Spirit Photography, a trend that is unsettling.

As Basil Hallward's brushstrokes brought my portrait to life, I never imagined craving eternal youth and beauty. Yet, a whispered wish escaped my lips: 'If only I could remain forever young, and the portrait bears the weight of time!' Little did I know, fate would grant this twisted desire...

Celebration turned to macabre curiosity – I pondered the 'Spirit Photography' craze sweeping London. What if my wish extended to photographs as well? Would spectral forms haunt my likeness, as they might be Basil’s painted masterpiece? My heart, once entwined with Sybil Vane's, now froze at the mere thought of her spirit lingering nearby. Lord Henry, Basil, and Lady Agatha indulged in spiritualism – but I dared not join them, fearing Sybil's ghostly presence, seeking revenge from beyond. I hear chilling voices, as I close my eyes.

 Low haunting hunting voices. Sybil's spirit seeks revenge because... I let her die.

My vanity and obsession with youth blinded me to her suffering – she took her own life after I ended our engagement, crushed by my cruelty.

The shadows grow longer. I shudder as I recall the nonexistent letter, a pure fabrication of my mind. Its words etched in my memory like acid: "'My love, your beauty was my curse – it blinded you. In your eyes, I saw only perfection, in mine, only flaws. Farewell, Dorian – may your beauty someday be your prison.”

Romantic farewell – how deliciously dramatic, I thought.

Sybil's last words are poetry. My beauty has inspired her to art even in death.

Her voice drips with sarcasm in my head, but I sense a hint of fascination behind her tone.

The handwriting trembled – hers, on her deathbed. No! She would never write these words. She adored me. I was her Prince.

I made a wicked choice. ‘Bravo, Dorian – you've truly mastered cruelty.’ I reflect. ‘Your beauty is a weapon, and Sybil was merely its tragic victim.’ I must admit, I'm intrigued by my artistry in destroying lives. My anguish consumes me. I crumple.

My voice is ice as I respond.

"Enough!” Your wit is as dull as your soul. Sybil's words cut deeper than any knife or sarcasm ever could. My eyes narrow, in shame.

For months after discovering my wish had been granted through Basil's enchanted painting, I avoided mirrors like pestilence – photography was utterly forbidden, lest my true, corrupted self be revealed to the world.

Spirit photography became a rave by William Mumler then an American jewelry engraver and amateur photographer and his wife Anna, at Mrs. Stuart’s 258 Washington street in Boston Massachusetts. William, a genius of darkness, invented spirit photography – a tool of deceit and devilry! His Boston studio became a Mecca for the deluded, including Lady Agatha and Lord Henry, whose morbid fascination with the dead nauseates me.

In 1862, Mumler unveiled his masterpiece: a photograph of his cousin's spirit, deceased 12 years prior. The Victorian world swooned – relatives of Civil War fallen clamored for glimpses of their beloved dead, ignorant of Mumler's clever trickery. Due to this, Mumler began his successful business as a "Spirit Photographic Medium".  The Victorian World took this revelation by storm. Many relatives of the deceased from the American Civil war, were ecstatic by such fallacy which made Mumler very successful at his craft which claimed to connect the supernatural world with the now living.

I fear Mumler's cameras might capture my darkest secret. The portrait Basil painted seems to reflect my soul – what if photography reveals my true, corrupted form? That I remain youthful while my portrait ages, decaying like my morality. A chilling thought. My eyes gleam with morbid curiosity as I whisper; ‘Let us commission Mumler to photograph your portrait, Dorian.’ I suspect his camera might capture more than just my beauty – perhaps the shadow of my soul, or even Sybil's vengeful spirit lurking beside me.

A haunting thought. My voice barely above whispers, "Could Mumler's photography destroy my eternal youth?” The thought torments me. What if his camera captures not just my image, but the curse itself – exposing my pact with darkness to the world?

I explore these thoughts with chilling laughter, "How deliciously ironic – you fear.”

In 1869, William Mumler faced trial for fraud yet emerged acquitted despite damning evidence – Harper's Weekly exposed his 'spirits' as mere trickery. Skeptics launched a scathing campaign to destroy his reputation, but Mumler's empire prospered onward, fueled by desperate believers convinced of an afterlife.

He and Anna preyed upon Mary Todd Lincoln's grief, selling her photographs with purported spirits of President Lincoln and their deceased son. In 1872 these macabre photographs sparked both fascination and horror across America. Mary Lincoln's haunting image with Abe's purported spirit sold thousands of copies, while William Lloyd Garrison's ghostly portrait with his deceased daughter cemented.

In England, the Spirit photography scam continued in 1872; as photographer Fredrick Hudson impresses the public with his talent until he crumbled in a similar fate as Mumler did in the United States. In 1875, Edouard Buquet, a French spirit photographer in London, was arrested in Paris brought to justice in allegations of fraud as he made a full confession, confessing to fraud after duping London's elite.

In later years, precisely in 1891, a famous spirit photograph was taken by Sybell Corbet at the Combermere Abbey Library in Cheshire, England. When Corbet, was taking photographs of the room, the same day and time that Lord Combermere was being buried; the outline of a man's head, collar and right arm appeared in the photo, which was believed to be the ghost of Lord Combermere. My eyes widen as I whisper: "This photograph fascinates me because...it eerily resembles the dark secret I've hidden for so long – my own portrait, painted by Basil, seems to capture my soul, just as this photo allegedly captures Lord Combermere's spirit. Does this mean my portrait could be evidence of my own 'eternal return' – or my eternal damnation? Could this photograph be proof my soul is forever trapped, between youth and decay, beauty and corruption – damned to haunt my own portrait like Lord Combermere haunts that chair?

My face turns deathly pale as I whisper to myself. These thoughts suggest I've seen my own ghost...absurdity! I've noticed strange things too – Basil’s portrait's eyes seem to follow me, and I've heard whispers in the attic... whispers of my name. Fascinating – I do think my portrait holds my soul captive. I do now believe that my beauty is a prison. Now I wonder, is my soul the inmate or the jailer? What if I summon my own spirit to look back at me from the canvas? The thought sends shivers down my spine. I imagine standing before my portrait, eyes locking onto my ghostly double – will it reveal my darkest secrets or curse me forever?

As you can see friends, Spirit photography scam or truth frightens me to my core. I have enough fears hidden upstairs in my locked room, then to fancy such absurdity.