baby’s photograph and the questionable testimony of an elderly man who may have been suffering from dementia.
But you’re not certain he was demented? No, Harrison admitted. I’m not. His accounts were too detailed, too consistent over time, and he was lucid until the very end. But I’m a man of science, Edmund. I deal in evidence, in observable phenomena. This This defies everything I know. They stood in silence for a moment, both men staring at the photographs. Finally, Edmund spoke.
The Wit Moors are expecting their portrait on Monday. What do I tell them? You tell them the truth about what you observed. That one of the babies had an unusual expression in the photograph, likely due to the lighting or the precise moment of exposure. You offer to retake the portrait, perhaps in your studio this time rather than at their home.
And you watch their reaction carefully. If they’ve experienced anything odd in that house, they may volunteer the information. And if they haven’t, then perhaps this is all simply coincidence. Perhaps that baby just happened to look unusually alert at the precise moment you opened your camera shutter. It’s far more likely than any alternative explanation.
But neither man sounded convinced. Leave a comment below about what you think is happening in this story so far. Harrison returned to his medical practice, and Edmund prepared the Witmore photographs for delivery. But before he did, he made extra prints. Copies he locked in his studio safe along with detailed notes about the session.
Something told him these photographs would become important, though he couldn’t explain why. On Monday morning, Thomas Whitmore arrived at the studio alone to collect the portraits. Edmund watched him carefully as he examined the images, looking for any sign of recognition or concern. For a long moment, Thomas stared at the photograph of his third son.
His brow furrowed. “Something wrong, Mr. Whitmore?” Edmund asked casually. Thomas looked up, his expression troubled. No, it’s just James looks different here. More alert than he usually is, almost like he’s older somehow. He shook his head. Probably just my imagination. Catherine will be pleased with these. Thank you, Mr. Price.
As Thomas gathered the photographs and prepared to leave, Edmund made a decision. Mr. Whitmore, how are you finding the Keswick house? Is it treating your family well? The question seemed to catch Thomas off guard. His expression shifted. Something guarded, replacing his previous openness. It’s fine. Why, do you ask? No particular reason.
I knew Nathaniel Kzix slightly, that’s all. He was a longtime customer. I was just curious how the house was fairing with the family living there again. Thomas’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The house is fine, Mr. Price. A bit old, needs some repairs, but it’s serving us well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the mill.
” He left quickly, almost hurrying, the photographs tucked under his arm. Edmund watched through the window as Thomas crossed the [music] street, glancing back once at the studio before continuing on his way. The photographer couldn’t shake the feeling that Thomas Whitmore knew more than he was saying, that something was happening in that house, and the family was keeping it to themselves.
What Edmund didn’t know was that three nights earlier, Catherine Whitmore had woken at 2:00 in the morning to the sound of all three babies laughing in perfect unison. When she rushed to their nursery, she found them lying peacefully in their cribs, eyes closed, apparently asleep. But in the moonlight streaming through the window, she could have sworn that James, the third baby, positioned in the crib nearest the door, was smiling with his eyes still closed, as though something unseen was amusing him greatly. She never told her husband.
Some things, Catherine had learned better kept silent. News of the unusual photograph spread through Briarwood with the inexraable momentum of autumn leaves caught in wind. Despite Edmund Price’s attempts at discretion, word traveled from neighbor to neighbor, whispered across market stalls and factory floors, discussed in hush tones at church socials.
By the end of October, nearly everyone in town had heard about the Witmore baby with the strange expression, and many wanted to see the photograph for themselves. Edmund resisted showing it publicly at first, but when a reporter from the Briarwood Chronicle arrived at his studio on November the 2nd, he realized the story had grown beyond his control.
The reporter, a young woman named Sarah Mitchell, had moved to town only 6 months earlier to take over the newspaper society column after the previous writer retired. She was ambitious, educated, and possessed a sharp curiosity that made her unsuited for covering church bizars and wedding announcements. “Mr.
Price,” she said, settling into the chair across from his desk. “I understand you’ve taken a photograph that’s causing quite a stir. I’d like to see it and write an article for the chronicle.” Edmund hesitated. “Miss Mitchell, I’m not certain that’s appropriate. The Wit Moors are private people, and this has all gotten out of hand.
