Tales from the Lab: The Darkroom

The Darkroom

When you picture a dark room, I imagine you think of one bathed in red light—prints slowly developing in trays of chemicals, negatives hanging from wires across the ceiling.

Ours wasn’t like that. It was, in the most literal sense, a dark room.

Set upstairs from the main lab, the windows had been bricked up and plastered over and the door sealed all the way round so not a speck of light could escape into it from the already dim corridor outside. This was where we stored spare equipment, chemicals, and rolls of photographic paper. When you needed to change a roll, you brought the empty magazine up here, grabbed a fresh one from its light-proof bag, and switched off the lights.

At home, when you flick off a light switch, your eyes begin to adjust—you start to make out shapes, outlines. But when you turned the light off in here, you entered a void.

It wasn’t so bad during the day, when the shop was open and you could hear voices downstairs or just about make out what song was playing on the radio. After hours, though, when all was quiet, it was something else entirely, a state of sensory deprivation.

This is when your mind plays tricks. Deprived of any real input, your eyes open but seeing nothing, it starts to fill in the blanks. I imagined all sorts of things. It was a period in my life when I was consuming a relentless stream of horror media: books, films, music, art. My brain had plenty to work with. I’d picture a thin, pale figure, standing perfectly still in the corner, its unseen eyes fixed on mine. Sometimes it would be perched up by the ceiling amongst the boxes of spare parts. The worst was the feeling that as I went to turn the light back on, a hand would grab mine in the dark before I got the chance. And although I knew it wasn’t real, I’d change the paper as quickly as possible; I’d worked in a number of labs over the years, especially during peak seasons, and had become adept at this—proud, even, of how quickly I could reload a magazine in total darkness.

Imagining things in the darkroom was one thing. Hearing them was another matter entirely.

It happened late one November. We were usually busiest in the run-up to Christmas, but that year the rush had come early. I was working late, after the shop had shut, trying to catch up on the day’s printing.

I enjoyed working in the evenings. The place was mine, I could play whatever music I liked, as loud as I wanted, and get through the work without interruption. The only thing I didn’t enjoy was having to go into the darkroom with no one else in the building. It felt silly, childish even, as I knew there was nothing to be afraid of. But the feeling of isolation was worst when I was completely alone.

The heart of the lab was four huge photographic printers, each spitting out hundreds of prints every few minutes. You could check the amount of paper left on the printer screen, and I’d find myself watching the roll shrink. I tried to hold off changing it, but often, I had no choice.

I’d talk myself down, tell myself it was fine, grab the empty magazine, and climb the stairs at a steady pace. I’d walk along the corridor, into the darkroom, and close the door behind me.

I’d grab the fresh roll, flick the catch on the magazine, toss the tail end of the old paper into the corner, and without hesitating flip the light switch.

A lot of our equipment was old and temperamental, and on this particular night I’d ended up with a magazine that had a faulty side latch. Normally it was straightforward, but this time it wouldn’t close. No matter how I fiddled with it, it just wouldn’t seal. If the magazine’s even slightly open, light will get in and ruin the paper, so I kept at it, distracted, focused, and so it took me a moment to realise there was another noise in the room, faint and repetitive, echoing my own movements.

I stopped at once and listened.

Nothing.

My stomach tightened, but I forced myself to continue. I was nearly done. Then it came again, louder this time. A scratching, scuttling sort of noise, coming from the corner where the discarded paper bags were piled up, waiting for someone to finally take them to the bin.

I told myself it was a mouse, unlikely, considering the largest creatures I’d ever seen in the lab were the silverfish who seemed to thrive among the stored paper. But it gave me enough courage to press on. Finally, with a sigh of relief, I got the latch shut.

Still crouched on the floor, I reached up behind me for the light switch and flicked it back on, just in time to see one of the empty paper bags shift slightly, as if someone had tossed it to the ground just moments ago.

That was enough for me and I rushed out of the room and down the stairs, the warm glow of fluorescent lights and the familiar sound of Radio 6 providing more comfort to me than they ever had.

In my haste to get away I’d banged the now full magazine against a wall as I went. We were often reprimanded for how rough we were with the magazines, sliding them across the linoleum floor when changing sizes. They were only plastic, after all. On this occasion, my carelessness caused the troublesome latch to spring open. Gripping the handle with one hand, I held it shut tight with the other, convincing myself it hadn’t been exposed. But really, I knew the roll was probably fogged.

Nevertheless, I put it back in the printer and started to run off a calibration print, something we did every time we changed rolls to make sure the colours on the prints were consistent.

I paced by the printer while the calibration sheet inched through the machine and when it finally came out, sure enough there was that familiar red glow, etched like a burn across one edge of the paper. It meant the roll was completely wasted but worse still, that I’d have to go back upstairs to the darkroom to change it yet again.

I thought about going home and leaving it till morning, when my fear would no doubt be alleviated by having a bit of company. But this job consisted of thousands of prints, and with orders already piling up for the morning, tomorrow would be a disaster if I didn’t get it sorted now. So I slid the mag out of the printer and headed back up.

I couldn’t even pretend to feign confidence as I ascended the stairs for a second time, but I pushed on regardless, fighting the urge to just drop the magazine and lock up for the night.

I’d left the light on in the darkroom in my haste to leave, so at least I didn’t have to step back into darkness. It was a small comfort, but it faded almost instantly as I stepped inside.

Something felt… wrong.

Nothing obvious, nothing I could point to, but the room wasn’t quite as I remembered leaving it. It might have been the way the paper bags lay, or the angle of the old slide mounter on the floor. Something had shifted. Only slightly, but enough to make me stop and check.

This time, the noise began as soon as I turned the light off, more confident now. It was a clear rustling, as if something was moving beneath the empty bags. My heart raced and I let out a low moan, but at least I had no problems with the latch this time and got it closed on my first attempt.

As soon as it clicked shut, the noise stopped and silence once more filled the room. I allowed myself a small sigh of relief and shifted round to turn the light back on again.

As I did, I got the overwhelming sense that I wasn’t alone in here. There was someone—or something—else in there with me. I couldn’t just reach up and press the switch this time. My hand crept upwards, inch by inch, as if moving through water, trembling towards it. I was more certain than ever it would be caught in someone else’s grip.

Nothing seized me.

But something dragged faintly across my skin as I reached the switch.

That was enough for me and I spun round, through the door and down the stairs, two steps at a time.

I should have called it a night, but you couldn’t just switch the machines off at the wall. There was a proper close-down procedure and, despite everything, I was diligent enough to make sure it was done correctly.

I still had the radio on, but kept the volume low, quiet enough that I’d hear if anything moved upstairs, but loud enough not to feel alone.

Shutdown seemed to take twice as long as usual. Finally, the screens went dark and I could switch everything off.

The light switch for the shop was placed right in the middle of the long room just inside the stairwell, and I risked a quick glance up the stairs as I prepared to turn off the lights. Nothing. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.

Seconds later, just as I pressed the light switch, I heard it, the unmistakable sound of the darkroom door opening and footsteps walking towards the corridor.

I didn’t hesitate, and bolted to the front door in the dark and out onto the street. I could see nothing untoward in the shop through the glass-fronted door. There was certainly no one inside, but this didn’t stop my hands trembling as I turned the key to lock up.

It was only later at the bus stop, reaching for my phone, that I noticed it: a smudged, red mark on my hand just like the fogged edge of a roll of paper. Right where I’d felt the touch.