The Gilded Looking Glass: Chapter One

If anyone had ever been brave enough to venture inside Number 138, they would have found every single room empty. Not one piece of furniture, nor a solitary pot or pan. No lamps, and no lightbulbs in the ceiling fixtures. Odd, as one may recall reports of lights seen in windows from time to time. A particularly courageous person, upon entering the house, may have moved from room to vacant room, leaving a trail of footprints in the dust behind them. They would perhaps be apprehensive at first, but as no bogeyman appeared, they may have felt rather silly for believing in a quiet old town’s superstitions about an obviously abandoned house. A completely fearless person, having taken stock of the unoccupied dwelling, may have even elected to test their mettle by going upstairs, into the untidy attic at the top of the untidy house. If they had (though no one residing on Steven Street ever did), they would have been met with the sight of the strangest assortment of clutter they had ever seen.

They likely wouldn’t see the mirror, not at first anyway. It was large, true enough, but it was also covered and tucked away in the corner. Many, many other mementos lay between the entrance of the attic and the mirror; it would take any normal person quite some time to notice it.

Before venturing deeply into the room, one must be careful to avoid the spinning top lying abandoned in the center of the entryway. If spun, instead of slowing down with time, the top would gather momentum, even going so far as to spin up onto the wall. If left alone for a sufficient amount of time, the top would spin powerfully enough to create a tornado. Perhaps one may recall the Tri-State Tornado in the U.S., 1925. Ideally, given the circumstances, the theoretical snoop invading Number 138 would simply abstain from touching the spinning top at all.

Supposing the hypothetical bold person investigating the mystery of Number 138 was of average height, their attention would likely first be caught by one of the aforementioned music boxes. There were three of them in a cluster together on the floor, each open and facing each other, looking overall as if someone positioned them intentionally just so. One was a deep turquoise, another a striking shade of violet, and the third a rich burgundy color. All three were embossed with gold in remarkable patterns, swirls and whorls twisting up and around the sides. In the lid of each box sat a gemstone, all genuine. The turquoise housed an opal, the violet a ruby, and in the center of the lid of the burgundy music box sat a sizeable diamond. All three of the music boxes were empty, except for the dancer in the center. If someone leaned down to look more closely in the music boxes, or even picked one of them up to see more clearly, they probably would have noticed that the oddest thing about the music boxes was not the gems, but the figurines inside. The figure inside of the turquoise box resembled that of a woman, intricately dressed in the stately clothes specific to those worn by England’s nobility in the 1500s. Her face was extremely detailed, revealing her to appear to be a likeness of a woman in her mid-forties or so, with a few streaks of brown in her otherwise chestnut hair. The inhabitant of the violet box, in contrast, was a shirtless man sporting a brightly colored turban. He wore billowing white pants that cinched at the ankles to reveal that his tiny golden shoes turned up at the toes. The third figure, in the burgundy music box, was shorter than the other two. He looked to be a young boy, wearing a school uniform. If observed closely, his grey pants would seem a bit mussed, his black shoes slightly scuffed. The green and white checked tie was slightly off center, and his jumper even had a school logo on it, though it would be impossible for the human eye to make out what the name of the school was.

All three figures, though wildly different in appearance, had one thing in common, seen easily enough for anyone who was paying close enough attention: all of their facial expressions were the same, a combination of profound grief and unmistakable fear. All in all, quite disturbing for music box figures that were meant to spin to the sound of a familiar tune. If an explorer was intrepid and clever enough to wind all three music boxes and let them play in unison, they might hear a song eerily similar to that described by Mrs. Filburn. If they happened to watch the figurines while they spun slowly, round and round again, they might even notice tiny crystalline teardrops falling from their melancholy eyes.

Supposing a person made their way past the trio of music boxes, they may come directly to the rack of ornate dresses. Though moth-eaten in some places, little could detract from the lavishness of the fabric, or the elaborate beading and lacework. They varied in style, some seeming to be in fashion with medieval European trends, and some more modern, but all were clearly fit for royalty. If one was to look closely at the sleeves or bodices of any of the gowns, they would perhaps notice dark brownish splatters, ranging in size from tiny droplets to far larger stains. They would perhaps not recognize it as blood, at least not right away. If someone who had made it this far into the attic had a desire to feel the fabric between their fingers, perhaps running their hands inside of the sleeves to feel the quality, they might notice that they suddenly feel rather strange. Presently, they may fall to the ground, choking on the foam that has so quickly appeared in their mouth. Unfortunately, if a curious wanderer made such a choice, their progress in the attic would be rather rapidly halted.

Just behind the dresses, for let’s assume that the supposed explorer elected not to touch the dresses whatsoever, sat an extremely tall lamp. The body was a thin column of gold reaching almost to the ceiling, where it curved back down and ended in a crystal lamp cover in a similar shape to a bell. Gold and silver ingots dotted the lamp cover asymmetrically, catching the early afternoon light. Though the lamp was not plugged in, if someone were to hit the switch once, a bright, yellowish white light would fill the room, though the room would peculiarly seem darker at the same time. One would probably be reminded of moonlight. If someone were to click the switch again, golden radiance would burst all throughout the attic, as dazzling as the sun on a cloudless day. And if someone were to press the switch a third time, pinpricks of white light would be seen all throughout the room, on the walls, ceiling, even inexplicably in the middle of the air, and the rest of the room would be plunged into the inky black of the night sky.

As the daring individual picked their way past the lamp, supposing they ignored the seemingly mundane tchotchkes that littered the floor haphazardly, they would come to an imposing painting, unframed, propped against the wall. The painting featured a wide expanse of ocean, beautifully depicted in all the colors one may imagine the sea to be. The sky above the ocean was grey and cloudy, the waves turbulent, seemingly in motion despite the immobility of the painting. A single hand stretches up from the depths of the ocean in the bottom right corner of the painting, clutching a sea shell. Now, the seashell was odd because it was the only element of the painting that was three dimensional. If someone looking at the painting had decided to try and pick up the shell, they would have been able to. If they had held it just right, they would have found the room rapidly filling up with water pouring from the upturned seashell. It is doubtful that they would have been able to make the outpouring of water stop, but stranger things have happened.

Assuming someone had survived their illicit trip to the attic thus far, they would come at last to the mirror. They would have to remove the white sheet from it first, but faced with such a large, covered object what sane person would refrain from checking underneath the sheet? They would probably need to tug quite a few times before the fabric would give way, releasing a cloud of billowing dust.

The sheet would ripple to the ground as smooth as water, puddling to the ground and revealing a thickly golden-edged mirror, taller than a colossal man. The golden frame of the mirror held a richly painted portrait, depicting scenes up and all around the mirrors frame. What one saw varied, and depended on a lot of different factors. Presently, one might see a brutal battle scene complete with beheaded corpses and disfigured soldiers. If one had looked last Tuesday morning, they would have seen a ladies luncheon.

As for the mirror itself, the glass as still as a frozen pond, it is best to say little. There are stories best saved for another time. At present, it is enough to know that a hand slowly reaches from within the mirror itself and into the air of the untidy attic, at the top of an untidy house, at the end of a pristine street.