It’s just an unusual expression in a baby photograph, nothing more. Sarah smiled, pulling a notepad from her bag. Then, showing me the photograph should dispel the rumors, shouldn’t it? People are saying the baby looks possessed. Others claim it shows proof of spirits. Some are even suggesting the Witmor should leave their house. Surely a factual article based on seeing the actual photograph would be more helpful than allowing speculation to run wild.
She had a point. Edmund retrieved one of the prints from his safe, and handed it to her. Zarah studied it for a long moment, her expression shifting from curiosity to something more complex, part fascination, part unease. That’s remarkable, she said finally. I see what people mean. The child does appear unusually aware, almost analytical.
Tell me about the circumstances when you took this photograph. Edmund described the session, the Witmore’s request to shoot at their home, the baby’s unusual stillness, the calm atmosphere during the exposure. He mentioned the Kzik estates’s history, though he left out Dr. Blackwell’s more fantastic theories. Sarah took notes rapidly, her pen scratching across the paper.
The Kzik house. I’ve heard stories about that place. Nothing specific, just vague rumors about it being unlucky. May I keep this print? I’d like to have it examined by an expert. What kind of expert? There’s a professor at Boston University, Dr. Marcus Chen, who studies optical phenomena and photographic anomalies.
He’s published several papers on how camera mechanics and chemistry can create unusual effects in photographs. If there’s a technical explanation for this image, he would know. Edmund agreed, relieved that someone with scientific credentials might provide a rational answer. Sarah left with the photograph, promising to return it after Dr. Chen’s examination.
3 days later, she was back with surprising news. Dr. Chen had studied the photograph extensively and found no technical flaws. The exposure was perfect, the chemistry sound, the glass plate negative, free from defects. Whatever had caused the third baby’s unusual expression, it wasn’t a photographic error.
The child had actually looked that way during the 8-second exposure. Dr. Chen suggested one possibility, Sarah said. He mentioned that some infants experience what he called transient hyperawareness. Brief moments of unusual alertness that pass quickly. He’s documented a few cases, though he admits this photograph shows an extreme example.
Did he find it disturbing? Sarah met his eyes directly. He found it fascinating, Mr. Price, and yes, I think it troubled him, though he wouldn’t say so officially. He asked if he could study the child directly. I told him I’d inquire with the family. I doubt they’d agree to that. Perhaps not, but there’s something else.
Sarah pulled out several sheets of paper covered in her handwriting. I started researching the Kzwick house after our last conversation. The property records go back to 1847 when it [music] was built. And I discovered something interesting. Every family that’s lived there for more than a year has reported unusual experiences, particularly involving their children.
She spread the papers across Edmund’s desk. The original owners, the Hartford family, moved out after 3 years. Their daughter claimed to see the watching man in her bedroom. The bishops lived there from 1853 to 1861. Their son sleepwalked repeatedly, always ending up in the same room on the third floor, always facing the same corner.
The Yates family lasted only 8 months. They never publicly stated why they left, but I found a letter from Mrs. Yates to her sister in the historical society archives. She wrote about her baby daughter laughing at empty spaces and reaching toward things that weren’t there. Edmund felt cold. How many families? Seven. Before the Kzzik family took ownership in 1872, the Kzich stayed longer than anyone.
Nathaniel’s parents until they died, then Nathaniel alone. But according to town records, Nathaniel’s younger sister disappeared in 1881. She was 12 years old. There was a brief search, but no trace was ever found. The official assumption was that she ran away. But but you don’t think so. I think something happened to her in that house.
I think whatever’s there has been there for nearly 60 years and it’s particularly interested in children. If you’re finding this mystery compelling, don’t forget to like and subscribe. Your support helps me continue investigating stories like this. Sarah’s investigation became more intense over the following week.
She interviewed elderly residents who remembered the various families that had lived in the Kzich house. She searched through old newspaper archives, finding brief mentions of odd occurrences. A child found wandering outside the house at midnight with no memory of leaving her bed. A birthday party that ended abruptly when all the children simultaneously claimed to see someone standing in an upstairs window of the empty house.
She also attempted to interview the Witmores directly. Catherine answered the door but refused to discuss the photograph or their experiences in the house. She was polite but firm, closing the door after a brief conversation. Thomas Whitmore stopped Edmund on the street 2 days later, his face tight with anger. Mr. Price, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop showing that photograph around town.
