The picture had shown up to Barry Pritchett's office on a Tuesday morning. It was in a manila envelope and written on the front was his name and the office's address. Barry didn't recognize the handwriting. When he asked Susan who'd dropped it off, she said that it was there when she'd opened up the building. Then she said that his appointment for two-thirty would be about five minutes late.

To be fair, Barry didn't know if there was a picture inside the manila envelope, he only suspected that it was. The contents didn't feel like paper, there wasn't much sway when he held the envelope. It also felt somewhat sturdy, much like a photograph. Barry turned it over in his hands, and for whatever reason, he ran his fingers along the print, as though doing so would link it to whoever sent it. He flipped it over, bent the metal brackets upward, moved the flap, and removed the photograph.

He recognizes everything in the photograph because his brain has refused to forget the image. He remembers every single little detail. How on that afternoon twenty years ago, the entire world seemed to be engulfed in an icy shade of blue. How the trees across the frozen lake had been leafless for what felt like an eternity. How just enough of the snow had melted to show some of the rocks and ground underneath. How the tall grass looked like a strange field of wheat. How the frozen lake cracked when little Jill Parker stepped onto it. There are nights when Barry Pritchett would wake in the middle of the night, and his aging joints would crack, and for whatever reason it sounded like the ice from that afternoon.

"It's a dare Jill, you have to do it," said Aaron Stevens.

There was a certain chill to Aaron's voice that Barry had found funny at the time. Looking back he remembered laughing at a lot of what Aaron Stevens had said, but he couldn't remember why, because Aaron never said anything funny. Jill Parker cautiously turned to look at them, her cheeks a rose red, and stained with what looked like tears.

"But," her voice was so soft, like that of a cartoon mouse. "But what if the ice cracks and I fall in?"

Aaron scoffed. "That only happens in the cartoons and the movies. Don't be a chicken. You have to do the dare." He lets the silence settle into her bones. "You have to do the dare."

A whimper escaped Jill's lips, and it seemed to hang over their heads as she walked over the frozen lake. It cracked, and it cracked, as she whimpered and whimpered. Barry remembered the lump that built in his throat, the words that beckoned for Jill to turn around that burned at the tip of his tongue. But he didn't say anything, not a single word. Then the ice gave way, and Jill Parker vanished in the blink of an eye. She didn't even have time to scream.

They swore not to say a word. Their story was that they hadn't seen Jill Parker at all and that she probably wandered onto the frozen lake by herself. Paula Parker, Jill's mother, had insisted that her daughter would never go onto the frozen lake by herself, and Barry thought that she was probably right. Search parties looked for Jill, for what felt like an eternity. Barry remembered seeing Paula walking through the snow, day in and day out looking for Jill.

"She's going to freeze to death," his dad would say, in a tone that was all too sad. "Poor woman is going to freeze to death."

The body of Jill Parker was never found. Barry and Aaron stuck to their stories until Barry moved away. Far, far, away. From Maine to California far.

So, where did this picture come from? How was it even a thing? The picture was shot as though it had been taken from either himself or Aaron, the positioning was perfect. But, neither of them had a camera, that's something that Barry is sure of. He blinks his eyes for the first time since seeing the photograph, and his veins run cold with the same icy chill from that afternoon. His mouth becomes Styrofoam dry, his throat as coarse as sandpaper. His mind tries to deny what he's seeing, but it's impossible to do so. He knows that the girl in the picture is Jill Parker. He recognizes the pink beanie and the pink jacket that was a bit too big for her. He can hear the cracking from the frozen lake.

"Barry. You're two-thirty is here,"

He doesn't hear Susan through his phone, not the first time or the second time. The lights click off in his office, and he's plunged into what feels like an eternal darkness. He can't see a thing around him, all he can see is the photograph of Jill before she died. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the opening and the closing of his office door. Then comes the cracking. The footsteps over the ice, and they get louder and louder, approaching his desk. Barry can feel the cold that swallows his office whole, can feel the gooseflesh as it consumes his skin. He can see the silhouette of Jill Parker standing on the other side of his desk. He can't make out a single feature, but he knows that it's her, he's sure of it. Hasn't been more sure of anything in his life.

He recognizes the beanie, and how it made the top of her head look like a cone. The stupid jacket that was too big for her. He tries to scream but he can't, it's so cold that he can't even move. He has no choice but to watch in frozen terror as the silhouette of Jill reaches out and grabs his forearm. Her touch is so cold, and it burns like fire more than anything else. It crawls up his body, slowly at first, and then it gains speed. It ripples throughout his body, and then there's nothing but darkness for Barry Pritchett.

His secretary, Susan, would find him fifteen minutes later. Frozen from head to toe, with a look of sheer terror etched across his face. He's still holding the photograph. Most of his friends and distant family would learn that he died of a heart attack at thirty-five, a bizarre death for someone his age with his health.

Because...how would one explain a man freezing to death in the middle of California during the summer?