Have you ever looked at an old photograph and felt something wasn’t quite right? Today, we’re diving into one of the most unsettling photographic mysteries from 1909.

A simple family portrait [music] that has baffled historians and researchers for over a century.

What you’re about to hear might change the way you look at old photographs forever.

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The morning of March 15th, 2019, started like any other Tuesday for Margaret Holloway, a 67-year-old estate sale organizer from Portland, Maine.

She’d been in the business for nearly 30 years, sorting through the belongings of deceased families, cataloging items, and preparing them for sale.

She’d seen countless photo albums, dusty furniture, and forgotten trinkets.

Nothing surprised her anymore, or so she thought.

Margaret arrived at the old Victorian house on Elmwood Street at in the morning.

The property belonged to the late Elellanena Witmore, who had passed away at 94 without any living relatives.

The house had been in the Witmore family since it was built in 1887, and Elellanena had been the last surviving member of her lineage.

The lawyer handling the estate had hired Margaret to organize everything before the auction scheduled for the following month.

The house smelled of old wood and mothballs.

Dust particles danced in the pale morning light that filtered through yellowed lace curtains.

Margaret moved methodically through the rooms, making notes on her clipboard and taking photographs with her digital camera.

The second floor contained four bedrooms, each filled with furniture that hadn’t been moved in decades.

In the smallest bedroom, what appeared to have been a child’s room at some point, Margaret found an antique mahogany chest tucked beneath a window.

The chest was locked, but the key hung on a small nail driven into the wall beside it.

Inside she discovered carefully preserved family documents, birth certificates, marriage licenses, funeral programs, and several leatherbound photo albums.

Margaret carefully removed the albums and placed them on the nearby bed.

The leather covers were cracked with age, and the pages inside were brittle and yellowed.

She opened the first album and began documenting its contents.

Most of the photographs were typical for the era.

Stiff, formal portraits of unsmiling people in their Sunday best.

She recognized some faces from the family tree the lawyer had provided.

There was Elellanena’s grandfather, Thomas Witmore, standing beside what appeared to be his general store.

Several pages later, she found Thomas’s wedding portrait with his bride, Catherine.

Then Margaret turned to a page near the middle of the album and stopped, her breath caught in her throat.

The photograph showed three children, all appearing to be around 8 years old.

They stood in front of a painted backdrop, typical of photography studios from the early 1900s.

The image quality was remarkably good for its age.

The children’s faces were clear and detailed.

Two boys flanked a girl in the middle.

All three wore similar dark clothing and had solemn expressions as was customary for photographs of that era.

At the bottom of the photograph, written in faded ink, was a caption.

Thomas Jr., Elizabeth, and Samuel, spring 1909.

Margaret frowned and pulled out the family tree documentation from her bag.

According to the records, Thomas and Catherine Whitmore had only two children, Thomas Jr.

, born in 1901, and Elizabeth, born in 1903.

There was no mention of anyone named Samuel.

She examined the photograph more closely.

The three children were positioned at equal intervals, their bodies casting similar shadows on the studio backdrop.

They all wore the same type of shoes, high button boots, common in that period.

The girl, Elizabeth, stood in the center with a hand resting on what appeared to be a small table draped with fabric, a common prop in studio photography.

Thomas Jr.

stood to her left, his hands clasped behind his back.

The third child, identified as Samuel, stood to Elizabeth’s right in an identical pose to Thomas Jr.

But who was Samuel? And why wasn’t he documented in any of the family records? Margaret carefully photographed the image with her camera and continued through the album, hoping to find more pictures of the mysterious third child.

She found several other photographs of Thomas Jr.

and Elizabeth, some alone, some together, some with their parents, but Samuel appeared in only this one photograph.

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The discovery troubled Margaret enough that she decided to do something she rarely did.

She called the estate lawyer immediately instead of waiting to submit her full report.

James Thornton had been practicing law in Portland for 40 years and had handled dozens of estate cases.

When Margaret explained what she’d found, he initially dismissed it as a simple error in the family records.

Perhaps Samuel was a cousin visiting that day, [music] he suggested over the phone, or a neighbor’s child.

It was common for families to include friends in formal portraits.

But Margaret wasn’t convinced.

The caption clearly identified all three children by their relationship to the family.

