"The One Who Stayed...Or Not" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Some hauntings are not caused by the dead, but by the living who refuse to leave.”
The clock on the mantel ticked toward midnight, its slow, deliberate thud echoing through Edward's empty Victorian parlor. Each second sounded heavier than the last, as though the house itself were counting down. He sat in his high-backed chair, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched on the side table, watching snow whip sideways against the tall, narrow windowpanes.
The house stood at the edge of town, all steep gables and ornamental trim—once proud, now weathered. Its paint had faded to the color of old bone. The iron fence out front leaned as though tired of holding its ground. Beyond it, the streetlamp cast a weak amber circle onto drifts already half-buried, the rest of the world swallowed by white and dark.
For forty years, Edward had spent New Year’s Eve in this house.
For forty years, he had waited.
It always began at 11:50 p.m.
First, the temperature dropped—not gradually, but suddenly, as if winter had slipped indoors without knocking. His breath bloomed pale and silvery in the air. Then came the scent: lavender and old lace, unmistakable and intimate, as though someone long gone had brushed past him in the hall.
Finally, she appeared.
The Specter of the Staircase.
She emerged at the top landing, pale and translucent, her silk gown torn and trailing as if caught forever in flight. Her eyes were wide with a terror that never softened, never dimmed. Her mouth moved in a soundless scream as she descended, one desperate step at a time, before vanishing into the cellar door the instant the clock struck midnight.
Edward was not afraid.
He had long since stopped being afraid of her. In truth, he found comfort in the ritual. In all the years since the house had emptied—since voices, laughter, footsteps, and warmth had abandoned it—she had remained. She was the only presence that still acknowledged him. The only proof that he had not entirely slipped into nothing.
As the minute hand clicked toward ten-to-twelve, Edward leaned forward, anticipation stirring in his chest like an old ache.
The air sharpened.
Lavender bloomed.
Right on time, she appeared at the top of the stairs.
But tonight, she seemed different.
More vivid. More real.
Her hands clutched her throat as she descended, yet her movements slowed halfway down. Her mouth closed. The silent scream ceased. Slowly—deliberately—she turned her head.
For the first time in four decades, her gaze met his.
Edward’s breath caught.
There was no terror in her eyes now. Only a deep, unbearable pity.
He lifted his glass, forcing a smile.
“Happy New Year, my dear,” he whispered.
She reached out a shimmering hand toward him. When she spoke, her voice was no longer soundless—it was soft, melodic, and it resonated deep within his bones.
“Oh, you poor soul,” she said gently.
“You still don’t realize which one of us is the memory.”
The clock struck midnight.
The chimes rang out—and the world shifted.
Warmth rushed through the room like breath returning to frozen lungs. The peeling wallpaper smoothed into rich gold. Dust vanished. Light spilled from chandeliers that had not glowed in decades. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, layered with laughter and voices.
Edward looked down.
His hand was gone.
He looked at the chair.
It was empty.
He turned back just as the woman solidified before him—vibrant, alive, her gown whole and luminous. The front door burst open as guests poured in, cheeks flushed from the cold, raising glasses and calling out greetings. Music swelled. The house pulsed with life.
She stepped through the space where Edward believed he sat, laughing freely now, and crossed the room to throw her arms around a man waiting for her—her husband—his face alight with joy.
And then Edward understood.
All those years, the terror on her face had never been about her own death.
It was because every New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, she saw him—a grey, flickering shadow of a man sitting alone in her parlor, clinging to a world that had already let him go.
And this year, at last, she had learned the truth.
So had he.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is still dark outside—but not in a way that feels heavy or foreboding.
This is a companionable darkness, one that makes the wee cottage feel warmer, more intimate, as though the night itself has drawn closer for shelter. The single streetlamp at the corner spills its soft amber light across frost-laced branches and new snow, revealing a small, hushed world that seems content simply to exist.
The temperature is meant to fall all day. A proper winter’s New Year’s Eve.
I have never been much for this particular holiday. Not out of cynicism—just neutrality. I’ve always been more inclined to stay home, to let the evening belong to others. Leave the night to the amateurs, as the saying goes. And I often wonder what, exactly, we believe changes at the turning of a calendar page. Is time anything more than our attempt to place markings on eternity?
So I sit here early in the morning, coffee mug close at hand, listening to the Royal Philharmonic’s performance of the Warsaw Concerto. Music born of another dark chapter in history—written in a time when the world itself felt uncertain, fragile, and afraid. I find myself wondering whether our own era echoes that moment. Perhaps it does.
And then my thoughts soften and drift.
I remember something Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Your sense of awe at all of the miracles you see around you allows you to think, see, and live more of these miraculous occurrences.”
It feels especially true this morning.
As a photographer, I often remind myself that it’s not what we look at—it’s what we see. Through a viewfinder, an ordinary streetlamp becomes a beacon. Frost becomes calligraphy. Snow becomes silence made visible. The mundane reveals its hidden life.
If that is possible with a photograph, why not with time itself?
Perhaps what unsettles us about endings and beginnings is not the passing of moments, but our reluctance to let them pass. Perhaps peace comes not from holding on, but from noticing—truly noticing—what is here now, and allowing it to be enough.
And so I begin this day—the quiet close of one year, with another just around the corner—not with resolution or celebration, but with attention. With warmth. With wonder.
Happy New Year.
