The girl in the photo on the wall blinked.

Steph took a step back, heart pounding, breath catching, the hair on her arms standing on end.

Had she really just seen that? Or were her eyes playing tricks? Was it the dim light in the bedroom?

The photo had been taken in Kent, right outside her great-grandmother’s house—a quaint little cottage perched on a hill facing the White Cliffs. The very cottage Steph was now standing in. Fishrow Cottage.

The girl in the photo? A teenager, no older than nineteen. The same age as Steph. Her grandmother Louise had the same complexion, nose, face shape, and hair colour… not that you could tell from the ageing black-and-white image.

Steph had never met Louise. On a mild summer night, Steph was born into the world just as her grandmother left it.

Stepping across the worn cord rug, Steph took a shaky breath and reached up, removing the frame from the rusty nail. She peered at the photo, shifting it side to side in the glinting light. No movement. Just an old photo. She must have imagined it.

Sighing, she rehung the frame and turned to survey the room. White walls, neat and clean, with dark antique furniture handmade by her great-grandfather Henry. The bed, though fitted with a modern mattress, was topped with a patchwork quilt and a white pillow. A small brown bear perched on top.

The air was stuffy. Steph remembered why she’d come into the room—to open the window. As she lifted the latch, a crash echoed from downstairs, followed by a muffled male voice.

She dashed down the stairs and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. A dark-haired man was cleaning up the remnants of a broken bowl.

Looking up, he smiled. “You must be Stephanie. Sorry—Max knocked a bowl off the side.” He nodded towards a small grey cat now perched on the windowsill.

Depositing the fragments into the bin, he stood and offered his hand. “I’m Elliott, the gardener of Fishrow.”

Steph smiled and shook his hand. “Please call me Steph. Steph Clough.” She glanced at Max. “I wondered where he’d got to. He ran out when I opened the door.”

Turning to the kettle, she filled it at the sink. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Elliott shook his head. “No, thank you. I came to see if you needed anything—and to give you the rest of the keys.” He pulled a bunch from his pocket and explained each one.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mum,” he added gently.

Steph’s eyes watered. Her beautiful mum had died two months ago after a heroic battle with cancer. All her possessions, including Fishrow Cottage, had been left to Steph in her will.

“Thank you,” she said softly, jumping slightly as the kettle whistled. “She was wonderful. I miss her… but she’s not in pain now.”

Elliott handed over the keys and headed into the garden. “I’ll give it a quick mow. Let me know when you want the flower beds tended. My number’s on the fridge.”

A loud meow caught her attention. Max rubbed against her legs, clearly hungry. She fed him, gave him a cuddle, and then stepped out into the sunshine to bring in her belongings from the car.

The afternoon flew by. Steph dusted every room. Though the cottage had a caretaker, no one had been in for a month, and a thin layer of dust coated everything. She vacuumed the living room, hallway, kitchen, stairs, and both upstairs bedrooms. The bathroom, with its deep claw-foot Victorian tub, offered a warm release after her busy day.

Later, sitting on the bed, she looked at the brown bear she’d placed on the dresser. It was old, loved—missing an ear, its fur worn thin. It had belonged to her mother. A pang of sadness hit her again.

“She loved you very much.”

Steph jumped, yelped, and slid to the floor. “Who… what… who said that?”

She looked around. Her eyes landed on the photo on the wall. The girl was no longer standing by the cottage door—but by the white picket fence, waving.

“Please don’t be alarmed, Stephanie. My name is Louise. I believe I’m your grandmother,” said the girl.

Steph stared, shocked. Panic surged. She scrambled to her feet, ran out of the room, and slammed the door behind her. Back pressed against the wood, hand over her mouth, she thought, This can’t be real. You’re seeing things. Grief is making you imagine things.

Her heart raced. Sweat beaded on her brow. She turned back to the door. She had to know. Was the girl in the photo really moving and talking?

She opened the door slowly. It banged against the dresser, making her jump. From the doorway, she couldn’t see the photo. She edged into the room.

The girl was still by the picket fence, hands folded, hair ruffled by a gentle breeze. They stared at each other—time suspended.

“Is this real? Are you real? What’s happening?” Steph whispered.

“Yes, this is real,” Louise replied. “You come from a line of very special women. We Clough women have specific, special powers.”

Steph edged closer.

“We are time travellers,” Louise continued. “We move through certain periods using gateways. This photo is a gateway to 1931—my time.”

Steph gulped. “I’m not mad, am I?” She pinched her arm. “I feel like I’m dreaming. I never met you, Louise. You died the day I was born.”

Despite the shock, Steph felt no immediate danger. She crossed the rug and stood before the photo. “Time travel? That’s not possible!”

She took the frame down and sat on the bed. The entire picture had come alive—bees buzzed, hedges swayed, clouds drifted.

“The first-born child of each Clough family can travel through time using gateways,” Louise explained. “Mine was a mirror. Would you like me to show you?”

Steph was intrigued. Her life had been ordinary. A good childhood, holidays, school, college, a flat in London, a job in fashion. She never knew her father. Her mother never spoke of him. Until her mum’s death, nothing extraordinary had ever happened.

She lifted the frame to her face. The air around it buzzed—warm, electric. She focused on the cottage window. Louise turned and looked through it.

Suddenly, Steph fell forward. Wind rushed past her. She felt weightless. Then—solid ground.

She blinked. She was inside the photo, standing where Louise had been. Turning, she expected the lane and hedges—but saw Louise’s feet and long dress. Louise stared down, hands trembling, then brought them up and touched her own face.

The photo lay on the floor, dropped during Steph’s fall.

Steph ran to the gate—but was stopped by an invisible force, like glass. “Louise! Louise! It worked!”

Louise smiled—but it wasn’t kind. It was a smirk.

“I can’t believe you fell for it,” she sneered. “We’re not time travellers. We’re witches. I cast a spell on this photo before I died. I get to switch places with someone of the same blood-line and live my life again.”

Steph was horrified. “Let me out! Why would you do this?”

Louise giggled. “I never had the life I wanted. I was married off to a man twice my age. My father gambled me away. I spent years in this cottage, lonely, with a child I didn’t want. You wonder why your mother never spoke of me? She hated me. I hated her. She was the seed of a man who ruined my life.”

Louise paced, eyes wild. “This photo was taken just before I was married. I was in love. We were going to New York. This is my chance to be happy.”

Steph tried to stay calm. “Can we switch back? Can I leave the frame?”

“You can only speak and move when I’m in the room. No one else will see or hear you. You’re just a photo now,” Louise said, rifling through drawers.

“You’ll live in the frame forever. There’s no way back.”

She undressed, put on Steph’s clothes. The resemblance was uncanny—except for her slightly higher voice.

Steph screamed, cried, pounded on the glass. She tore roses, smashed the picket fence, broke windows. She ran corner to corner, trying to escape.

Louise pulled a box from under the bed. “I’m not listening to that racket. Maybe a few years in isolation will help.”

She placed the photo inside, muffling Steph’s screams, and closed the lid.

Darkness engulfed Steph—mind, body, and soul.