A Victorian Mirror

Part I

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I jumped damn near out of my skin! I fell over the old wooden chair that once held its former tenant in front if this old Victorian style mirror. This old chair would not survive another bump like the one I just gave it, but it will hold for now. Why the chair seemed to matter at all while madness flashed in the reflection might be me holding on to a thin strand of sanity. We will get back to this part of the story.

There is plenty that I do not know, but there are some things I do know. The house has been vacant for quite some time. The mirror, the old Victorian mirror, holds a secret. In fact, holds many secrets. The house was once owned by one of the most affluent and respected families in the Diamond District neighborhood. The Doo’s were prosperous throughout the 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s, as the City of Oakland really established its roots and culture during those decades. The family was well known but quiet and kept to themselves. Still, everyone in the Diamond District and surrounding neighborhoods knew who the Doo’s were.

Theodor Doo or Ted as his few friends and business associates called him, own several manufacturing companies in Oakland and San Leandro. He was the son of Franklin Doo. Franklin was the owner of the house in the Diamond District. But had sold this home when Ted was still young. Ted’s primary business was manufacturing pencils. Ted’s wife Linda was a stay-at-home mom and far more popular than her successful husband. While they lived a quiet life, Linda was an active member in the PTA at her kid’s school and would often volunteer to help others less fortunate than the Doo’s.

The Doo’s had two lovely and friendly children. Billy had fire red hair that hung thickly around his face and had bright freckles that seemed to grow brighter whenever he stayed more than 15 minutes in the sun. His face was already handsome, and you could see that his smile would charm many girls out of their skirts when he got a bit older. The elder Doo was Amy, also a red head with her hanging past her shoulders. Her hair was thick, wavy, and tossed to the side which accentuated her elegant face. She had her mother’s grace and her father’s gift of making people want to do whatever was asked of them.

Amy seemed destined to do great things, what those things might be was the enthralling part of life where you learn what your path might be, however, destiny would take Amy to a world that only boasted of darkness. She was only 2 years older than Billy, but when Billy died, a part of Amy died too. She would never quite recover, but she would fight to find out the truth about Billy.

The legend of Billy Doo started on a beautiful day in Oakland. The mild weather, the bright sun, the adventures that lay ahead in that damn creek was the perfect recipe for such an event. Billy had friends, plenty of buddies that happily trekked the creeks in Oakland. But today was his own. He wanted to explore the creek by himself, a great adventure awaits him. He knew he would find mystery and the dangers that can only happen when your strike out on your own. Unfortunately, he found it in an old Victorian mirror that someone had decided to throw onto the bank of the creek.

The creek was running slow this warm day. Another year of drought in the 70’s meant exploring the creek was not very hazardous when it comes to water depth. The creek bed was shallow and a young agile boy of 12 could easily navigate the creek. As Billy made his way through the creek, from one rock to the next, they seemed perfectly placed to lead Billy into wilder areas of the creek where there were thick brush, weeds, and small trees. Watch out for the poison oak, Billy thought as he pushed through some of the lusher areas of the creek. Then, something reflected a bright light into his eyes.

Billy squints his eyes to adjust to the sunlight and to adjust his sight to the bright object. It looks like a silver or metallic object jutting from the ground. He moves carefully through the brush to get a closer look. It is not silver nor metallic, it looks like a mirror! An old mirror like the type of mirror that hung from his grandma’s hallway in her house.

Why would a mirror this nice be thrown into the bushes in a creek? Billy’s mind was turning, looking for reasons why a mirror would be discarded here? Yet, an eerie feeling began fill in his throat. A feeling that came from the gut that told him something was wrong. Horribly wrong. The mirror was out of place and so was he. He would turn to run, ever fiber in his mind and heart were screaming to GET OUT!

A whisper. A whisper comes from the mirror. Yes, a whisper. “Billy”, the voice sounds slimy. “I have something magical for you Billy. Something you have never seen before. It’s a magical place here. Wonderfully magical!”.

Billy hesitates, he thinks to himself that this must be some kind of trick. Despite the warning bells going off in his stomach and the alarm in his head, he positions himself over the mirror to get a look at himself. It takes his eyes a second to adjust from the brightness of the day. Then his eyes regain their focus, he looks into the mirror, he begins to scream.

Part II

The legend of Billy Doo is well known in the city of Oakland. If you ask anyone who was born and raised in the Town, they will tell you a version or experience with Billy Doo. From firsthand experience, as someone who was born and raised in the Town, I have heard many variations of Billy Doo and the atrocities associated with this entity. This portion of the story is told through my lens and personal experience.

