It was late November, just after Thanksgiving, when I drove out to Willow Creek to clear out my aunt's old farmhouse. She'd died in the spring, and her house had sat untouched through summer, the mail piling up, the grass growing wild. I found the backup drive in a shoebox under her bed, labeled in her handwriting: FOR LATER. What was on that drive—a series of photographs she'd taken over the last year of her life—showed me something I still can't explain. The pictures started normal: her garden, the barn, the church down the road. But as I scrolled deeper, the scenes shifted. The church appeared in every frame after a certain point, its windows dark, its door slightly ajar. And in the later photos, the door was open wider each time, until the final image showed nothing but blackness inside. I called the county assessor to ask about the church. They said it had burned down in 1987.