My family is being harassed. People stare at my sons when Catherine takes them out. Some women have crossed the street to avoid us. Whatever you think you captured in that image, it’s causing real harm to real people. Edmund apologized sincerely. He hadn’t wanted any of this. But Thomas’s next words stopped him cold.
And if Miss Mitchell approaches my family again, I’ll be contacting the authorities. We chose that house because it was affordable and large enough for our growing family. What happened in the past has nothing to do with us. The photograph simply captured an odd expression. That’s all. There’s nothing unusual about our home, and there never has been.
Thomas walked away before Edmund could respond. But the photographer noticed something that Thomas probably didn’t realize he’d revealed. He’d said, “What happened in the past has nothing to do with us.” Implying he knew something had happened. and he’d said, “There’s nothing unusual about our home with the emphasis of someone trying to convince himself as much as others.” Meanwhile, Dr.
Blackwell conducted his own quiet investigation. [clears throat] He contacted colleagues in Boston and Providence, who had published papers on psychological phenomena. He described the photograph and the house’s history without providing specific names or locations. One response particularly interested him from Dr.
Elizabeth Warren, a specialist in childhood development who had studied cases of children reporting unusual perceptual experiences. Doctor Warren wrote that she’d encountered several documented cases of children claiming to sense presences or see things others couldn’t in specific locations. Most were dismissed as imagination, but some showed remarkable consistency across different children who had no contact with each other.
She suggested that certain environments might create conditions that made children more perceptive to phenomena that adults either couldn’t detect or had learned to filter out. The question, Dr. Warren wrote, is whether these children are perceiving something genuine that we can’t yet measure, or whether certain environments prime suggestible minds to create shared experiences.
The answer may be somewhere between conventional skepticism and supernatural explanation, something real but not yet understood by science. Harrison found this perspective both comforting and unsettling. It offered a middle ground between complete dismissal and fantastic theories, but it also suggested that the Witmore photograph might be documenting something real, even if inexplicable.
On November 15th, Sarah Mitchell published her article in the Briarwood Chronicle. She titled it the Kzich House, a history of strange occurrences, and had written it carefully, presenting facts without sensationalism, including statements from Dr. Chen about the photograph’s technical soundness and noting the property’s documented history.
She didn’t claim ghosts or supernatural forces. She simply laid out the evidence and let readers draw their own conclusions. The article caused an immediate sensation. By noon on publication day, the Chronicle had sold out its entire print run, something that had never happened in the newspaper’s 40-year history.
The publisher rushed to print additional copies. People lined up outside the office to buy them, but the article had unintended consequences. That evening, a crowd gathered outside the Kzich house. They didn’t do anything threatening, just stood on the street staring at the three-story Victorian structure, pointing at windows, talking in low voices.
The police had to disperse them eventually, but they returned the next night and the night after that. On the fourth night, Thomas Witmore came out and faced the crowd. Edmund was there, having walked past out of curiosity about what was happening. He watched as Thomas stood on his front steps, his face exhausted and desperate.
“Go home,” Thomas shouted. “There’s nothing to see here. My family is trying to live our lives in peace. This house is our home. Whatever you think you know, whatever you believe, you’re frightening my wife and disturbing my children. Please, just leave us alone.” The crowd dispersed slowly, shamefaced, but Edmund noticed that several people took one last long look at the house before leaving, their faces filled with a mixture of fear and fascination, and he saw something else.
In one of the third floor windows, a curtain moved slightly, as though someone had been watching the entire scene from above. But the Witors, Edmund knew, only used the first two floors. The entire third floor, damaged by Nathaniel Kzwick’s fire, remained sealed and unused. December brought early snow to Briarwood, blanketing the town in white and muffling the usual sounds of daily life.
The crowds outside the Kzik house had finally stopped. Discouraged by the weather and by the lack of any dramatic occurrences to justify their vigil, life seemed to return to normal, though the strange photograph remained a topic of quiet conversation in homes and shops throughout town. Edmund Price had developed a routine of walking past the Kzich house every few days, though he couldn’t explain exactly why.
Perhaps it was guilt over the attention his photograph had brought to the Witmore family. Perhaps it was simple curiosity. Or perhaps it was something else, a nagging feeling that the story wasn’t finished, that something was still unfolding behind those Victorian walls. On December 18th, his instinct proved correct.