At the ripe age of 55 and speaking with an old friend called Weasel, he was all too familiar with the stories and shared his own recent encounter at Sausal Creek that runs through Diamond Park. Diamond Park is a gem of a park that sits in the Fruitvale District. The park is decent sized and has basketball courts, a pool, a spacious park, hiking trails, barbeque areas, and is a family favorite.

Weasel has this unique voice and cadence that fits his time spent in prison, but he is a good guy and a great friend. We have known each other over 40 years. We are sitting at a bench table in Lodi, California at a beautiful winery called Jesse’s Grove. We are drinking a great red wine on a warm Saturday afternoon with family and friends, and we turn to the stories of Billy Doo. Weasel has a dark complexion and has good skin that does not show the wear the way some guys do who have spent significant time in prison. He looks at me and his eyes widen, at first, I think it’s just for dramatic effect, but then I see there is seriousness in his look, and he looks spooked. He tells his story and says, “Jude, I shit you not. Me and my lady were parked at Diamond Park chilling and having a drink. You know, just shaking off the day and watching the sun go down. Then I looked over and saw some white dude hunched over something and it looked like it was eating something! I swear I think it was a racoon and it was bent over, eating this damn thing!”

I sit up a little straighter and readjust myself on the bench. Our friends and family are having a great time and I can hear the conversations and laughs all around me, but the only thing I see clearly is the bead of sweat forming on Weasel’s brow and it feels like his voice is shaking at bit. He must of saw my expression because he seemed stressed and started wringing his hands as he continued his story.

“Jude, I swear to God. I know it was Billy Doo. It seemed like he sensed me and my woman staring at him, and he stood up slowly like he wanted us to see how tall he was! Blood! He was at least seven feet tall, skinny and white as hell. But I couldn’t see the details of his face. Like it was blurred or something Blood! I swear! Then it took two long ass steps, moving like he was made of rubber or something, then jumped right into the creek!”

I have no reason to believe he lied or embellished his story. His lady was sitting right next to him and throughout she was just nodding her head in acknowledgement. Like, yes indeed, we saw a monster.

After Weasel’s story, I steered the conversation back to our younger days when we were wild, and fun was our priority. We laughed, we reminisced, we had serious talk about how we made it out of the streets of Oakland, and we talked about our appreciation of our brotherhood. But throughout, I could not get the image of Billy Doo standing up, featureless, taking two bounding steps to the creek. Not to escape out of fear of being seen, but to make it known that he was seen and wants this story to be told. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Some from the wine, but most from the thought of Billy Doo.

Part III

Amy and I became friends due a mutual passion. A passion to find and destroy Billy Doo. We met at the library down the street from Diamond Park. By blind luck we happened to be sitting at the same table in the library, Amy reading old newspaper articles and me clicking away on my laptop. I noticed her beauty but try not look too often or too hard at her with that fiery red hair. There was no denying she was gorgeous, I guessed her age around my own, 40 at the time but she could have been much younger. She was actually 43 with the only giveaway signs of her age the frown lines which seemed to form far too easily and a patch of grey hair in her hairline.

Finally, I could not stand it anymore, I had to speak to her although I knew I was intruding on her time. “Hello, it looks like you have quite the project going on with all those old newspapers.”, that was the best I could do to strike up a conversation.

Looking slightly bothered at first, but the frown lines seemed to relax a bit when she spoke, “Not a project, but a pursuit.” Her voice was sweet, low, and strong.

“Hmmmm, a pursuit of what? What is in those papers that require that amount of concentration?” I thought I heard my heartbeat in my voice but was not sure. I was hoping she would not cut the conversation short; I was intrigued and curious about the papers. I was also intrigued and curious about her.

She put the paper down and smiled, but there was something dark behind that smile as well. I did not know it at the time, but that darkness was the pain of losing her brother. Still, her strength and kindness were obvious and softly she said, “I’m hunting for a killer. More than a killer actually. A monster.” Then the pain in her expression was clear. “My brother was murdered in 1978 while playing in a creek. The murderer was never caught. I’m going to find that son of bitch.” She said without much inflection, but I believed her completely.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to pry.” I was sorry, but I still wanted to hear more of her story.

“Not a problem, you didn’t know, but you asked.” She was still polite but direct. Her gaze peering into me, but in an inquisitive way. “My name is Amy. Amy Doo.” She held out her hand.

I was not completely sure if I should kiss her hand or shake her hand, but I shook it instead and it was probably a smart decision. “I’m Jude, and it’s my pleasure.”

