Looking back now, everything started so ordinarily, so damn ordinary that it seems absurd.

It was a Saturday afternoon. Autumn sunlight streamed through the mottled glass windows of the community thrift store, casting long shadows between the bookshelves.

I was killing time there, hunting through abandoned stories, just as any book lover would.

The shop owner was a woman in her sixties with thick glasses, dozing behind the cash register. I tiptoed between the bookshelves, afraid to disturb the tranquility. In a dusty cardboard box tucked in the corner, I found that book.

"Midnight Bell" – a horror novel published in 1987.

The cover had yellowed, edges worn but text still clear. The author was someone I'd never heard of—Lin Wanqiu. I flipped through it; the content had that standard eighties horror vibe, filled with the eerie atmosphere unique to that era. Fifteen bucks, a fair price.

I decided to buy it. After paying, I tucked the book under my arm and strolled back home. On the way, I passed that coffee shop I frequently visit and spotted familiar faces chatting inside through the glass window. Life just rolls on, calm and predictable. I had no clue that this book tucked under my arm would become the match that would set my entire life ablaze.

Back home, I brewed a pot of tea and sank into my living room sofa. The sky outside gradually darkened, so I flicked on the table lamp, ready to dive in.

The moment I cracked open the book, something fell out.

A photograph, sliding out from between the pages, drifting gently down onto my lap.

I froze for a second, then picked up the photo and examined it carefully. An old photograph with yellowed paper and slightly curled edges. The grain was pronounced—that unmistakable texture from the film era. The background showed patterned wallpaper with complex, intricate designs, screaming eighties home decor.

Two people dominated the photo: a blonde woman and a dark-haired man, holding each other tightly. The woman rocked that classic eighties perm—big, fluffy, and wild. She wore a sweater with shoulder pads that would make a linebacker jealous and flashed a radiant smile. The man looked young and handsome, sporting a plaid shirt, one arm draped casually around her shoulders.

The whole photo oozed nostalgia, practically forcing you to imagine some cheesy love story from that era. Probably lovers capturing a moment on some special occasion.

I glanced between the book and the photo. Had someone used this precious memory as a bookmark? Or was it accidentally left behind? Either way, it had now landed in my possession.

I decided to use it as a bookmark. Hell, this photo and this horror novel from the 1980s matched perfectly in terms of era, creating a weirdly fitting combination.

I slipped the photo between pages ten-something and began to read.

"Midnight Bell" hooked me from the start—a young reporter investigating a haunted old mansion. The writing style was solid, though occasionally stiff, but the atmosphere was spot-on. I got so sucked in that time just melted away.

After about an hour, my eyes started to burn, so I took a break. I flipped to the page with the photo, wanting another peek at this curious old snapshot.

That's when I spotted something strange.

Before, my attention had been completely drawn to the embracing couple. But now, under the brighter light of the desk lamp, I noticed something else lurking in the lower left corner.

The corner of a sofa was visible, and it looked like someone else was sitting on it.

I brought the photo closer, squinting to examine it carefully. There was definitely someone there—the outline suggested a woman—but strangely, where her face should be was just an unnatural blur. Not your typical out-of-focus blur, but something that looked deliberately altered.

My heart kicked into overdrive.

Looking closer, I spotted another disturbing detail: on the blonde woman's right shoulder, beside the man's hand, was another hand. This one was slender, clearly feminine, and from the angle, it absolutely couldn't belong to the dark-haired man.

I dropped the photo and rubbed my eyes. Maybe I was seeing things, or the photo had just deteriorated with age. Old photos develop weird marks all the time. Could be camera shake, development issues, or damage from poor storage.

I reassured myself with these explanations and went back to reading.

But that nagging uneasiness wouldn't let go. Every time I turned to that page, I couldn't help but check the photo again. And with each examination, I grew more certain those eerie details were real.

That erased face, that extra hand—they were right there, quietly waiting for me to find them.

Night deepened, with only my table lamp casting a sickly yellow glow across the living room. I closed the book and picked up the photo again. Under the lamplight, the photo's surface gave off a faint sheen, making those disturbing details pop even more.

I started imagining the story behind this photograph. Who was the faceless woman? Why was she in the photo, and why had someone deliberately blurred her out? And whose hand was that, resting where it shouldn't be?

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that this was no ordinary photograph.

I flipped the photo over, hoping for clues. There was faded ballpoint pen writing on the back, but age had rendered most words illegible. I could barely make out a few: "1989... summer... last..."

Last what?

I stared at those faded words, trying to decipher their meaning. What happened in the summer of 1989? Why mark this as "last" something?

A chill crawled up my spine.

I realized this photo might not capture a happy memory, but something much darker. The erased face, the extra hand, those cryptic words—they hinted at a buried secret.

I shoved the photo back into the book, but couldn't shake my uneasiness. Those details, seeming to have a life of their own, kept replaying in my mind. I began to regret buying this book, regret finding this damn photo.

Yet at the same time, I felt a burning curiosity. Where did this photo come from? Why was it hidden in this horror novel? What did those bizarre details mean?

I glanced at the clock—almost midnight. Common sense told me to go to sleep and forget these weird thoughts.

But the moment I switched off the lamp and darkness swallowed the room, I could almost feel that photo pulsing with some kind of eerie energy between the pages, as if it was waiting for something.

Cursed Photo: The Secret of Summer 1989 — Chapter 4

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