He was walking home from his studio just after sunset when he saw Dr. Harrison Blackwell’s carriage standing outside the Kzich house. The horse stamping nervously in the cold. Edmund quickened his pace, arriving just as Harrison emerged from the front door, his medical bag in hand, his face grave. Harrison, what’s happened? Is someone ill? [music] The doctor paused on the steps, clearly debating whether to answer.
Finally, he gestured for Edmund to follow him to his carriage away from the house’s windows. “One of the triplets had an episode this evening,” Harrison said quietly. The third one, James, the baby from your photograph. Catherine found him standing in his crib, which should be impossible at 6 months old. She says he was staring at the corner of the nursery and laughing.
When she picked him up, he felt cold, despite the room being warm. And his eyes, Harrison paused. She said his eyes looked different, more focused than a baby’s eyes should be. Is he all right now? Physically, he seems fine. Temperature normal, responsive, showing typical infant behavior. But Catherine is terrified.
And frankly, I don’t blame her. This is the third incident this week. The babies have been waking simultaneously at odd hours, all facing the same direction in their cribs. And Catherine swears she’s heard footsteps on the third floor, which is supposed to be empty. Edmund felt his stomach tighten. Have they considered leaving? Thomas refuses.
He says they can’t afford to lose this house. He put everything they had into purchasing it from the estate. If they leave, they’ll have nowhere to go. And he’s convinced himself that these are all coincidences. That Catherine is over wrought from caring for triplets. That I’m seeing patterns where none exist. But you don’t believe that? Harrison looked back at the house, his expression troubled.
No, Edmund. I don’t. I’ve been a physician for over two decades. I know the difference between a concerned mother’s imagination and genuine cause for alarm. Something is happening in that house. Something connected to what you captured in your photograph. Then we need to do something.
We need to convince Thomas to take his family somewhere safe, at least temporarily. But Harrison shook his head. On what grounds? What evidence can we present that wouldn’t sound like superstitious nonsense? a baby with an unusual expression in a photograph, feelings of being watched, coincidental behaviors that could all be explained rationally.
No court would remove a family from their home based on such things, and Thomas would be within his rights to refuse any interference. Edmund knew the doctor was right, but the helplessness frustrated him. Then what do we do? We watch. We document and we hope that whatever’s in that house is simply curious, not dangerous. Sarah Mitchell arrived in Briarwood the next morning, summoned by a telegram from Edmund.
She had continued her research from Boston, corresponding with historians and paranormal researchers, though she’d been careful not to publish anything further about the Kzich house after seeing the distress her first article had caused. The three of them met at Harrison’s office to share information. Sarah had uncovered more about the house’s history, going back before its construction to the land itself.
The property where the Kzwick house stands was part of a larger attract owned by the Thornhill family in the early 1800s, Sarah explained, spreading maps and old property records across Harrison’s desk. In 1823, the Thorn Hills built a small cottage there for their groundskeeper and his family. The groundskeeper had a daughter, age 8, named Elizabeth.
According to local records, Elizabeth went missing in November of that year. There was a search, but she was never found. You think she died on that land? Edmund asked. I think something happened there. Yes. The cottage was torn down in 1845, 2 years before the Kzik house was built. But here’s what’s interesting. I found a diary entry from Margaret Thornnehill, the family matriarch, written a week after Elizabeth disappeared.
She wrote, “The child is gone. But something remains.” I feel it watching from the place where the cottage stood. We should never have built there. The land remembers. Harrison removed his spectacles, cleaning them methodically. You’re suggesting the presence isn’t connected to the house, but to the land itself, that it preceded the structure.
I’m suggesting that whatever’s there has been there for a very long time. Perhaps it was drawn to Elizabeth in 1823. Perhaps it’s been there even longer. The Kzik house just happens to be the current structure on that spot, and it’s particularly interested in children, Edmund added. Every account mentions children experiencing things that adults don’t, seeing things, feeling things, behaving in unusual ways.
They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the implications. Finally, Harrison spoke. The question remains, “What do we do with this information? We can’t force the Witors to leave. We can’t even prove that anything supernatural is occurring. We have historical coincidences and unusual incidents, but nothing concrete.
Sarah had been thinking about this. What if we documented everything thoroughly? Created a complete record of the house’s history, the photograph, the current events, not for publication, but as evidence. If something serious happens, if the Witors finally decide to leave or if the situation escalates, we’ll have documentation that might help others understand what they’re dealing with.