“Can I be nosy and ask what you are doing here Jude?”

Her voice was enthralling, I probably took too long to answer but finally spilled out, “I’m using the Wi-Fi here and researching strange occurrences at a home just down the street. It’s right across the street from Diamond Park. I’m something of a writer, I write for a small magazine that features the paranormal.” I was wondering if she would get up and walk away. But she looked interested. At least I hope so.

I told her about the killings in Oakland. How the high murder rate was a perfect disguise for the unsolved murders that were abnormal. She raised her eyebrows when I said abnormal, so further explanation was warranted.

“There have been murders in this town since the 70’s. Murders that are gruesome. That have only left small traces of the victim. This has been going on far too long. They are not covered up, but they are not fully disclosed by law enforcement. The local government, they are aware of these bizarre murders. They are also aware of scores of missing people that occur every year. The narratives are crafted in way to deflect public interest and focus on the high murder rate instead.” I realized I was talking too much but couldn’t help myself.

When I finally stopped talking and looked at her, I noticed her expression. It was shock, fear, surprise, and what also seemed to be relief. We did not talk for a matter of seconds, but I thought it was far too long for my comfort and finally she spoke.

I know who the killer is, it’s my brother.

Part IV

Her brother? Didn’t she just say her brother was murdered? Well, I guess she can have more than one brother. I waited for her to clarify.

My brother, Billy Doo.

My hair stood up on my neck, I know that name. I know the stories. I did my best to keep a straight face and from fidgeting with my hands, but I couldn’t know if did or did not because my mind was going into overdrive.

“Billy, he is my brother. He was killed long ago. My only brother I have, well, had. At least the brother I once knew. I also know that somehow, someway, he has come back. He is behind many if not all of the killings and missing people you speak of. I love him, I miss him, I hate the thing he has become.” She exhaled heavily like this information has been stored in her heart and mind for far too long.

When they found pieces of my brother’s body, the police knew something horrendous happened in that damn creek. There were enough pieces of body left to know he could not have survived, but they were never able to recover the missing portions of his body. See sobbed heavily once then continued. But the police found a mirror where Billy’s remaining body parts were scattered. An old Victorian mirror. Everyone who looked into that mirror that day either died or lost their minds. Some of them tore each other apart and some ripped their own eyes out. A young cop shot the mirror and shattered it. You won’t read about that in the papers, but it happened.

Now it was my turn to be in shock, my mouth hanging agape, damn near drooled on myself. I know the stories of Billy Doo, many of us Town natives know. I know about the Victorian mirror; this is the reason I am in this library near Diamond Park. The mirror is a gateway, the old stories of worlds destroyed by this mirror seemed too farfetched to have any truth. However, a new reality seems to be unfolding and the story of this mirror now feels like a fire that has caught and is about to burn out of control.

Amy, can we go to the park so we can speak openly and without all the wondering ears in here?

Sure, let me return these papers and I’ll meet you at the front. I believe something monumental is approaching. We need to talk more.

At last, they we were walking toward the park. Amy looks Jude up and down a couple times, she does not disclose the purpose of this intimate eyeballing examination, but she takes in the details. Amy notices Jude’s greying curly hair, the remnants of what might have once been muscles under his shirt, and the structure of his Latino face. Big smile, bright straight teeth, highly manicured mustache and short goatee. She thinks it is a pleasant and handsome look. But her mind wanders back to Billy.

They find a table and bench under and old oak tree. The day is clear and sunny, but the bay keeps the temperature at a mild 77 degrees, and it is a perfect day to be outside.

As Amy sits down, I do my best not to notice her figure and her hips as she settles on the bench. We have serious business here, Billy Doo, the murders, the missing people, and the mirror. Not to mention, she is the sister of Billy Doo. There is plenty to unpack, but this is a pinnacle moment for the people of Oakland whether they know it or not.

Amy takes my hand and holds it between both of her soft hands. Her hands slender, long elegant fingers, and warm. Then she lets go softly and begins adding pieces to the puzzle of her brother and the murders. “Billy was such a sweet kid. I miss him more than any words can explain. What I can gather from the years of research and following the stories that never make the front page of the paper or the headlines of the local news, but you can find dozens of these types of incidents each year. For the survivors, the people that he seems to spare for a reason, he always lets them know that Billy Doo is his name.” Amy is nearly out of breath as she is on a roll and does not want the momentum of the story to fade.

