Resurrection Photo

A standalone spypunk story

☛ Leo Vaughn writes unusual fantasy for unusual people, rep’d by Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency. His novels are coming soon to a bookstore near you.

Deadwater Inn is a series of standalone short stories—basically Casablanca meets the Cold War in the multiverse. You can jump in anywhere without prior reading.

Come on, don’t be shy. The water’s cold and moody.

—

“I’m telling you, it was a job well done.” Montpelier’s voice was firm. “Short of freeing your wife from prison, this is the most I can do for you right now.”

Harlan nodded but didn’t look up. He fingered the gold ingot that the spymaster had laid on the bar as payment for his latest dirty work. It was a quiet night at the Deadwater Inn, drawing close on one o’clock, and the dining room was empty but for the American CIA agent, who leaned over the bar and studied Harlan with his cold little eyes.

Gold was excellent, yes. But Montpelier’s additional promise sounded too good to be true.

Harlan picked up the small, framed photo from the bar—the photo he’d taken down from the wall when Montpelier had explained the offer. Grime filled the crevices in the gilt frame. Between those four walls, Harlan’s infant daughter looked out, smiling in black and white with her eyes closed. She’d been a chubby girl. And having passed away six months ago, she would always remain in that state.

Montpelier’s offer sounded insane. He’d developed a contact in the city who could scan a person’s memories with some infernal device, then take a still photo and turn it into a living picture—whatever that meant.

Harlan turned the frame over and laid a firm hand on the velvet backing. “Thank you, Montpelier.” His words came out weak and husky. “I appreciate it. But it isn’t for me.”

The spymaster sighed, then took a long sip from his whisky. When he set his glass down, his face, always heavy with flesh, carried an even more ponderous weight of sorrow. “I understand. I’m sorry. But if you change your mind, here’s the woman’s card.” Montpelier pushed a stained scrap of cardstock across the bar.

§

Harlan wiped down the bar with a dish rag. Montpelier had gone to his room upstairs. The whole Inn slept, and the dim lights of the dining room seemed to grow darker by the minute. On nights such as these, Harlan could barely keep himself at his post. With no one to cover third shift on Wednesdays, the grueling vigil fell to him.

How easy it would be to leave the Inn—door unlocked, of course—for twenty minutes or an hour. Nothing was happening. No one would know.

He pulled the enchanter’s card out of his pocket and read it again. The place was down in Bay Towers, actually not far from the Deadwater neighborhood.

No. Impossible.

He stuffed the card back in his pocket, then scrubbed especially hard on a spot of gunk on the bar. He couldn’t do this without Nora. Yes, she’d taken herself out of the picture when she’d thrown herself into espionage work. No, that wasn’t his fault. But she should be here. She should have a say.

Or should he surprise her?

Should he prepare the most thoughtful gift imaginable for a grieving mother?

If she came home—when she came home—what would delight and devastate her more than this?

He was being selfish, then. He shook his head and tossed the rag in the dirty linen hamper. Of course she would love it. It was he, Harlan, who didn’t want to face it.

In which case, he had to do it.

§

After one last look around, he left a sign on the front desk in the dim lobby—Back in twenty minutes. That was an optimistic timeframe, but so what? All investment in his responsibilities here was slipping away. Just for the night, just for now. He would take up the staggering load again. He wasn’t abandoning his customers.

Anyway, Gabby Jack, his faithful brown tabby, slept on the front desk. He would hold down the fort.

In the dark, cluttered office beside the front desk, he pulled his overcoat and fedora off the rack. He belted the trench coat, tying himself up like a ransom prisoner, and swept out of the office before he could second-guess his decision.

Out on the porch of the Inn, the night air chilled his skin with an ever-present dampness. The building, like every edifice nearby, was built on a skeletal structure of iron beams that went down into the still water below. That water lapped against the strange, grass-green hills across the street—the hills that led to the interdimensional portal through which spies and travelers came to this world. Below the Inn, the effect of the portal rendered the water still as a pond, even though it was continuous with the bay far out under the distant reaches of the city. No tidal action could reach these waters. They were dead, and the entire neighborhood of Deadwater bore their name.

From the porch, Harlan descended the steps to the elevated and crumbling street that lay between the Inn and the green hills that leapt up on the other side. He went some ways down the pavement, then took a skeletal stair that descended from street level toward the still, gray waters under the city. Here, from catwalk to improvised bridge to flooded tunnel lit only with his flashlight, he made his way at last to the nearby streets of Bay Towers.

He emerged into a tunnel street with broken walls and ceiling and pavement. The sound of waves moaned below, and a little spray found its way up through the ruinous construction. Deadwater, this place was not.

He found the rotting, salt-stained door in a buckling stretch of wall. A single electric bulb illuminated a hand-painted sign overhead. Apothecary of Images. No appointment needed.

He knocked.

The door opened almost at once, and a gnarled little woman met him with a grin that swallowed her eyes. The next moment, some kind of recognition washed over her, and her face softened with empathy. “Oh, dear. You must be Harlan. Montpelier told me about you.”

He nodded, his throat too thick for words.

“Come in. I can help you.”

§

He lay for what must’ve been hours in the old dentist chair. The cracked vinyl cut into his legs, even through his slacks, but so what? He was here. The Apothecary of Images was working her magic.

She’d given him an iron crown for his head. It was heavy, the leather padding not quite adequate to provide comfort, but it hardly mattered. He felt nothing else as the scanner operated, but he relived it all—the whole lifetime he’d experienced in the eight months that young Caroline had lived. It must’ve been hours, days, years that he lay there, going through every moment of joy and agony again.

And what hurt more? Caroline’s chubby smile, or Nora’s joyful face? He’d lost them both.

§

Harlan’s heart skittered as he climbed the steps to the porch. The dim lights still shone out through the Inn’s windows. If he’d failed a customer, he would never forgive himself.

He pushed the front door open and glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner of the lobby.

An hour?

Impossible.

Only an hour had passed since he’d left the Inn. The memory capture had sent him spiraling into illusory time, perhaps, reliving everything in such vividness that his perception had diverged from objective reality.

He took a deep breath to still his wild heart and gazed around the lobby. No one waited for him at the front desk, though Gabby Jack still slept there. No sounds came from the open parlor doors to the dining room. He ducked his head in there. Indeed, no one sat at the bar demanding a drink.

He’d left his post, and nothing bad had happened.

Thank heavens.

He shuffled across the lobby and slipped into his nasty little office. His little pullchain lamp with the green shade still glowed on the desk. It was enough light by which to see a miracle.

He pulled the picture frame out of his pocket and bent over the desk, subjecting it to the illumination. The memories still played there like film clips. Caroline’s face bore no smile, and then, light of lights, her smile broke, and her little cheeks bunched up. The image shifted, and there was Nora, rocking Caroline gently in her arms. She gazed at the girl’s sleeping face, then looked up and grinned at Harlan.

Harlan circled his desk and sank into the ratty chair. He was getting hot in his overcoat and fedora, but these things could wait. He gazed into the little gilt frame and drank it all in.

§ § §

Text © 2026 by George Anderson. All rights reserved.

Banner artwork created by Bianca Yamakoshi. © 2026 by George Anderson.

No AI technology was used to write or edit this story. Likewise, no AI technology was used to generate or modify any visual content associated with this story. Read the No AI Statement for full details.