Candyman: Mirror Image

Gosh I can’t wait for class to be over. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love Urban Myth, but I didn’t get an ounce of sleep making content last night for my tik tok. “Greta?” Mr. Robinson called out to me as I was dozing off. “How can I help you Mr. Robinson?” I reply very smugly. “Well Greta dear I wanted your professional take on the legend of Daniel Robitaille?” He asks.

Of course Jennifer and Monique get a good laugh from seeing me slip up, but nevertheless I’m ready for the smoke. “Well personally, Mr. Robinson, I think it’s all bullshit.” My reply instantly garners a bunch of sneers, jeers, and critically sarcastic laughs. “Daniel Robitaille was real, Ms. Chambers.”

“I know that, Kreskin.” I reply sarcastically. I know he can’t stand me being a bitch to him, but hey, it was well warranted today. “I just don’t believe in the urban legend. I mean, yeah we’ve all heard the stories before. You say his name in the mirror five times and he pops up behind you with bees crawling on his face and a hook in his bloody stump of what used to be his right hand.”

Judging from the smug smile on Mr. Robinson’s face and the skeptical side talk from all my classmates I think everyone finds my lack of belief very amusing. “Well how do you explain all the murders blamed on the Candyman? Most of which carry a similar pattern if you research the stories, Ms. Chambers.” Now I’m sitting back in my chair so I can address him properly, or at least my she-douche variation of proper anyway.

“Well, my good sir, that’s just fanaticism. People committing sick crimes that their sick ass brains find amusing and blaming it on the world of imagination. Besides, if the Candyman is real, what’s his motivation behind his killing? Revenge? Bloodlust? Or dare I suggest…notoriety?”

Suddenly the class goes silent as if my questions struck a serious chord. Even the normally animated Mr. Robinson is now asserting seriousness. “You make a good point, Greta.” What? Did douche-bag just compliment me? “Though all of your suggestions sound typical of the average killer, the last one is the one you should think about, Greta…notoriety.” “So you think if the Candyman is real that he’s killing for notoriety?.” I ask seriously.

“I mean, think about it.” Mr. Robinson begins. “Every time a murder happens in his name it becomes all the rave. It’s talk about in every friend group, graffiti on every wall, the top story of every news station. Maybe it’s what the Candyman wants, to simply be known.”

“Well that’s a dumb reason to kill, wouldn’t you say?” I ask smugly. “Well we kill ourselves like that on a daily basis, don’t we?” Mr. Robinson asks me directly. “What do you mean by that?” I ask inquisitively. “You are content creator aren’t you?” Mr. Robinson begins rhetorically.

“Don’t you post content for notoriety and exposure regularly on social media? Maybe the way you feel about doing that is how Candyman feels about what he’s doing.” I pause briefly. “So you’re saying Candyman is like me?” I ask sarcastically. “No, maybe you’re just like him. Perhaps he’s your mirror image.” Mr. Robinson concludes as the bell rings for class to end.

So it’s now 8pm and I’m just getting home from night class. Feels good to be honest so I can stream some content, but Mr. Robinson’s words strike a note with me. Is he right? Am I an attention whore, the possible mirror image of the Candyman just because I’m a well paid content creator on social media? What am I saying? I don’t even believe in this crap. Although something does feel uncertain in my gut.

I’m looking at the bathroom mirror while sitting on my bed and the opportunity is just too tempting. I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna call the Candyman and when he doesn’t show up because he doesn’t exist it’ll prove we’re nothing alike. So now I’m standing in front of the mirror, here it goes. “Candyman…Candyman…Candyman…Candyman…” I take brief pause of unintended caution before I say it a final time. “Candyman.” Now I exhale in relief. See? Nothing.

Now I can start my livestre- wait a minute. I can hear something. It’s the buzzing of bees. It’s getting louder. No…not even close. It can’t be. That’s what I’m trying to tell myself as the buzzing gets louder. Now I’m trying to run out of my room door, but the door has forced itself locked. “How do I get out-” before I can finish my question to the self I turn around and there is a tall handsome man surrounded by bees wearing a large brown coat that makes him look like royalty. Last but certainly not least on his attire is a hook jammed in the bloody stump of what used to be his right hand.

It’s the Candyman. The stories are all true and as I realize this I become light headed and weak at the knees. As I fall to my knees my eyes get heavy as he slowly walks closer to me. “Greta.” He starts in a low and deep scary tone of voice. “I am the writing on the wall…the whisper among your friends…death gives me life and the gift of death which I will grant to you will give you the life you always wanted.” He picked me up and coddled me in his warm lifeless arms and with his left arm around my arms, I felt the cold metal of a hook tear through my back and twist itself inside me.

At first I feel a rupture of agony that gradually fades as I slowly fall to the floor in a pool of my own blood. I feel myself fading out. Mr. Robinson was right. Candyman is my mirror image.