1109 Blackthorn Lane

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I remember that day like I remember my name. It burned a permanent psychotic scar into my psyche...

Blackened teardrops oozed out the old wooden frame of the mirror like globs of tar. They fell onto the floor and began to sizzle like acid as the haunting reflection questioned my inner most logic that it wasn't real. But it was real. As real as the pulse in the vast, branching veins of my body. I couldn't look away. And for some reason I felt I knew why it was there...

Strange episodical activity interrupted my life once or twice a week. These occurrences started months after surviving and recovering from a plane crash in the Ozarks that claimed sixty-six lives and spared twelve. Ever since, I've seen things no one could ever imagine. They come in the form of fleeting hallucinations. It's like my eyes become movie projectors, producing strange images in random places. The mirror encounter was something new, it was different...

Brain injuries don't often fix themselves, sometimes they do. The intricate re-wiring of nerve connections isn't exact. Either way you're never quite the same person. I've come to realize that we are all on the same fixation of perception. However, when altered, this fixation can deviate from the norm, allowing you to experience things that aren't really there, or are they?

I stared into the hexagonal shaped mirror waiting for the image to disappear, it remained. It mimicked every expressive movement I made with my face. Am I staring at an alternate version of myself, I thought. The image was male, his skin was tinted yellow like he suffered from jaundice. His face was husky and bruised. His greasy black hair was cut short. His eyes had no pupils and were all white, they shined as if they were made from glass. He wore a black leather jacket with zippers and straps, like a rock star flaunting his stature. My comfort was challenged - I looked away for a moment only to return my fearful gaze a second later. He was still there.

The hair raising on my neck was simultaneously interpreted onto the image. I felt the fuzzy tingling of fear move to the top of my own head while I watched barbed wire sprouting from the unknown man's neck. The razor-sharp spikes made deep scratches in his skin as it spiraled, growing above his head. Suddenly, the mirror cracked right in the middle and spread to the outer edges. Shards of glass began to fall from it and shattered upon hitting the marble tile. The sound of them breaking was muffled with delayed echoes; it was surreal. I looked up at the mirror and could still see the haunting specter in the fragments that did not fall from the frame. Then, like a record playing backwards, I looked to the floor, the scattered pieces of glass began vibrating. As if on cue, they gathered back together and followed the same path up to the mirror, gaining speed the closer they got. The mirror was again complete.

I jumped out of my skin when I saw the frightening man much closer and larger this time. Our eyes became glued to each other and our chest movements from my heavy breathing matched.

I could feel an aching pit of dread growing in my stomach. He could also feel it and independently brought his hands to his abdomen while continuing his angry stare. He slowly started shaking his over-sized head, gesturing his dissatisfaction. Without warning he opened his mouth to the size of a grapefruit and emitted an earth-shattering scream while small spheres of thick tar flew out it like black vomit, coating his side of the mirror. I instantly turned and ran.

I made my way to my upstairs bedroom and slammed the door shut behind me, hoping I didn't wake my roommate. I slid down to the coarse Berber carpet with my back to the door trying to make sense of this new paranormal interaction. I never even cared for that mirror with a complex, gothic wooden frame. It was purchased at Aladin's Antiques across town and was given to me as a housewarming gift. The horrible image of the pale, hateful, face was the only thing I could think of.

A very long hour passed. I remained in the same cowering position that began to cramp my lower back. My only question was whether he would be there if I went back. I pulled my wits together and cautiously went to test the bathroom mirror to see if the disturbed soul would appear there. It did not.

I had to go back. I had to know more about this apparition and his purpose for revealing himself. I took short careful steps, noticing for the first time how creaky the floorboards were. The sound of them seemed magnified and cringed my ears with every slow stride. I stepped in front of the mirror, the image stepped in front with me. I could see him again, clearly; the tar was gone. Our movements were once again synchronized. My skin began to crawl from his evil presence.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I muttered, without confidence.

His scarred, chapped lips moved with mine, making him ask me the same questions I just asked him.

"This isn't funny! Get out of my head! Leave me be!"

Again, his lips followed mine. But then, something began to happen. He once again moved independent of me. The right side of his mouth snarled and twitched. In a slow baritone voice he began to speak,

"How can I get out of your head, when you are the one who put me there!"

I gasped and hunched my shoulders, ready to bolt again but wanted to see this through. I wasn't going to back down yet. Instead, I needed to know what he meant by what he said.

"What do you mean, I put you there?" I timidly asked.