“What I gather from this experience, what I’ve learned about legends in relation to mirrors similar to the one found at the scene of my brother’s murder, is that a portal was opened that day.” She looked at me to see my reaction, then continued. “Mirrors are gateways, they are used in witchcraft, spiritual rituals, spells, sorcery, and ancient spiritual welfare. Whatever Billy opened when he looked into that mirror that day, it has not stopped leaking its malevolence into this town, into our world, and it is only getting worse!”

Part V

Amy looked at me and I could see she was waiting for me to respond. Her breathing finally slowing, but still she looked anxious. “I know where the mirror is Amy. The house down the street, where the strange events never end, that is where the mirror is at. This home has had several murders over the years. None have been overtly connected, but why does tragedy always happen in this house? This house is also associated with several cases where the owner or tenant has gone missing, never to be found again. The last tenant committed suicide; this was over a year ago. No one has lived there since. This house was once owned by a Doo.”

The frown lines returned to Amy’s expression, while I was not completely sure, I thought I knew what she was thinking. We must see that house. Now!

I knew the risk and so did Amy. I looked at her and asked her if we should go take a look?

She nodded, the frown line easing up again. But the new lines that formed around her eyes told me she was now worried. Maybe fearful. We had both made the decision to go, we had to go, that was our individual subconscious decisions that now aligned as one.

Less than five minutes later we stood at the bottom of the stairs to the house. The house looked gloomy, old paint, old concrete stairs that led to an old wooden stairway, to an old wooden porch with peeling paint and cobwebs covering the porch ceiling. The paint was once a light green, but sunlight and dust made it look nearly beige. A window near the corner of the porch was slightly cracked open, like the house was inviting us into its gloom. The old trees and shrubbery made it seem this house was the only dark place on the block.

“Amy, let me check this window. I will go in first to make sure everything is okay.” As soon as I spoke, I realized I need to check my chivalry, I did not want her to take it as male chauvinism. Whether she did or didn’t take offense, I could not tell. She was focused on the house. Something was definitely wrong with this house. I felt it. I was scared.

The window slid open far too easy for an old home where the wooden window frame looked swollen with moisture. I stepped through the window and into the living room. The old wood flooring creaked loudly, at least in my mind it was loud. I could hear my heart beating loudly in my chest, it shook my body. My intuition was telling me to run. My chest tightened. I felt something bump my hand and I screamed in a voice I never heard before. It was only Amy grabbing my hand.

Whew. I thought I nearly met my creator. Amy whispered, “are you okay?” I nodded and we both stopped at once. I could feel the sweat in her hand as we both noticed the Victorian mirror sitting on the fireplace mantel. Next to the fireplace was an old chair. It may have been an old rocking chair, but I never had time to examine the chair fully. I looked into the mirror, and I saw hell. I am not sure what Amy seen, but I heard her gasp. She put her free hand to her mouth to cover her scream.

I jumped to remove myself from the reflection and nearly fell from hitting the chair. Amy held me up, but I almost pulled her down to the crusty floor with me. I grabbed the mirror and Billy’s arm came from the other side of the reflection. Now he grabbed me by my arm, and I screamed. I felt a coldness from his hand that put a chill in my soul. I saw death. I saw the children he caught in the tunnels of the creeks he prowled. I saw the men he ripped apart slowly to show his strength and dominance. I saw the woman he tortured until they finally died with fright. I saw the animals he consumed simply to experience their fear.

Amy acted before I could try to pull away from Billy’s grip. She stabbed his arm with a knife she must have had in her purse. Amy stabbed again and Billy only smiled. I thought I might have urinated on myself at that sight, his smile was madness. Not that it would have mattered, we were both going to die.

Amy had fight in her, more than I had in me. She stabbed his arm again then tried to stab him in his chest, but it was only the mirror she managed to strike, and the mirror shattered.

Conclusion

Amy and I are friends as I said earlier. We have occasionally been lovers, but mostly we are friends. It has been more than 10 years since our first encounter with Billy Doo. It was not our last. We have the scars to prove our battles with Billy. We have nearly lost our lives on multiple scraps with Billy, but together we have been able to escape death. We have not prevented Billy from hunting, but we have slowed him down.

When my buddy Weasel recounted his story of Billy Doo, it made me afraid because I knew what he was saying was true. I have seen Billy too many times not to know what he looks like to most people. I was more surprised that Billy did not take my friend. I often wonder why Billy chose to let Weasel see him. Was it a message to be delivered to me? I do not know. I do know I am meeting Amy today for dinner. We know where an old Victorian mirror stands. We intend to have our next meeting with Billy Doo soon.