I THINK OF IT as my home away from home – never mind that it happens to be inside my apartment. A converted walk-in closet, to be exact. Basically a shoe box.

I step in, close the door behind me, and take a long, deep, stress-releasing breath. Hello, darkness, my old friend.

After the creepy day I’ve had, it’s strange that a narrow, claustrophobic room with black corkboard walls, no windows, and a mere seven watts of light makes me feel at peace.

But that’s why I built this thing in the first place.

My darkroom.

My safe house.

Beyond the joy I derive from developing my own pictures -Call me old-fashioned; no, call me a purist – there’s that wonderful feeling in the darkroom of being able to shut out the rest of the world and all the problems that go with it. Problems – outside! Out!

Inside here, it’s strictly my photography and me.

Okay, let’s do this. Let’s get it over with. Let’s see what’s what.

I turn off my safelight and, in complete darkness, load the rolls of film onto developing reels. Everything is by touch, but I’ve done this so many times I don’t even have to think about it.

With each reel secured in a small processing tank, I’m able to turn the safelight back on. A faint red glow fills the room immediately.

Time for the soup.

One by one, the magic ingredients get added to each tank. Chemical developer followed by water mixed with a pinch of acetic acid followed by a fixer.

If only I could cook like I develop film.

Now comes my usual moment of trepidation, when my heart flutters for a beat or two. It happens with every roll, and it’s certainly happening with these.

As the negatives begin to harden, this is my first chance to see what I’ve got.

If anything, right?

I lean forward a bit and try to harness all seven watts of visibility in the room. The thought of having to relive that terrible scene at the hotel frame by frame makes me more than a little uneasy. But it’s nothing compared to the thought of the shots’ not being there at all.

In this case, I’ll gladly take the lesser of two evils. Scary reality beats no reality.

Through my squinting eyes, the images begin to appear. Shot after shot of the scene, just as I saw it. Just as it happened!

I straighten up and exhale. I didn’t expect to feel this crazily relieved and yet I do. So much so, I almost don’t see it.

There’s something strange about these pictures.

The day’s mystery continues, only it’s getting worse.

And I think that burning smell is back too.

I IMMEDIATELY PLUNGE the negatives into a holding bath of cold water. My nose practically takes a dip as I lean in for a closer look.

It’s hard to tell exactly what’s wrong with the shots, but something is. That burning smell has definitely returned. I look at my hands… no hives yet.

Amid the stark whites and recessed blacks of the film, there’s something going on – some type of effect taking place.

What, though?

I yank the negatives from the water and grab my magnifying loupe, pressing my eye tight against it.

I study one shot and then slide the loupe to the next. I do this quickly, anxiously, over and over. Study…slide… study…slide.

Finally, I think I see what’s happening. Or at least where it’s happening.

It’s the four body bags.

They look almost…transparent. Is that possible? It’s like I can both see the bags and almost see through them – not to what’s inside, but to what’s beyond.

Of course, the film itself is transparent, but this is different. Each body bag has this kind of lucent quality, not quite see-through while at the same time not entirely filled in.

Somewhere in between.

Weird.

Though explainable, right? My mind spins with the possible causes. Double exposure, sun glare off the metal frames of the gurneys, the body bag material itself. Within seconds, I have a host of somewhat logical explanations for what I see.

But no definitive answer, nothing that makes me feel the least bit better.

So, when in doubt, go big. That’s what I’m thinking as I dispense with a contact sheet and delve right into making an enlargement.

Scanning the shots again, I pull the one with the tightest angle for the most detail.

It takes a few seconds before I realize which one I’ve chosen. Figures!

It’s the last body bag that was wheeled out of the hotel, the one with the moving zipper and the – I don’t even want to think about it.

Besides, that was only in the dream. This is real. This is happening right now, before my eyes.

I fumble with the negative carrier before putting it in the enlarger. I make sure the emulsion side is facing down so as not to get a mirror image. The last thing I need is another glitch!

I work fast. Impatience is such a great motivator. So is fear. Before long I’m staring at an eight-by-ten enlargement of that last body bag. Everything’s bigger, all right.

The problem is, I’m no closer to figuring out what in God’s name is happening. The effect – the transparency – is unlike anything I’ve seen, and I’ve developed a whole lot of photographs in my life.

From the moment I awoke this morning until now, it’s been one big weirdness-palooza. And I hate paloozas!

I glance at my watch. Almost 7:30.Where did the time go?

I decide to make more enlargements. Maybe another shot will reveal something. What I’m really doing, though, is trying to keep my mind off, well, everything that’s happened so far today.

For a while it works. Then, after another hour, it gets the better of me. I leave the darkroom and begin pacing in my living room.

It’s too early for bed. Besides, I’m too wired to sleep. I need to get out of here!

And I know just where to go.

I STEP OUT of THE CAB in front of the Old Homestead Steak House in the heart of the meatpacking district. As if the location alone isn’t enough to scare off vegetarians, there’s a humongous cow over the entrance. Very subtle.

Who am I to talk?

If there’s a list of what never to do when you’re having an affair, I’m pretty sure crashing your lover’s business dinner is right up there at the top.

I walk into the restaurant and breeze by the maître d’ as if I know where I’m going. I don’t.

In front me there’s a crowded bar and an equally crowded lounge area, beyond which begins the crowded dining room. The way it’s laid out, I can see only the first few tables.

As I make my way to a better view, one thing becomes clear. With its dark wood paneling, leather club chairs, and portions that could choke the Lincoln Tunnel, this is definitely a place for guys. In fact, there are very few gals to be seen.

“May I help you?”

The voice startles me. I turn around to see the maître d’. So much for blowing right by him.

“I’m just looking for someone,” I say.

“Perhaps I can help you.”

“No, that’s okay.”

He glances down at what I’m wearing – a black Elie Tahari waistcoat over jeans and an Armani Exchange sweater. Stylish, perhaps, but not exactly “female executive” attire.

“Really, I insist,” he says.

I more than catch his drift. He’s not asking if he can help me, he’s telling me.

“In that case, his name is Michael Turnbull,” I say. “He comes here fairly often.”

“Yes, of course. Come this way; Mr. Turnbull’s seated in the back with his guests.”

I hesitate. “Actually, would you mind telling him that I’m here?”

“I see. And you are?”

Clearly not his wife.

“Kristin,” I say.

There’s an awkward silence between us.

“I’m his assistant,” I tack on. Immediately I regret it.