He began a slow chuckle that erupted into a morbid laugh. Once it was over, he walked closer in the mirror, looked at me with a threatening stare and yelled,

"DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? DOES THE NAME ISAAC DEMARCO DO ANYTHING FOR YOU?"

My mouth dropped to the widest point ever. This was impossible! This was absolutely insane! How could he know who Isaac DeMarco was. No one knew who he was... except... me. Isaac DeMarco was a character in a horror novel I began writing before the accident. He was being manifested through the mirror.

I began shaking my head in disbelief.

"NO, NO, NO, this can't be. Isaac is only a character, he's not real!"

I took a few steps back as this frightened the daylights out of me.

"Not real? Ha! Then why does he stand before you, speaking through this mirror and trapped in limbo while you live in your dense, blood-flowing sanctuary. I WANT OUT! GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW!"

He began pounding on the mirror from his side which shook the house and caused a family portrait to crash to the ground. The pounding stopped and he spoke again.

"You never finished me! You gave me this delicious appetite for death only to cut me off. I was just about to enjoy strangling Mackenzie. I want to kill her so bad, but you left me here. I'll find a way out and I'm coming straight for you! You can't imagine the things I have planned for you and your sick and twisted existence! I will gut you like a rabbit then stuff you down the rabbit hole of your bane, contrived and insignificant self!"

OH MY GOD - my head was spinning. He was playing the part exactly as I wrote him. Ruthless, vile, unapologetic and motivated to kill. Isaac DeMarco was the serial killer in my novel Canopy of Death. I hadn't written one word in 2 years since the accident. I looked in the mirror again, afraid of my own creation.

"Look! I'm sorry, Isaac... I know what you crave, but it's not real. You are made up in my mind. Your purpose is to satisfy readers who seek the macabre. You don't exist! You don't exist!"

I was hoping to help him realize that he couldn't do anything without me. But then he started pounding on the mirror again.

"Wait, wait, wait! What can I do? What must I do to satisfy you?"

"You know what you have to do! Finish the book...Feed me! Feed my anger! Feed me or I will find a way into your world to feed myself!"

His words were serious. I didn't know if he could find his way into this world, and I didn't want to find out. I put my right hand out, gesturing for him to calm down and spoke,

"Okay, okay, I'll feed you. I'll finish it!"

The mirror cracked again but became whole a second later. Some other worldly force was containing him. How long would it contain him for, I didn't know.

I raced to the basement and searched through boxes of old writing projects that I hadn't unpacked since moving in that rented house with my best friend, Elbert. I was on my knees with papers strewn everywhere looking for it. The last box to go through was almost empty, then I saw it - Canopy Of Death by Brian Minshall. I reluctantly reached in the box and grabbed the 180-page unfinished draft, it felt colder than anything else I touched. I ran to my room, never looking at the mirror as I passed it. I shut the door behind me and sat at my desk.

It was 1:15 am, I was trembling from the encounter and could barely hold the pen still enough to write. I turned to the last page where I stopped and read the last sentence that I wrote. I began writing:

Mackenzie turns to run but Isaac's long reach yanks her to the ground by her white braided sweater. He pounces on top of her as she wiggles and screams. Bloody drool seeps out the corners of his mouth and dangles in the air until the streams brake off and land on her face. He begins laughing as he smears the red spit across her mouth. She takes this opportunity to plant her teeth in the flesh of his left hand, right below the index finger. He reacts by yanking his hand away, leaving a chunk of skin and flesh in her mouth. He holds the bleeding hand six inches above her face and watches as rapid drips of bloods begins covering her nose and mouth. He then draws his right hand all the way back and brings it down with force, slapping her with an open palm. Her screams are reduced to a whimper. Isaac begins looking around at the disarray of his living room. He laughs again when he sees something that catches his eye. He gets up from her and walks over to the base of his black leather couch where he grabs a dirty, white, cotton sock and begins wrapping it around the bleeding bite mark. Mackenzie scoots from the spot on the floor and finds refuge under the kitchen table. He laughs again at the sight of her scurrying further away from him. Killing has become his favorite game.

A vicious devilish mental case is one way to describe him. He was the living definition of a neurotic freak! He found delight in watching others suffer. No one really knew what caused his ravenous will to torment but it can be traced all the way back to 3rd grade where he stabbed his friend Cedric in the hand with a sharp pencil. It went all the way through the flesh and into the desk. Isaac was immediately expelled and had to attend another school.