Thomas Jr., Elizabeth and Samuel.

Not Samuel Miller or cousin Samuel, just Samuel, listed equally with the confirmed Witmore children.

I think you should come look at this yourself, Margaret insisted.

Thornton arrived at the house an hour later.

He was a tall, thin man with silver hair and wire rimmed glasses that constantly slid down his nose.

Margaret had laid out the photograph album on the dining room table along with all the family documentation she’d found in the chest.

Thornton examined everything carefully, cross-referencing dates and names.

He pulled out his own files, the comprehensive genealogical research he’d commissioned when Elellanena Witmore’s estate had first opened.

The research had been thorough, tracing the Witmore family back to their immigration from England in 1852.

Every birth, death, marriage, and significant event had been documented.

There was no Samuel Witmore born to Thomas and Catherine.

No third child at all.

This is peculiar, Thornton admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Could the photograph be mislabeled? Perhaps Samuel is the actual name of one of the boys and the family records have it wrong.

Margaret shook her head.

Look at the other photographs.

this boy here.

She pointed to a later picture of a young man in his 20s standing beside a Model T.

Ford.

The caption identifies him as Thomas Jr.

in 1923.

Same face, just older.

And this girl, she indicated another photograph of a young woman in a wedding dress is clearly Elizabeth at her wedding in 1925.

I can trace both of their faces through multiple photographs as they age, but Samuel appears only once in this single 1909 photograph.

James Thornton couldn’t let the mystery rest.

Over his four decades of legal practice, he’d developed a reputation for thoroughess that bordered on obsession.

His colleagues joked that he could find a typo in the Constitution.

This unexplained photograph represented exactly the kind of puzzle that consumed him.

The next morning, Thornton drove to the Portland Public Library, a grand stone building in the city’s historic district.

He’d spent countless hours in its local history section over the years, researching property disputes and inheritance cases.

The head librarian, Patricia Chen, knew him by name.

James.

She greeted him warmly when he approached her desk.

What brings you here today? Another estate case.

Something unusual, he replied, pulling out a photocopy he’d made of the 1909 photograph.

I need to find out everything I can about the Witmore family, particularly around 1908 to 1910.

Patricia studied the image with interest.

Three children? I thought the Witors only had two.

Exactly my problem.

For the next several hours, Thornton poured over old city directories, census records, and archived copies of the Portland Daily Press newspaper.

Patricia helped him navigate the library’s microfich collection, carefully threading the delicate film through the reader, while Thornton took notes.

The 1910 census conducted in April of that year listed the Witmore household as containing four people.

Thomas Whitmore, age 35, occupation listed as merchant.

Katherine Whitmore, age 32, occupation, housewife.

Thomas Whitmore, Jr., age nine.

And Elizabeth Whitmore, age 7.

No.

Samuel, no third child of any name.

Thornton then examined local newspaper archives from 1909.

He found several mentions of the Witmore family.

Thomas’s general store, Whitmore’s Dry Goods, regularly placed advertisements in the paper.

In July 1909, there was a brief social announcement noting that Mr.

and Mrs.

Thomas Whitmore and their two children enjoyed a holiday picnic at Pinepoint Beach.

Two children, always two children.

He found birth announcements for Thomas Jr.

in March 1901 and Elizabeth in November 1903.

[music] He searched exhaustively for any birth announcement for a Samuel Witmore.

Nothing.

Growing frustrated, Thornton decided to expand his search.

He looked for any Samuel born in Portland around 1901 who might have been connected to the Witmore family.

He found three, Samuel Morrison, Samuel Levy, and Samuel O’Brien.

None appeared to have any connection to the Witors.

Patricia suggested checking church records as many families in that era maintained closer ties with their religious communities than with government institutions.

Thornton spent the next two days visiting various churches in Portland, the first parish church where the Witors were known to attend St.

Luke’s Cathedral and several others.

He examined baptismal records, Sunday school rosters, and church directories.

The Whitmore children appeared in the first parish church records.

Thomas Jr.

was baptized there in 1901, Elizabeth in 1904.

But there was no record of a Samuel Whitmore ever being baptized, attending Sunday school or participating in any church activities.

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On the third day of his research, Thornton received an unexpected phone call.

It was Margaret Holay.

“James, I found something else,” she said, her voice tight with tension.

