Snapshot Finish will forever change the way you view the world

A gripping horror tale that will keep you up at night, and have you begging for more!

For centuries, mankind has tried to stop time, halt the aging process, and capture their finest memories with drawings, paintings, and eventually photographs. These brief glimpses into the past, windows to a parallel universe, hang beautifully in magnificent museums and on the walls of every home. However, there is something more that lies beneath the surface, something fearful about the subject’s eyes seems to follow us around the room. For one group of citizens in Riverside, California, they found out all too well what sinister force lay beneath.

   In 1958, Bernard Dinsley received a call from his friend in Tokyo. There was a camera for sale there and Bernie wanted it. But on the plane back home, Bernie discovered one of its many dark secrets. A flight attendant mysteriously vanished. Enlisting the aid of his friend, Reuben Taub, Bernie must discover the camera’s origin and ends up within the camera himself. Now, Bernie and Reuben must seek out the camera’s creator and destroy the evil force behind its power before they are trapped inside this dangerous, backward world forever!

   It was dreary and depressing on that particular evening. I remember it not only because it was the evening that I stumbled upon that wretched thing, which would make me the hollowed-out shell of a man that I am today; but it was also the night of a terrible storm. The worst storm I have ever witnessed.

   My name is Bernard Dinsley, but you can call me Bernie. All of my friends do. I am forty-two years old—at least I was on the night that I speak of, twenty-seven years ago.

   Today, my age doesn’t really matter. You can add up the figures and find my age to be somewhere in the ballpark of sixty-something years old. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters; and I’ll tell you why.

   The year was 1958, and I had taken two weeks off from my job at the First National Bank in Woodcrest, California. I was a janitor, and had no shame in my position.

   I left on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in April and headed home to cram a few items into my tiny blue suitcase, and then to the Ontario International airport.

   I am a collector of cameras, but not just any old camera. I certainly wouldn’t have purchased a cheap, junk of a camera at the local five and dime and placed it atop one of my many shelves that I keep them displayed on.

   No, I was a collector of the rarest and most beautiful cameras that I could afford. And on my salary from the bank, that wasn’t very much. Still, I saved all the money that I could to purchase at least two a year. This year, I had not bought any at all. But then again, it was only April.

   Through one of my pen-pals—a gentleman named Rueben Taub, who was an English tutor in Tokyo—I learned of one particular camera that I could add to my collection.

   It was not that old, a 1957 model; still I longed to have it. Rueben sent me a picture of it. While he had been visiting the shops outside the city, he happened upon this model. Immediately, he had thought of me.

   That brings us to the night in question, the dreary and depressing night in mid-April 1958. Rueben Taub was waiting for me at the airport in Toyama. He drove me thirty-six miles to Takayama where we checked into a hotel and dropped our things off in the room. As we headed out, I asked Rueben all about the camera that he had seen.

   Rueben said, “It looks like a storm is heading this way.”

   “I don’t care about that,” I said. “Can we go and get this camera now?”

   “We can if we hurry.”

   I looked to the sky; it was darkening by the minute, and the wind was growing dangerously fierce.

   “Are you sure you know where it’s at?” I asked him.

   He said, “Of course I do, Bernie, but that’s not the point. There’s a terrible storm coming. If we don’t head back to the hotel, we might be caught in it.”

   The wind whipped violently around us. As I strained to hear my friend, a taxi zipped behind me. The driver honked his horn and shouted angrily in Japanese.

   “I don’t want to go back!” I shouted at Rueben. “I want to find that camera, now where is it?”

   He stared at me for a moment, finally sighing heavily. He could see that I was determined to purchase it that very evening.

   “Follow me, I’ll show you,” he said, starting down the street and around a corner.

   He led me down a crowded side street and out to a wider, busier road. Halfway down the sidewalk, Rueben stopped outside a small shop with black, iron bars protecting a small, dusty window. The door was a crimson color, and the paint was badly peeling in several spots.

   There was a single word scrawled across the door, near the top. It looked as though the owner had been in a hurry to paint the letters, as they were slanted and sloppy.

   They read, Shashinya. Camera Shop.

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