It was decided. Over the next 2 weeks, they compiled everything they had found. Sarah wrote a comprehensive history of the property. Harrison documented his medical observations and conversations with the Witmores. Edmund contributed prints of the photograph along with his detailed notes about the session.
They sealed everything in a metal box and deposited it with the town cler with instructions that it should be made available to any future residents of the property or to researchers investigating similar phenomena. Christmas came and went quietly in Briarwood. The Witors attended church on Christmas Eve. The triplets bundled in matching blankets, looking like any normal family celebrating the holiday.
Edmund watched them from across the sanctuary and noticed that Catherine held James a bit more tightly than his brothers, her eyes scanning the church as though looking for something invisible. After the service, as people filed out into the snowy night, Edmund approached them. Mr. and Mrs. Whitmore, I want to apologize again for all the trouble my photograph caused your family.
I hope you’re settling in well at your new home. Catherine’s expression softened slightly. Thank you, Mr. Price. It’s been an adjustment, but we’re managing. Thomas nodded curtly and began to lead his family away, but Catherine hesitated. For a moment it seemed like she might say something more. Her eyes met Edmunds, and he saw fear there, deep and genuine.
But then Thomas took her arm gently, and the moment passed. They walked away into the snow, the three babies quiet in their parents’ arms. Edmund never learned what Catherine had almost said. But he thought about that look in her eyes many times in the years that followed. January brought a brutal cold snap to Massachusetts.
Temperatures plummeted and the mill had to shut down for a week due to frozen equipment. The Witors, like everyone in Briarwood, hunkered down to wait out the weather. On January 15th, 1905, a fire broke out in the Kzwick house at 3:00 in the morning. The flames started on the third floor, the same area damaged by Nathaniel Kzik’s fire the previous year.
By the time neighbors noticed the glow and raised the alarm, the entire top story was engulfed. The volunteer fire brigade responded quickly, but the frozen water made fighting the blaze difficult. They managed to contain it before it spread to the lower floors, but the third story was completely destroyed, and the second floor sustained heavy smoke and water damage.
The Witors escaped safely. Thomas carried two babies while Catherine clutched James and seven-year-old Mary’s hand. They stood in the street watching their home burn, the orange flames reflecting off the snow. Neighbors brought blankets and offered shelter, but Catherine wouldn’t move. She stood transfixed, staring up at the burning third floor. Edmund arrived with Dr.
Blackwell just as the fire brigade declared the blaze under control. They found the Witmore family being examined by Harrison’s colleague while other doctors checked the children. All were physically unharmed, though Catherine appeared to be in shock. “She won’t speak,” Thomas told Harrison quietly. “She just stares at where the fire was.
I don’t know what to do.” Harrison examined Catherine gently, but she remained unresponsive to questions, her gaze fixed on the smoking ruins of the third floor. Finally, he administered a mild seditive and arranged for her to be taken to a neighbor’s house to rest. Edmund helped Thomas gather the children.
As they were preparing to leave, Thomas looked back at the damaged house, his face etched with exhaustion and something else, perhaps relief. “We won’t be going back,” Thomas said quietly. “Even if it can be repaired, we won’t be going back.” Catherine was right all along. There was something wrong with that house. I just wouldn’t listen.
What happened tonight? Edmund asked. How did the fire start? Thomas’s jaw tightened. I don’t know. Catherine woke me screaming. She said someone was on the third floor walking around. I told her she was dreaming that the third floor was sealed off, but she insisted. She said she could hear footsteps directly above our bedroom. I went downstairs to check the doors, make sure no one had broken in, and that’s when I smelled smoke. Did you see anyone? No.
The house was locked from the inside. No one could have gotten in or out. But he paused, clearly struggling with what to say next. But I heard it too, Edmund. While I was checking the doors, I heard footsteps on the third floor. Slow, deliberate, walking from room to room. And then I heard a child’s laughter.
Not my children. They were all still in the nursery. A different child. A girl. Edmund felt cold. That had nothing to do with the winter night. What did you do? I ran back upstairs to get my family out. And as we were leaving, I looked up at the third floor windows. Edmund. I swear I saw someone standing there.
A child. A girl in old-fashioned clothing just standing there looking down at us. And then the flames started right where she was standing. The official investigation concluded that the fire had been caused by faulty wiring in the sealed third floor, a remnant of the damage from the previous fire that hadn’t been properly repaired.
