Chapter 24: “Smile for the Cameras”

The room was engulfed in darkness as the final candle wavered out.

The temperature dropped sharply, becoming uncomfortably cold, and the silence enveloped Camela like thick water pressing against her ears. She could still sense the Bride's fingers on her shoulders, but they had lost their warmth and felt bony.

Then, a voice pierced through the darkness. “Do you know what happens when the lights go out, Camela?”

It wasn’t the man; it wasn’t the Bride. The voice seemed to come from everywhere—behind her, next to her, even within her.

Camela tightened her grip on the edge of the table. “I’m not afraid of you,” she shouted.

A low chuckle echoed around the room. “Good. Fear makes the picture blurry.”

Then there was a click, followed by a metallic snap.

In a wink, a bright flash of white light appeared before her, causing her to flinch as spots danced in her vision.

When her eyes adjusted, she noticed the room was still dark but her chair had been shifted. She hadn’t moved it herself.

Now, there was something new in front of her. It was an old black camera with a cracked leather strap, its lens pointed directly at her face.

The man’s voice spoke again, this time softer. “Smile for the camera, my bride.”

Camela clenched her jaw. "No!" she yelled, banging her fist on the table.

The Bride’s hands tightened around her shoulders, just enough to cause discomfort. "You should smile. You don’t want your first picture with him to look…unwilling.”

"I’m not smiling."

A sharp noise came from the camera as the flash went on again.

She blinked furiously. “I said no!”

"You don’t have the right to say no," the Bride whispered in her ear. "The camera doesn’t care."

Camela looked down as a photo slipped out from the bottom of the camera, its edges curling up.

Her heart raced.

In the photo—it was her but not how she looked now. Her lips were curved into a smile, her eyes were shiny and empty, and her skin was pale like she’d been drained of all color.

Behind her in the picture stood a man wearing a fox mask, his hand wrapped around her waist. He had not been there just a moment before.

Camela's voice trembled. “How…?”

The man moved closer from the shadows. “Some smiles are born in the dark.”

Camela pushed the photo aside. “I don’t want to be involved in this.”

The Bride moved around her chair at a slow pace. “You’re already involved. Every bride is. You just haven’t signed the rest of the album yet.”

“Album?”

The man filled his glass with more wine and said. “One photo for each promise. One promise for every soul you decide to keep or let go.”

“I’m not choosing anyone,” Camela replied.

“Then the camera will choose for you,” the Bride said plainly.

Camela stared at the photo once more. A new detail caught her attention—Vincent’s face, barely visible, at the edge of the picture. His eyes were closed.

“What did you do to him?” she asked sharply.

The Bride turned her head slightly. “I haven’t done anything yet. But the next photo will be…crucial.”

Another chair scraped against the floor, and two masked women pushed Vincent into it. His hands were bound, his shirt was ripped, and his skin bore several shallow cuts.

“Camela,” he said weakly. “Don’t get caught up in their game.”

The man wearing the fox mask sat next to them, leaning in closer. “Just one photo. One smile. Then he can leave.”

Camela felt her heart racing in her ears, then she asked. “And what happens if I refuse?”

The Bride's hand lightly touched the camera. “Then his last photo will be the one of him in his coffin.”

Vincent stared intently at Camela as he said. "Don't allow them to take advantage of you."

The Bride snapped her fingers, and the camera hummed to life once more. "Make your choice," she instructed.

Camela didn’t reply.

The man's tone turned dangerously gentle. "You might be shocked by how much a smile can cost, my dear."

She remained silent.

The Bride sighed, then leaned down, and whispered, “Alright. We’ll help you smile.”

One of the masked women grabbed Camela’s hair, pulling her head back. Another woman pulled at her cheeks until her lips were curled upward in a grotesque grin.

The camera flashed.

Camela's eyes burned. She yanked her head free. “You can force a smile, but you can’t make it real.”

The man and the Bride didn't respond as they watched the photograph slide out.

Her stomach dropped.

In the photo, she was smiling naturally soft, almost tender—while holding Vincent’s hand.

But in reality, her hands were tied to the chair.

“How…did you…?” she stuttered.

The man picked up the photo and examined it as if it were a masterpiece and said. “Because in this place,” he tapped the photo, “truth doesn’t count. Only what is remembered.”

The Bride placed the photograph in a black leather album on the table.

Camela leaned in closer and asked, “Where did you find that?”

The Bride opened the album halfway and replied, “From every bride who came before you.”

Camela’s eyes grew wide as she flipped through the pages. Each page featured different women in red gowns, all smiling at a man wearing a fox mask. The settings varied from grand ballrooms, beautiful gardens, and dimly lit halls. However, one thing remained constant in each photo—their eyes looked hollow and sad.

Some of the women she recognized from the carvings in the mirror room.

Camela's heart raced. “What happened to them?”

The Bride gently traced her fingers along the spine of the album. “They stayed in the photographs.”

A chill ran through her. “You mean…”

“They’re not here anymore,” the man completed her thought.

Suddenly, a candle on the table lit up unexpectedly. Its light was weak and cold, barely pushing back the darkness.

The Bride smiled and said, “Just one more, Camela. Take one more picture, and you’ll understand.”

The camera turned on by itself, now focusing on both Camela and Vincent.

Vincent grew anxious. “Don’t do it. Whatever happens…just don’t.”

The Bride stepped in between them and the man. “If you smile in this photo, you’ll never feel pain again.”

Camela squinted her eyes. “What happens if I don’t?” she asked.

The man replied, “Then the Devil gets to choose who sits in your place.”

The Bride reached for the camera button.

Before she could press the button, Camela jumped forward and knocked the camera to the side. It fell to the ground, hitting the floor with a loud crack.

But instead of breaking, it burst open—releasing hundreds of photographs into the air like black snowflakes.

Camela grabbed one as it floated by. Her heart raced.

It was a picture of her—dressed in the red dress from the mirror, lying in a coffin surrounded by white flowers. Her lips curved into a smile.

She turned to the Bride and asked, “What’s happening?!”

The Bride only smiled more broadly. “This is your last picture, my dear. The camera always captures the final moment. It knows the ending even before it happens”

The man’s voice dropped to a whisper. “All that’s left is to snap it.”

Though only one of the candles was lit, suddenly they all blazed up with dark flames, creating dancing shadows around the room.

The photographs in the air began to burn one by one, curling into ash—except for hers. It floated slowly toward the camera, which had mysteriously reassembled itself.

Vincent shouted, “Camela don’t let it take you!”

The Bride’s cold hands gripped her shoulders once more. “Smile for the camera,” her voice echoed.

The lens began to shine, pulling her reflection toward it.

Camela’s lips quivered—then, despite her resistance, they began to curve upward.

The flash exploded.

And everything went white.