“I was going through some of Ellanena’s personal papers, letters mostly, and I found a diary entry from 1957.

Elellanena wrote about her father, Thomas Jr., disturbing.

What does it say? Can you come to the house? I’d rather show you in person.

Thornton arrived within the hour.

Margaret met him at the door holding a small leatherbound journal.

The cover was embossed with the initials EW.

Elellanena Witmore.

I almost didn’t read these, Margaret admitted as they sat in the parlor.

Diaries feel so private, even after someone has passed.

But something made me open this one.

Look at the entry from November 12th, 1957.

She handed the journal to Thornton, opened to a page marked with a slip of paper.

The handwriting was neat and controlled, written in fountain pen with dark blue ink.

Elellanena would have been 32 years old when she wrote this entry.

Thornton began to read aloud, “Father is dying.

[music] The doctors say he has perhaps a week, maybe less.

Mother asked me to sit with him this afternoon while she rested.

He drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, sometimes confused.

At one point, he opened his eyes and looked directly at me.

“Is Samuel here?” he asked.

I told him I didn’t know anyone named Samuel.

He became agitated trying to sit up.

Samuel, he kept saying, [music] “Where is Samuel? He was supposed to wait for me.

I tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t stop.

Finally, he said something that chilled me.

We shouldn’t have taken that photograph.

Mother said we shouldn’t, but father insisted.

He said he wanted all three of his children in one picture.

But there were only two of us.

Only ever two of us.

Then he closed his eyes and wouldn’t speak again.

Thornton looked up at Margaret.

What do you make of this? I don’t know, she said [music] quietly.

But it gets stranger.

Keep reading.

Thornton continued.

After father fell asleep, I went to mother’s room and asked her about Samuel.

She looked at me with the strangest expression.

Fear, I think.

Though I’d never seen mother afraid of anything.

She told me never to speak that name in her presence again.

She said there were some things that should remain buried with the past, and Samuel was one of them.

I pressed her for an explanation, but she refused to say anything more.

She’s kept that silence my entire life.

I’ve heard the name Samuel only twice.

Once from father’s lips as he lay dying, and once whispered by Aunt Elizabeth when she was very old and confused shortly before her own death.

She said, “Samuel is in the photograph, but we never speak of him.” When I asked what she meant, she seemed to wake from a dream and refused to acknowledge she’d said anything at all.

The entry ended there.

Thornton flipped through the rest of the diary, but Elellanena never mentioned Samuel again.

The remaining entries dealt with mundane daily activities, her work as a school teacher, and eventually her retirement.

This is extraordinary, Thornton said.

Thomas Jr.

clearly knew about Samuel, as did Elizabeth and their mother, Catherine, but they all refused to speak about him.

“Why?” “I’ve been thinking about that,” Margaret replied.

“What if something terrible happened? What if Samuel died and the family was so traumatized they tried to erase his memory?” “But there would be a death certificate, a burial record, something.

I’ve searched everything available.

Samuel Witmore simply doesn’t exist in any official documentation.

Yet, he appears in this photograph and clearly haunted the family for decades.

Thornton photographed the diary entry with his phone and carefully returned the journal to Margaret.

As he drove home that evening, his mind raced with possibilities.

Could the photograph have been doctorred? Photographic manipulation existed even in 1909, though it was far less sophisticated than modern techniques.

But why would anyone add a fake child to a family portrait? That night, unable to sleep, Thornton did something he rarely allowed himself to do.

He dove into internet rabbit holes, searching for similar cases of mysterious figures appearing in old photographs.

He found countless examples.

The supposed ghost children in Victorian death portraits, the famous brown lady of Rainom Hall, various time travelers allegedly spotted in historical images.

But most of these could be easily explained by photographic quirks, double exposures, or simple misidentification.

The Samuel photograph seemed different.

The image quality was too clear, the child too solid and present.

He didn’t appear translucent or out of place.

He stood exactly like his supposed siblings, wearing appropriate period clothing, casting a normal shadow.

Everything about the photograph suggested three real children posed together in 1909, except one of those children couldn’t possibly have existed.

Thornton decided his next step should be identifying the photography studio where the 1909 portrait was [music] taken.

Most professional photographers of that era stamped or embossed their names on the backs of photographs.

