The Photo Centre’s doors remained fairly shut for decades. Once in a while, a curious passer by would knock on the door or try to peep through the cracks in the blinders but all he’d be met with is silence and darkness. In a lively and always-awake neighborhood, the Photo Centre remained a dark spot. It was a porch nobody liked to sit on. It was a patch of road no kid wanted to be left alone. They say late Mr. Klicker, the man who once owned the shop, still haunts the place. Some even say they’ve heard the camera shutter going off from the inside at times, which everybody were quick to write off as hallucinatory
But one or two old souls in town did remember the times when the Photo Centre had been a bustling corner. They remembered Mr. Klicker and his vintage Leica camera. They remembered the way he welcomed any customer inside his studio with a curious grin. But what nobody remembered was everything that happened inside the studio once they’d stepped out.
This story is written for the Challenge Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
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