It was a reasonable explanation, one that satisfied the insurance company and the town council. But Edmund, Harrison, and Sarah knew better. They added the fire report to their documentation along with Thomas’s statement about what he had seen and heard. They noted that the fire had started in the same location where Nathaniel Kzich’s fire had begun the year before and that both fires had been contained to the third floor.
As though something was deliberately preventing the flames from spreading to the rest of the house, the Witors moved to a small rental house on the other side of town. Catherine slowly recovered from her shock, though she never spoke publicly about what she had experienced in the Kzich house.
Thomas sold the property to a developer who demolished what remained and subdivided the land into smaller lots. For a few years, the lots remained empty. People remembered the fires, the strange stories, the photograph of the baby with the two aware eyes. But memory is short and towns are always eager to move past uncomfortable histories.
In 1912, new houses were built on the subdivided lots. Simple, modern structures with none of the Victorian complexity of the Kzich house. Families moved in. Life continued. Edmund Price photographed many of those families over the years. He never took another portrait that showed anything unusual. The third baby, James Whitmore, grew into a normal, healthy boy who showed no signs of the awareness that had been captured in that 1904 photograph.
He became a teacher, married, had children of his own, and lived an unremarkable life. Dr. Harrison Blackwell practiced medicine in Briarwood until his retirement in 1928. He never encountered another case quite like the Whitmore, though he remained interested in unexplained phenomena until his death in 1935.
Sarah Mitchell became a respected journalist in Boston, known for her thorough research and balanced reporting. She never wrote another article about the Kzwick House, though she kept all her research files. When she died in 1953, those files were donated to the Massachusetts Historical Society where they remain available to researchers.
The metal box with their complete documentation stayed in the town clerk’s office largely forgotten. In 1967, when Briarwood built a new municipal building, the box was transferred to the town’s historical society along with hundreds of other old records. It sat there unopened for decades. In 2018, a graduate student researching early 20th century photographic techniques came across the box.
She opened it, studied its contents, and wrote her dissertation on the Witmore photograph, analyzing it as an example of how technical limitations in early photography could create unsettling effects that led to supernatural interpretations. She concluded that the baby’s expression was simply an artifact of the long exposure time catching a moment of alertness that looked unusual in a still image.
It was a reasonable scientific conclusion. She never visited Briarwood. She never walked the land where the Kzik house had stood. If she had, she might have learned that children in the neighborhood still report seeing a girl in old-fashioned clothing standing near where the houses’s third floor used to be.
She might have discovered that pets refuse to walk across certain sections of those properties. She might have spoken to residents who hear footsteps when their houses are empty or find their children staring at corners and laughing at nothing visible. But she didn’t investigate those things. They weren’t part of her research parameters. They didn’t fit the scientific explanation she was constructing.
The truth about the 1904 photograph remains where Edmund Price, Harrison Blackwell, and Sarah Mitchell left it, documented, but unexplained, preserved, but unresolved. The image itself still exists in the Massachusetts Historical Society archives, available to anyone who wants to see it. The third baby still stares out from that century old print with eyes that seem far too knowing, far too aware.
And on the land where the Kzwick house once stood, something still watches. Children still sense it. Animals still fear it. Photographs taken there occasionally show anomalies that experts dismiss as technical glitches or tricks of light. Some mysteries are solved, some are explained away, and some simply persist, waiting in the spaces between rational explanation and undeniable experience, neither fully proven nor completely dismissed.
The Witmore photograph belongs to that final category. It remains what it has always been, a moment captured on glass and paper showing either an unusual coincidence of infant expression and camera timing or something far stranger looking out through a baby’s eyes for 8 seconds in October 1904. Which interpretation you choose probably says more about what you’re willing to believe than about what the photograph actually shows.
But on cold winter nights in Briarwood, when people walk past the modern houses built where the Kzich estate once stood, some still quicken their pace without quite knowing why. And parents whose children play near those properties sometimes find themselves calling their kids inside earlier than necessary, responding to an unease they can’t rationally explain.
The watching continues. It always has, and that perhaps is the only certainty in this entire strange story. If you enjoyed this investigation into the unexplained, leave a comment below. I love hearing your thoughts and answering your questions. If you haven’t subscribed yet, hit that subscribe button and turn on notifications so you don’t miss future stories.
Leave a Reply