Chapter 1 - Chapter One: Flea Market Ghosts

The rain kept falling; it hadn't stopped since yesterday. The streets of Boston glistened like polished obsidian. Water bubbled up, flowing between the old cobblestones. As the droplets danced on the pavement, the air filled with a fresh, earthy scent mixed with the memories of the past. In the shadows of the flickering streetlights, a figure moved quietly, drawn to the lively chaos of the nearby flea market, where tales of forgotten treasures awaited. Jack adjusted the straps on his leather messenger bag and buttoned his heavy wool jacket. No matter how hard he tried, the cold still crept in and bit him. Why did he live where the cold was more eager than he was? Jack wasn't about to feel discouraged. The Saturday flea market sprawled around him in Quincy Shipyard Square. Folding tables, tarps, and appetizing food carts battled against the rain and chill. Voices haggled over prices, muffled by rain and clothing, their breath fogging as it escaped. This was Jack's passion. He loved going to the flea market, and he made it a point to visit whenever he could. He didn't care as much about bargains as he did about the thrill of the hunt. His father used to call places like this "graveyards of the living past"—each item a headstone for someone's memory. This kept him returning. Browsing the past Jack stopped at a booth selling watches. Vintage Rolex and Longines sat alongside Casios and Seikos. He spotted an IWC Caliber 89. It lay carelessly in a case with other $25 watches. "Nice piece," Jack said casually, turning it over in his hand. "What are you asking for this?" The man's accent was pure dockside Boston, each word wrapped in attitude. "That's a '52 IWC Calibah Eighty-Nine, kid. It's a classic. Not some quartz junk." "Yeah, looks well kept," Jack replied. "How much?" "Thirty-five," the man answered. Jack blinked. "Dollars?" The vendor's eyebrows shot up, as if Jack had insulted him. "Yeah, sure. Thirty-five hun-dred dollars. What, you think I'm giving away Swiss craftsmanship for gas money?" Jack smirked. "Just checking. You said it like we were talking yard sale prices." "Buddy, this is a yahd sale—but for people with taste. You want something for thirty-five bucks, I've got a Timex from '92 that smells like my uncle's cologne." Jack laughed quietly and set the watch back down. "I'll... think about it." "Do more than think," the vendor called after him. "This baby'll outlast you and your kids—if you even have any." Another booth sold old tintypes and photographs. Jack stepped through a tent of quilts into a cozy space that smelled of coffee and the past. He saw rows of old tintypes, each offering a glimpse into life before technology and cell phones. It's hard to believe only a few hundred years separate this simple life from the hectic pace we live now. Experiencing those days firsthand would be amazing. Jack continued to look at the old photographs; he recognized the style since he often fixed and touched up photos for families, documentaries, and books. The metal plates felt cool and slightly warped, the images ghostly in their silver-gray tones. Men wore ill-fitting suits, women donned stiff dresses, and children looked like they had been scolded into stillness. Their eyes were sharp and serious, the way people appeared before photography learned how to flatter. There were cabinet cards too, mounted on yellowing cardstock with fancy studio logos—Wetherbee & Sons, Boston, in elegant script, Fine Portraits Since 1884. Jack picked one up showing a sailor with a crooked grin, his arm slung around a woman whose eyes hinted at trouble. "You collect?" asked the woman behind the table, her hair piled high in a scarf patterned with tiny cameras. "Sometimes," Jack said, still studying the sailor. "Mostly I restore them. But I like seeing them out in the world. Before they get boxed up and forgotten." The woman smiled knowingly. "They're all forgotten sooner or later. That's why I sell them. Better to let them haunt someone else's shelves for a while." Jack nodded, gently setting the photograph back down. He lingered for a moment, appreciating the quiet charm of the stall, the way the past stared back without shame or rush. Then the drizzle began to blow sideways under the canopy, and he stepped back into the square. The Pawnshop Stall In the middle of the market stood a building that was actually a pawn shop. It also operated during the week, but on market days, they offered special items that were usually kept hidden. Jack decided to check it out to see if he had missed anything. Jack nearly missed the camera. The table was a mismatched mess of brass candlesticks, chipped porcelain figurines, and a shabby silver-plated tea set with a cracked handle and mismatched