He called Margaret and asked her to check the original image.

There’s something here.

She reported after examining the photograph carefully.

It’s very faint, but I can make out embossed letters W.

Harrison, fine photography, Portland, Maine.

Thornton’s pulse quickened.

He immediately began researching W.

Harrison.

The city directory from 1909 listed a Walter Harrison operating a photography studio on Congress Street in what was then Portland’s commercial district.

The building still stood, though it now housed a coffee shop on the ground floor and apartments above.

Through property records, Thornton traced the building’s ownership history.

Walter Harrison had operated his photography business there from 1895 until 1914 when he closed the studio and moved to Boston.

From there, the trail went cold.

Thornton could find no death record for Walter Harrison in Maine, Massachusetts, or any surrounding state.

The man seemed to have vanished after leaving Portland.

However, Thornton did find something interesting.

Walter Harrison had a grandson still living in Massachusetts.

After some dedicated searching through genealogical databases and social media, [music] he located Marcus Harrison, aged 71, living in a retirement community outside Boston.

Thornton called the number listed for Marcus Harrison, expecting voicemail.

Instead, a clear, strong voice answered on the second ring.

Harrison residence.

[music] Mr.

Harrison, my name is James Thornton.

I’m an attorney in Portland, Maine, and I’m researching your grandfather’s photography business.

Do you have a few minutes to talk? There was a pause.

My grandfather’s business that closed over a hundred years ago.

Why would you be interested in that? Thornton explained about the Witmore photograph and the mystery of the third child.

He heard Marcus Harrison’s breathing change over the phone.

“I need to see this photograph,” Marcus said finally.

“Can you email it to me?” Thornton sent the image immediately.

5 minutes later, his phone rang again.

“Mr.

Thornton, I think we need to [music] meet in person.

Can you come to Boston?” Two days later, Thornton found himself sitting in Marcus Harrison’s small apartment in a retirement community in Lexington, Massachusetts.

Marcus was a tall, thin man with white hair and sharp blue eyes behind thick glasses.

The walls of his apartment were covered with framed photographs, some old, some new, spanning multiple generations.

My grandfather rarely spoke about his Portland studio.

Marcus began pouring coffee for them both.

By the time I knew him, he was very old, and his memory was failing.

But there was one story he told me several times, always with the same strange intensity.

He said it was the only secret he’d kept in his entire life, and it haunted him.

Marcus walked to a bookshelf and pulled down a small wooden box.

Inside were old photographs, documents, and a handwritten letter yellowed with age.

Before my grandfather died in 1962, he gave me this box.

He told me never to open it until after his death.

Inside, I found this letter.

I was only 18 at the time, and honestly, I thought he’d been scenile when he wrote it.

But over the years, I’ve come to believe he was trying to tell the truth about something that tormented him.

He handed the letter to Thornton.

It was dated May 3rd, 1961, written in shaky handwriting that nevertheless remained legible.

Thornton began to read.

To whoever reads this after I am gone, I am 92 years old and will not live much longer.

The doctors give me perhaps a few months.

Before I die, I must confess something that has weighed on my conscience for 52 years.

In the spring of 1909, I committed an act that I have never understood and have never been able to explain.

I tell this story now not for forgiveness, but so that others might be warned.

On April 15th, 1909, Thomas Witmore came to my photography studio with his wife, Catherine, and their two children, Thomas Jr.

and Elizabeth.

He wanted a portrait of the children together.

This was a common request, and I prepared my studio accordingly.

I positioned the children in front of my painted backdrop, arranged the lighting, and prepared my camera.

But as I looked through the lens to focus the image, I saw three children instead of two.

There was a third boy standing to the right of the Witmore girl.

I looked up from the camera and there were only two children.

I looked back through the lens and I saw three.

I thought perhaps my equipment was malfunctioning or that I was suffering from eye strain.

I cleaned the lens, adjusted the camera, checked everything.

But each time I looked through the viewfinder, I saw three children.

The Witmore parents seemed to notice nothing unusual.

They stood behind me watching their two children pose for the photograph.

I didn’t know what to say or do.

How could I explain that my camera was showing me something that wasn’t there? They would think me mad or incompetent.

So, I took the photograph as if nothing was wrong.

I exposed the plate, developed it that evening, and printed the image the next day.