His thirst for blood came when he turned 19. Him and another friend, Anthony J. Ramano went out for a night of drinking. Before the night was over, they began arguing over a wild and loose girl. They came to an understanding that neither one of them would pursue her. But on the silent drive home, Isaac's anger only festered. While speeding down a city street, he reached over from the passenger side of the car and yanked the gear shift in park, sending both of them through the windshield. Isaac survived, Anthony did not. Isaac had no remorse; the feeling of betrayal directed his actions. By the time he turned 30 he had brutally killed 5 people, all for no good reason. Now, at age 33 he couldn't stop himself; he began planning the murders. Mackenzie would be his tenth victim.

She keeps her eyes on him as he tucks the blood-stained sock so it would stay in place. He pushes obstacles out his way as he walks toward the dimly lit kitchen.

"Come here pretty girl...Come and die like you're supposed to!" he mockingly says while inching closer.

Mackenzie is exhausted. Her tears mix with blood and falls to the white shag rug below her. She doesn't want to die.

"What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this? I thought you were a nice guy. You're just a crazy fucking asshole!"

"You haven't seen crazy yet, my dear. Shut up and let's go to the basement to continue our date!"

He runs around the table, but she moves on all fours to stay facing him and away from him. He gets down on his knees and tries grabbing her. She quickly gets up and runs toward the front door, tripping over things in her desperate flight for freedom. He catches up and tackles her to the ground. Isaac uses brute strength flip her on her back and slaps her again. The crazed man then brings his face down to hers and begins licking his own blood off her mouth and neck as she cried for him to let her go. He ignores her pleas, lowers his head again and delivers a whisper to her ear,

"I'm going to keep my promise now. Don't worry, I'll attend your funeral."

Unexpectedly, Isaac begins to scream, not from pleasure but from pain. Mackenzie finds a soiled fork on the rug when she was under the table and uses it to stab him in the left eye. She then knees him in the groin and pushes him off of her. She runs to the side of his leather chair beside the couch where she saw a set of golf clubs earlier, the first one she grabs is a steel pitching wedge. She wastes no time returning to the sight of him agonizing in pain, not knowing how to remove the fork. She swings the club with as much force as her tired limbs could muster and connects with the back of his head. He falls forward. She hits him again, and again and again. She strikes him until she knows he's not getting back up. She falls to the floor on her back and screams with alleviated emotion...

*

Thirty minutes later, a blue medical blanket comforts her. She sits on the front steps of Isaac's home at 1109 Blackthorn Lane, while police continue to investigate the crime scene. She can't talk to them or anyone, not just yet. Red and blue flashes from the police car are the only lights showing her blank, comatose expression. Her nightmare is over... She would later be dubbed, 'Lady Ace' in the media from her use of the golf club as a weapon.

Isaac dies of his injuries, taking his malevolent behavior with him. The EMT's attempt to resuscitate him but a detective on the scene said not to bother, 'let the piece of shit die' was his exact words.

Only 4 people attends his pointless burial. Ironically, Mackenzie is one of them. Dressed in all black, she takes a dead flower out of her purse and spits on it. She throws it into his unfilled grave and walks away as the reverend says words diminishing the senseless assaults on the lives Isaac affected, and the ones he took away...

It was done...The deed was done. I took a deep breath and set the pen back down on the desk. I finished the story in a hurry. It was not the ending I had intended but I had to stop Isaac and prayed that it worked. The End, were the final two words I wrote, sealing the deal and hopefully putting this deranged character to an eternal sleep and out of my head.

I took the draft with me downstairs to the living room. Before I reached the mirror, I could see a red glow coming from it. I hesitantly stepped in front and saw red misty fog dissipating inside the reflection. As it cleared, I could see a large silver crucifix on top of the leather jacket Isaac wore. That image also dissipated.

I sighed with relief. I took the draft into the kitchen, opened the window and began burning page by page while reliving nightmarish moments of a figment wanting to be real.

As I burned the last page, I shut the window and set the smoldering garbage can out the back door. I heard a large crash come from the living room. My heart skipped a beat, and my stomach began to sink. The mirror had fallen to the floor and shattered... I looked down the hallway leading to the living room. Instantly my vision became warped. The hallway seemed to stretch into a long corridor, at the end of it was Elbert, staring at me with white glassy eyes. He was holding a knife by his side, wearing his own black leather jacket. He opened his mouth.

"I guess my will is stronger than yours."

It was Isaac's voice, I ran...

*

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Characters in stories take on a life of their own, creating images in the reader's mind to interpret an experience. They may not hold breath, but they are alive in the fascinating world of collective memory. - Ldubs