I’m a wedding photographer. Twenty-three years old, based in Manchester, and I’ve shot maybe thirty weddings in the past two years. You see everything in this job—drunk uncles, crying bridesmaids, grooms who look like they might bolt. But what happened at the Ashworth Estate last September? That’s different. That’s the kind of thing that makes you want to find a new career.
The venue was this old manor house in the Cotswolds, all stone walls and ivy, the kind of place that looks gorgeous in photos but feels a bit cold inside. Emma and James were the couple—nice people, early thirties, totally normal. The reception was in the grand ballroom, high ceilings with these massive chandeliers. Beautiful, obviously. But something felt off from the moment I started setting up.
I mean, old buildings always have a vibe, you know? But this was different. The air felt heavy. I kept getting this prickling sensation on the back of my neck, like someone was watching me. I brushed it off. Professional hazard, basically. You spend enough time looking through a lens, sometimes you forget to trust what you see with your own eyes.
The ceremony went fine. I took the standard shots—bride walking down the aisle, exchange of rings, the first kiss. It was during the reception that things got weird.
I was reviewing some photos on my camera’s display screen when I noticed her. In the background of a shot I’d taken during the couple’s first dance, there was a woman I didn’t recognize. She was standing near the back wall, wearing this vintage wedding dress—lace sleeves, high collar, the works. The dress looked old-fashioned, like something from the seventies maybe. The thing is, I hadn’t seen her during the actual moment I’d taken the photo. And I’m trained to notice people in the background. It’s literally my job.
“Maybe I just missed her,” I muttered to myself.
But then I checked another photo. The cake cutting. There she was again, same dress, standing by the doorway this time. Further back in the shot of the bouquet toss. Always in the background. Always perfectly still while everyone around her was moving, laughing, celebrating.
My hands started shaking as I scrolled through the images. Every single group photo. Every candid shot. She was there. Always watching.
I found Emma during a break between dances. “Hey, this might sound strange, but do you know who this woman is?” I showed her the photos on my camera display.
Emma leaned in, squinting at the screen. Her face went pale. “I don’t… I’ve never seen her before. James!” She called her new husband over. “Do you recognize this woman?”
James looked. Frowned. “No clue. Maybe she’s with the venue staff?”
“In a wedding dress?” I said.
We started asking around. The maid of honor didn’t know her. The best man had no idea. Emma’s mother insisted she’d checked the guest list personally—everyone who RSVP’d was accounted for. The woman in the vintage dress wasn’t on it.
“This is crazy,” Emma said, her voice tight. “How is she in every photo if no one’s seen her?”
I should have stopped there. I should have just deleted the photos and moved on. But I didn’t.
The venue coordinator, an older woman named Mrs. Hartley, had been managing events at Ashworth Estate for fifteen years. When I showed her the photos, all the color drained from her face.
“Oh god,” she whispered. “Not again.”
“Not again?” My heart was pounding now. “What do you mean?”
Mrs. Hartley led us to a small office off the main hall. She pulled out a leather-bound album from a filing cabinet with hands that trembled slightly. “This is from 1973,” she said, opening it. “The Ashworth family used to own this estate. Their daughter, Catherine, was married here.”
She turned to a page that made my stomach drop.
There she was. The woman from my photos. Same face. Same dress. The image was a formal wedding portrait, black and white, slightly faded. Catherine Ashworth stood beside her groom, smiling, beautiful.
“She died that night,” Mrs. Hartley continued quietly. “During the reception. Heart attack, completely unexpected. She was only twenty-four. The family sold the estate a few years later. Couldn’t bear to stay.”
Emma grabbed my arm. “Are you saying that’s a ghost? In our wedding photos?”
“I’m saying,” Mrs. Hartley said carefully, “that you’re not the first couple to report seeing a woman in vintage wedding attire in photographs taken here. It always happens in the ballroom.”
I felt sick. I looked at my camera like it was something toxic.
James laughed nervously. “Come on, this is ridiculous. There’s got to be an explanation. Double exposure or—”
“I shoot digital,” I interrupted. “There’s no double exposure.”
The rest of the reception passed in a blur. I kept taking photos because that’s what I was being paid to do, but I didn’t look at them. Didn’t want to. Emma and James cut the evening short, making excuses about being tired.
It was close to midnight when I finally packed up my equipment. The ballroom was empty now, chairs pushed back, confetti scattered across the floor. I was heading toward the exit when my camera, hanging around my neck, suddenly powered on by itself. The shutter clicked once. Twice. Three times.
I grabbed it, fumbling with the controls, but it kept firing. Click. Click. Click.
Then it stopped.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely navigate the menu to check the photos it had just taken. Three shots. All of the empty ballroom.
Except in the third one, she was there. Catherine. Standing directly in front of me, maybe ten feet away, facing the camera. Her eyes—god, her eyes—were staring straight into the lens. Straight at me.
I ran. I literally dropped my camera bag and ran, leaving behind about three thousand pounds worth of equipment. I didn’t stop until I was in my car with the doors locked.
I went back the next morning, obviously. In daylight. With the venue coordinator. My gear was right where I’d left it, untouched. The camera was off. When I checked it, that third photo was gone. Just gone, like it had never existed.
I delivered the wedding photos to Emma and James two weeks later. I’d edited out every single appearance of Catherine that I could find. Cropped her out, cloned over her, whatever it took. I didn’t tell them. I didn’t want them to have to live with those images.
But here’s the thing that still keeps me up at night. I couldn’t get her out of all of them. In a few shots, if you look really carefully at the reflections in the windows, in the polished surface of the champagne glasses, in the mirrors along the walls—she’s still there. Watching. Waiting.
I’ve never shot another wedding at Ashworth Estate. They’ve asked. I’ve said no.
To this day, I still check the backgrounds of every photo I take. Still jump when my camera powers on unexpectedly. Still wonder if Catherine is standing somewhere behind me, in a place I can’t see but my lens can.
Some images, once captured, never really leave you.