Three children appeared in the photograph.

Three children that I had seen through my lens, but not with my naked eyes.

I nearly destroyed the image.

I should have destroyed it.

Instead, I delivered it to the Witmore family along with a note explaining that there had been a technical anomaly with the plate and asking if they wanted me to take another photograph free of charge.

Thomas Witmore returned to my studio 2 days later.

He was alone and his face was white with either fury or fear.

I couldn’t tell which.

He threw the photograph on my counter and demanded to know what kind of trick I was playing.

I swore to him that I had done nothing, that I had simply photographed his children, as he requested.

He told me that he had only two children, not three, and that if I ever spoke about this photograph to anyone, he would ruin my business and my reputation.

Then he took the photograph and left.

I never saw him again.

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Thornton looked up from the letter.

Your grandfather saw the third child through his camera before the photograph was even taken.

Marcus nodded.

That’s what disturbed me most when I first read this.

It wasn’t a dark room error or a double exposure.

He saw Samuel through the camera lens in real time.

While Thomas and Catherine Whitmore could see only their two children standing there.

Did your grandfather have any theories about what he’d seen.

He explored every possibility he could think of, Marcus replied.

In the box there’s correspondence between my grandfather and various scholars and researchers in the years following the incident.

He wrote to scientists, psychologists, even clergymen.

Most never responded.

Those who did generally dismissed his story as a hallucination or a hoax.

Marcus pulled several letters from the box.

Thornton saw responses from a professor at Harvard, a physician in New York, and a Presbyterian minister.

All were polite but skeptical.

There’s one more thing, Marcus said.

In 1913, my grandfather closed his Portland studio quite suddenly.

According to family stories, he was successful and had no financial reason to leave.

But in the box there’s a diary entry from October 1913 that explains why he left.

He handed Thornton a small journal opened to a marked page.

The entry was brief but disturbing.

He came to me again today.

The boy Samuel.

I was in my studio working on a portrait of the Morrison family.

I looked through my camera to check the focus and there he was standing in the corner of the room watching me.

the same boy from the Witmore photograph, unchanged, as if four years had not passed.

I looked up and he was gone.

I looked back through the camera and he appeared again.

I cannot continue this work.

I cannot look through a camera lens ever again, knowing what I might see.

Tomorrow I will begin making arrangements to close the studio.

I will leave Portland and never work as a photographer again.

Some doors once opened cannot be closed.

Some sights once seen cannot be unseen.

Thornton felt a chill run down his spine.

Did your grandfather ever take photographs again? Never, Marcus confirmed.

He worked as a bookkeeper in Boston for the rest of his working life.

He wouldn’t even pose for family photographs.

My mother told me he would leave the room whenever anyone brought out a camera.

What do you believe happened, Mr.

Harrison? After all these years, after reading your grandfather’s account, what do you think Samuel was? Marcus was quiet for a long moment, staring at the photograph Thornton had brought.

Finally, he spoke.

I don’t know.

Neither did my grandfather, but I’ll tell you what he wrote in his final diary entry the day before he died.

I found the journal after his death tucked under his pillow.

He retrieved one last item from the box.

A small worn diary with a black cover.

He opened it to the final page and read aloud.

I have spent 53 years trying to forget what I saw, but I remember every detail as if it were yesterday.

Three children in the photograph, two in the room.

a boy who appeared only through the lens of my camera, as if that particular piece of glass could see into some place the human eye could not.

I have come to believe that photography captures more than the visible world.

Perhaps the camera sees truth that we are meant not to see.

Perhaps Samuel was always there, standing beside his siblings, present in some way that only the camera could prove.

I am afraid of what this means.

I am afraid of how many other invisible presences might exist around us, unseen and unknown, until a camera lens reveals them.

I’m glad I will not live much longer.

I’m glad I will never have to look through a camera again.

Thornton returned to Portland with photocopies of Walter Harrison’s letters and diary entries, his mind churning with questions that seemed to multiply rather than diminish.

He’d started this investigation expecting to find a simple explanation.

A misidentified cousin, a clerical error, perhaps even a family secret about an adopted child or an illegitimate birth.

What he’d found instead was far stranger and far more unsettling.

Back in his office, Thornton spread out everything he’d gathered.

The original 1909 photograph, Elellanena’s diary entry, Walter Harrison’s confession, and census records.