~Wylddane
The clock on the mantel ticked toward midnight, its slow, deliberate thud echoing through Edward's empty Victorian parlor. Each second sounded heavier than the last, as though the house itself were counting down. He sat in his high-backed chair, a glass of amber scotch resting untouched on the side table, watching snow whip sideways against the tall, narrow windowpanes.
The house stood at the edge of town, all steep gables and ornamental trim—once proud, now weathered. Its paint had faded to the color of old bone. The iron fence out front leaned as though tired of holding its ground. Beyond it, the streetlamp cast a weak amber circle onto drifts already half-buried, the rest of the world swallowed by white and dark.
For forty years, Edward had spent New Year’s Eve in this house.
For forty years, he had waited.
It always began at 11:50 p.m.
First, the temperature dropped—not gradually, but suddenly, as if winter had slipped indoors without knocking. His breath bloomed pale and silvery in the air. Then came the scent: lavender and old lace, unmistakable and intimate, as though someone long gone had brushed past him in the hall.
Finally, she appeared.
The Specter of the Staircase.
She emerged at the top landing, pale and translucent, her silk gown torn and trailing as if caught forever in flight. Her eyes were wide with a terror that never softened, never dimmed. Her mouth moved in a soundless scream as she descended, one desperate step at a time, before vanishing into the cellar door the instant the clock struck midnight.
Edward was not afraid.
He had long since stopped being afraid of her. In truth, he found comfort in the ritual. In all the years since the house had emptied—since voices, laughter, footsteps, and warmth had abandoned it—she had remained. She was the only presence that still acknowledged him. The only proof that he had not entirely slipped into nothing.
As the minute hand clicked toward ten-to-twelve, Edward leaned forward, anticipation stirring in his chest like an old ache.
The air sharpened.
Lavender bloomed.
Right on time, she appeared at the top of the stairs.
But tonight, she seemed different.
More vivid. More real.
Her hands clutched her throat as she descended, yet her movements slowed halfway down. Her mouth closed. The silent scream ceased. Slowly—deliberately—she turned her head.
For the first time in four decades, her gaze met his.
Edward’s breath caught.
There was no terror in her eyes now. Only a deep, unbearable pity.
He lifted his glass, forcing a smile.
“Happy New Year, my dear,” he whispered.
She reached out a shimmering hand toward him. When she spoke, her voice was no longer soundless—it was soft, melodic, and it resonated deep within his bones.
“Oh, you poor soul,” she said gently.
“You still don’t realize which one of us is the memory.”
The clock struck midnight.
The chimes rang out—and the world shifted.
Warmth rushed through the room like breath returning to frozen lungs. The peeling wallpaper smoothed into rich gold. Dust vanished. Light spilled from chandeliers that had not glowed in decades. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, layered with laughter and voices.
Edward looked down.
His hand was gone.
He looked at the chair.
It was empty.
He turned back just as the woman solidified before him—vibrant, alive, her gown whole and luminous. The front door burst open as guests poured in, cheeks flushed from the cold, raising glasses and calling out greetings. Music swelled. The house pulsed with life.
She stepped through the space where Edward believed he sat, laughing freely now, and crossed the room to throw her arms around a man waiting for her—her husband—his face alight with joy.
And then Edward understood.
All those years, the terror on her face had never been about her own death.
It was because every New Year’s Eve, at the stroke of midnight, she saw him—a grey, flickering shadow of a man sitting alone in her parlor, clinging to a world that had already let him go.
And this year, at last, she had learned the truth.
So had he.
* * * * * * * * * *
It is still dark outside—but not in a way that feels heavy or foreboding.
This is a companionable darkness, one that makes the wee cottage feel warmer, more intimate, as though the night itself has drawn closer for shelter. The single streetlamp at the corner spills its soft amber light across frost-laced branches and new snow, revealing a small, hushed world that seems content simply to exist.
The temperature is meant to fall all day. A proper winter’s New Year’s Eve.
I have never been much for this particular holiday. Not out of cynicism—just neutrality. I’ve always been more inclined to stay home, to let the evening belong to others. Leave the night to the amateurs, as the saying goes. And I often wonder what, exactly, we believe changes at the turning of a calendar page. Is time anything more than our attempt to place markings on eternity?
So I sit here early in the morning, coffee mug close at hand, listening to the Royal Philharmonic’s performance of the Warsaw Concerto. Music born of another dark chapter in history—written in a time when the world itself felt uncertain, fragile, and afraid. I find myself wondering whether our own era echoes that moment. Perhaps it does.
And then my thoughts soften and drift.
I remember something Dr. Wayne Dyer once said:
“Your sense of awe at all of the miracles you see around you allows you to think, see, and live more of these miraculous occurrences.”
It feels especially true this morning.
As a photographer, I often remind myself that it’s not what we look at—it’s what we see. Through a viewfinder, an ordinary streetlamp becomes a beacon. Frost becomes calligraphy. Snow becomes silence made visible. The mundane reveals its hidden life.
If that is possible with a photograph, why not with time itself?
Perhaps what unsettles us about endings and beginnings is not the passing of moments, but our reluctance to let them pass. Perhaps peace comes not from holding on, but from noticing—truly noticing—what is here now, and allowing it to be enough.
And so I begin this day—the quiet close of one year, with another just around the corner—not with resolution or celebration, but with attention. With warmth. With wonder.
Happy New Year.
~Wylddane
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