I’m a professional photographer for a fairly well-known international nature and culture magazine with a significant online footprint. Once upon a time, I was scheduled to go to the Arctic Circle for a summer expedition, tasked with taking photos of snow buntings, which are a beautiful, rugged type of songbird. I first flew from Toronto to Gander International Airport in northern Newfoundland. From Gander I was to take a puddle jumper to Fogo Island. I had a tight 40-minute window to make that puddle jumper connection. That window closed with 200 miles to Gander still to go. I arrived at the airport late at night. The airport was essentially empty. I saw one ticketing agent, who then disappeared behind an Employees Only door. I saw a security guard exit through another door. I looked out the airport’s windows and saw only darkness. But, then, quietly, I saw the fog roll in and push against the airport’s windows. If you’re unfamiliar with Gander, it is a waystation rather than a destination. The airport is surrounded by woods. The airport does however have a lounge and bar. I sat at the bar alone. No one else was in the bar, save for the bartender. Unsure where I would be spending the evening and night, I ordered a coffee and tried to access cell reception in order to search the area for a hotel or motel…or all night diner. That’s when the stranger walked into the bar. I have no idea where he came from as no other flights landed after my flight. He asked if he could take the stool next to mine. I was annoyed but nodded consent. He introduced himself to me as J.M. Burroughs. He was a collector of lore, cultural oddities, and all things macabre. He had an accent I could not place, a wardrobe that I could not date. It was as if he existed in a liminal state between human and shadow. Depending on the flickering overhead lights, he seemed to dance between the two positions. At first, I nodded politely as he spoke, but there was fluidity to his words that I can only describe as hypnotic. I soon lost interest in my coffee. He’d ask me a personal question, and I’d answer without hesitation. Single, divorced, credit card debt, jealousy of my cousin’s career in finance. I just answered. But, J.M. was most interested in my job as a photographer and the weird corners of the world my job took me. Finally, he placed his own drink down, a drink I didn’t remember him ordering. He turned fully towards me and said, “This town has little to offer except for one of the most fascinating experimental theatres in North America. There is a performance that will take place tonight at midnight. It is about a curse that was forgotten, a muffled curse that is reborn. You would like to attend.” It wasn’t a question. Suddenly, I was outside, standing next to the passenger door of his black car. I could not tell you the make or model or age of the car. Like Burroughs himself, the car’s edges appeared blurred. Suddenly, we were driving down a dark road deep into the forest. His car had a sulfuric, citrusy scent. I smelled loss. I smelled death. Then, I was sitting in a pew. It didn’t feel like a theatre…or a church, but there was something darkly communal about the space. Audience members began to shuffle in. They all wore clothing similar to Mr. Burroughs. They were humming and muttering underneath their breath. German perhaps? Proto-germanic maybe? That smell of death returned. Then a single light flickered on right in the center of the stage. Three mirrors were placed in a semi-circular shape at the back of the stage. A man in stained white clothing walked out and drew a pentagram. Candles were placed and lit around the drawing. With the candles flickering, the overhead light dimmed itself into nothingness. The humming and muttering from the audience grew louder. A high-pitched SCREAM OFF-STAGE! Then a young woman dressed in rags was dragged to the center of the pentagram by two men wearing dirty white clothing. Once in the center, her wrists were chained to the floor. Whispers from the audience- “Muffle muffle, shuffle shuffle. Take the offer that we proffer.” The woman- “No. Please No! Please! Someone! Please!” Tears streamed down her face. “PLEASE!” I went to stand, but two strong hands pressed down on my shoulders from behind. I could not move. I dared not look behind me. “This isn’t right. YOU ALL ARE NOT RIGHT!” she bellowed from the stage. “Muffle muffle, shuffle shuffle. Take the offer that we proffer.” “Muffle muffle, shuffle, shuffle. TAKE THE OFFER THAT WE PROFFER!” SILENCE For several seconds nothing happened. Then one candle went out. Then the next and the next. I silently prayed that one candle would remain lit because I knew. I knew something terrible was coming. But, I also knew my prayers would not be answered. Not in this place. Not with these people. “Take out your camera.” A voice behind me muttered. I did as I was told. “Turn off the flash.” I turned off the flash. “When darkness reveals itself, take the photo.” My hands shook as I raised my camera up to my eyes. Through the camera, I could see the woman’s face in the reflection of the mirror. Pure desperation. Her screams became whimpers. 3 candles left. Two. One. Darkness. I snapped my camera as I heard the SNAPPING OF A BACK. Darkness. Darkness. Something took a deep, guttural breath directly behind me. I began to cry. SNAP! The lights flashed on! But, I wasn’t in the theatre. I was sitting at the airport bar. A hot cup of coffee rested in front of me…as did my camera. I checked the frame counter. It had gone up by one digit. I’ve never told anyone that story until now. You see, this morning, I walked into a used bookstore in New York City as I had an hour to kill before a meeting at corporate HQ. I was looking through a stack of old postcards when I first noticed that smell, that sulfuric, citrusy smell. No other patrons seemed to notice. The smell grew stronger the deeper into the store I went. The stench appeared to originate from a dusty, old book in the back. I picked up the book and brushed aside some dust. The author was J.M. Burroughs. I opened the book and a piece of scrap paper fell out. On the paper, someone had written, ““Muffle muffle, shuffle shuffle. Take the offer that we proffer.” It’s been 7 years since that night at Gander, and I still haven’t developed the film. Something prevents me from throwing the roll away. Something prevents me from taking it to my dark room. I can’t develop the film. I can’t. I can’t.