He’d been practicing law long enough to know that every puzzle had a solution, every mystery had an answer.

But this case seemed to defy logical explanation.

He decided to take one more approach.

He would try to find any descendants of Thomas Jr.

or Elizabeth who might be willing to share family stories.

Through genealogical research, he discovered that Thomas Jr.

had died in 1957 without children.

Elizabeth, however, had married and had three daughters.

One of those daughters, Claraara Mitchell, was still alive at 88 years old, living in a nursing home in South Portland.

With Margaret Holloway’s help, Thornton arranged to visit Claraara.

The nursing home was a pleasant facility overlooking Casco Bay with wide windows and cheerful decor.

Claraara sat in the sunroom, a small woman with white hair and bright alert eyes.

Despite her age, her mind was sharp.

“You want to talk about my grandmother’s family?” she asked when Thornton introduced himself.

“That’s unusual.

Most people don’t care much about dead relatives they never knew.” “Thorn explained about the estate sale and the photograph.” When he showed Claraara the image of three children, her expression changed.

The color drained from her face and her hands trembled slightly as she held the photograph.

I’ve never seen this picture before, she said quietly.

But I’ve heard about it my whole life.

What did you hear? Claraara was silent for a long moment, staring at the three faces in the photograph.

Finally, she spoke.

My mother.

That’s Elizabeth in the picture.

She told me once when she was very old and sick that there was a photograph her parents tried to destroy.

A photograph that showed something that shouldn’t exist.

She said her father tried to burn it, but it wouldn’t catch fire.

Her mother tried to tear it up, but it wouldn’t tear.

Finally, they locked it away and agreed never to speak of it again.

Did your mother ever tell you who Samuel was? She said Samuel was her brother, her third sibling, even though there were only two children in the family.

She said he was there in every memory she had of her childhood, playing with her and Thomas Jr., sitting at the dinner table, sleeping in the room next door.

But he was only there in her memories.

In the real world, there had only ever been two children.

She said it was like remembering a dream so vividly that you couldn’t separate it from reality.

Thornton leaned forward.

Do you believe that’s possible? To have memories of someone who never existed? Claraara smiled sadly.

Mister Thornton, I’m 88 years old.

I’ve lived long enough to know that the world is stranger than we like to admit.

My mother was not a fanciful person.

She was practical, rational, and honest.

If she said she remembered a brother who didn’t exist, I believe she was telling the truth as she understood it.

Whether that truth makes sense to us is another matter entirely.

Did she have any theories about the photograph? She said the photograph proved that Samuel was real even if he existed in a way that didn’t follow normal rules.

She said some things exist in the spaces between what we can prove and what we can dismiss.

Samuel was in those spaces.

The camera somehow captured him when nothing else could.

Claraara handed the photograph back to Thornton.

My mother made me promise never to look for this photograph.

She said, “Some mysteries are mercy, not cruelty, because not knowing protects us from truths we’re not equipped to understand.

But here you are with the photograph.

And here I am seeing it.

And I’ll tell you something.

Now that I’ve seen it, I believe my mother completely.

That boy, Samuel, he looks just like my uncle Thomas Jr.

, the same eyes, the same expression.

He’s real in a way I can’t explain, but can’t deny.

Over the following weeks, Thornton compiled everything he’d learned into a comprehensive report for the estate file.

He documented the photograph, the missing child who appeared in no records, Walter Harrison’s testimony, and the family’s strange silence about Samuel.

He included Elellanena’s diary entry and Claraara Mitchell’s account, but he concluded the report with an admission that went against every legal instinct he possessed.

After extensive investigation, I can find no satisfactory explanation for the presence of the third child in the 1909 photograph.

All evidence suggests this child did not exist in any documented sense, yet appears unmistakably in the image.

This matter remains unresolved.

Margaret Holloway eventually completed her organization of Elellanena’s estate.

The house and its contents sold at auction.

The 1909 photograph along with the other family albums was purchased by a local historical society that specializes in preserving Portland’s past.

Thornton arranged for all of his research to be included with the donation so that future researchers might continue investigating the mystery.

He visited the historical society 3 months after the donation to see how they displayed the photograph.

It hung in a climate controlled case accompanied by a small placard that read Whitmore family portrait