I first noticed it when I took a picture of my family—my wife, Susan, our daughter and son, Bethany and Cole. We were tired and sunburned from a day at the beach, but I insisted they group up so I could take a quick picture before we started the long drive back home. A memory that we could look back on later when things were dreary or we were more alone.

I didn’t notice anything wrong with the picture at the time. It wasn’t until we were getting ready for bed the next night that I saw it.

A smudge. A dark grey blob of nothing hovering next to Cole, almost like it was posing for the family picture too. I showed it to Susan, who just smiled and shrugged. It was still a good picture, she said.

The next day, Cole died getting off the school bus. The guy was driving drunk and completely ignored the bus’ stop sign and flashing lights. Cole was already gone by the time EMTs arrived.

It wasn’t until two days later, when I was looking through old pictures for the funeral home, that I noticed that beach picture. The smudge was still there, but it was different now. It had spread like a dark cloud over onto Cole, obscuring his features from view.

The next Tuesday, Bethany got stung by a bee. We didn’t know she was allergic, and she’d only gone outside to run. We hadn’t even expected her back yet when we got the call that an old woman had found her curled up on the sidewalk like a wilted leaf.

I checked the photo on the ride to the hospital. The smudge had taken her too.

Two weeks later, Susan disappeared. They haven’t found her, but the smudge had.

This afternoon I went back to the beach, maybe to remember them. I sat in the sand and was crying a bit when I noticed a family just down from me getting ready to take a picture. Without thinking I stood up and wandered over. The woman was standing with their small son and older daughter while the dad held the camera phone. I walked up to the family, waving at the man to let me take the picture so he could be with his family.

The father went ahead and took the picture. Glancing over at the mother and kids, my skin prickled as their eyes slid past me with no sign of sight or recognition. Wait, was that Susan and the kids?

Turning back to the father, I saw he’d lowered the phone now. I thought his grey eyes met mine for a moment, but then he turned away, ushering his new family up the sand dune and into their car. I yelled for them, but they didn’t seem to hear. I was too afraid to follow.

Instead, I stood there shaking, unseen and alone.