cups. It looked like someone had emptied an estate sale onto a table. The mahogany body was framed by dull brass fittings, their edges softened by years of use. The bellows, black leather creased like an old man's smile, were intact—a miracle. The brass barrel lens still had its engraved f-stop markings: f/4.5, f/8, f/11, f/16, and f/22. He examined it closely, noting the tiny scratches on the glass, the faint fogging at the edges, and the small lever of the leaf shutter, which was stiff but functional. On the back, the ground glass focusing screen sat under a flip-up hood, faintly dusty but unbroken. Jack could almost sense his grandfather's approving nod—the man had been meticulous about craftsmanship, and this camera was built to last. "Nice piece, huh?" A raspy voice came from the man in a too-large trench coat and a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. His smile seemed easy, but his gaze was sharp—the kind of vendor who knew what he had. Or thought he did. "Mahogany field camera," Jack said. "Early 1900s. Bellows are good. Surprised it's not in a collector's case." The man shrugged. "Had it in the back for years. Came from a guy cleaning out his grandfather's place. Supposedly belonged to a newspaper photographer. Heard it was used in some scandal back in the day." His tone gave away this was more marketing than truth. Jack smiled faintly. "Scandal, huh?" The man leaned closer. "One owner swore it could 'see things.'" Jack snorted. "That's what cameras do." "Not like this," the man said. "Fifty bucks." For a camera in this condition, it was a deal. Too good of a deal. Jack hesitated—he didn't need it, but holding it felt oddly comforting, as if it had been waiting for him. He adjusted the focus and peered through the ground glass, expecting only the dull blur of the rain-soaked square. Instead, the image was… wrong. The cobblestones were dry. The vendor stalls had vanished. Instead, men in flat caps and women in ankle-length skirts bustled through the square. A horse-drawn cart rattled past, its iron wheels clattering against the stones. Jack jerked his head back. The rain, the stalls, and the present day returned. He blinked and looked again—only the gray morning scene of the market remained. The seller observed him, unreadable. "So. Fifty." Jack's heart raced as he processed the sudden shift in reality. The vivid memories of the square lingered in his mind, but the vendor's voice pulled him back, demanding his attention and his wallet. Jack turned the camera over, running his fingers along the edges. Something shifted inside with a faint click. A small, curling black-and-white photograph slipped free from the leather bellows. It showed the same square—but without stalls, lined instead with early cars. In the background, a boy stared straight at the camera. His eyes were sharp and intense, even through the grain of the old photo. Jack instinctively glanced up at the spot where the boy had stood, but it was empty. He swallowed. "Are you sure this came from a house clean-out?" "That's what I was told," the seller said, already wrapping the camera in newspaper. The paper had yellowed and was dated 1937. The Purchase The price had been surprisingly low, but Jack felt something more lay behind this photograph. As he turned the camera over in his hands, he spotted a small inscription on the back that hinted at a story long forgotten. Jack didn't argue. The fifty went into the man's hand, and the camera went under Jack's arm. He walked away as the drizzle turned into steady rain. He didn't notice the seller watching him leave, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Jack cut through an alley between two brick warehouses, rain pooling in shallow depressions. Halfway down, something made him stop. He lifted the camera and flipped up the focusing hood. The alley shimmered in the ground glass. The graffiti, the dumpsters, the puddles—gone. The bricks appeared clean, and the mortar looked sharp and new. Men in suspenders hauled crates from open bay doors, the air alive with shouts and the rumble of wagon wheels. A Model T idled at the curb. A man turned toward the camera. His face was shadowed by the brim of his hat, but Jack had the unsettling feeling the man knew precisely where—and when—Jack stood. Jack's breath caught. He lowered the camera. The scene had vanished. Rain tapped steadily against the leather bellows. For the first time that morning, he forgot to breathe. As the raindrops blurred his vision, Jack sensed an electric tension in the air, as if the atmosphere were charged with unspoken secrets. He glanced around, half-expecting the figure to reappear from the mist, but all that remained was the echo of his own heartbeat and the soft patter of rain on the pavement.