Gallimoor Derry existed in squalor, decrepitude and depression. His apartment was small and ill-kept; the carpet and wallpaper were stained and worn, the furniture was in need of repair, trash and dirty clothing were strewn about...his surroundings mirrored his own appearance and emotional state.
Though his environment was embarrassingly shabby, Gallimoor was oblivious of all but a few things; the chair he now sat in, a small box on his lap and, about eight feet away, staring at him with its cold, glass eye, his digital camera supported by a tripod.
He wasn't always an empty husk of a man, of course; his current condition developed over the previous year or so, when he purchased his first digital SLR camera. At 22 years old, Gallimoor decided he'd like to be a photographer for a newspaper; even if he didn't make it, he'd still get to experience his main passion in life.
At first he took pictures of whatever he could, whenever he could, hundreds and hundreds of pictures, all of which wound up archived on CD's. His camera performed flawlessly, but the first inkling that something was wrong with it occurred a month or two later. There was a news report one day of a murder, but the location of the crime scene looked familiar. Gallimoor looked back through his photos until he found the relevant group and pulled up one particular image; it was the exact location of the crime, but his shot was from weeks before.
However, he now noticed something he hadn't before; the victim was indeed in his photo, off to the side and partially obscured, but was prone on the sidewalk, with the same gunshot wounds to the head and arm. When he took the picture, he didn't recall anybody even laying down on the ground resting, much less sprawled in a pool of blood. Somebody surely would have noticed.
Was the picture always like this? Did he just overlook it before, never mind how it happened in the first place. At the time he didn't know what to do, who to tell (or who would believe him), so he kept quiet, but he checked the camera LCD screen more often.
Over the next few months the bizarre nature of his camera manifested itself, but in slightly more palpable ways. Once, a photo of ducks in a pond showed one of them, alive at the time of the photo, dead and eaten by some predator. He went back to the nearby location shown in the image every day, until eventually, weeks later, he found the duck in its lifeless state, partially eaten.
His camera would occasionally predict the future demise of other animals, but one day, while photographing a stretch of highway, the LCD of his camera showed a horrific crash; he could make out at least one body, broken and torn, thrown clear.
He knew he had to warn someone. With no small amount of trepidation he went to the police who, predictably, didn't believe him, but also thought he had a sick sense of humor. Nevertheless, they took a report.
Two months later, those same police came knocking at his door, demanding to know what part he played in the day old wreck. Over the next several months Gallimoor was the prime suspect but was eventually cleared due to lack of evidence.
His health, mental as well as physical, had started to deteriorate. He stopped taking pictures of live things, but an elementary school showed up in the preview screen as a burned-out husk. That was when he started his withdrawal from society. He took fewer and fewer pictures, mostly random objects, certainly no more living things or habitations; he steadfastly refused to take photos of his family or friends. At least, the friends he had left.
Finally, a month ago, Gallimoor stopped communicating with the outside world. He didn't answer the door or phone (not that people tried to contact him very often), he went out only at night, and then just to buy junk food, he rarely bathed, he wore the same clothes for days at a time...he had become a shadow of his former self.
Now, an hour ago, he had taken a picture of himself using the remote shutter release, since dropped and forgotten on the floor. Staring at the lens, he came to a decision. He elected to not look at the image preview; he knew what it would show. Instead, Gallimoor opened the box on his lap, revealing a silver, short-barreled revolver...