Antiques

"'The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own.'

Those were the last spoken words of Lydia Lauriette of St. Germain, Louisiana as she was being carried away by police officers the night she killed her husband and six-year-old daughter."

The ashes of Miles Boudreaux's cigarette fell onto his trousers and he hit pause on the video of the Lauriette Murder Case.

"Dammit." The ashes leaving a bleed of gray on the khaki pants reminded him he was still in his work clothes at 10:00 pm.

Writing true crime was his speciality, and this little-known backwoods murder mystery was just the type of southern gothic horror his next book needed. At least, that's what his agent Candy told him.

He remembered the email she sent about it with the subject line: "Read With The Lights On."

Candy wrote, "Not your typical M.O. of a family annihilator. Whatcha think?" with the link of this news story video attached.

Miles couldn't count the number of times he watched it. His day was spent enthralled with the mysterious details of the case.

Lydia Laurette was a receptionist in a small town, three hours outside of New Orleans where Miles lived. She lived in St. Germain with her husband, Stan, who was a middle school teacher, and their six-year-old daughter, Emma. They went to church on Sundays, visited her mother-in-law's every Tuesday, and had no nefarious secrets or bad debt or abuse that normally lead to these types of crimes. Lydia brutally murdered Stan and Emma with steak knife, haggardly mutilating their bodies out of recognition.

She wrote, "LYDIA DIDN'T DO IT," in their blood on the living room walls, then sinisterly told officers, "the mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own" as she was being arrested.

Since her arrest, Lydia has been locked up in an asylum having gone completely mute. When interrogated, she only communicated by drawing. She drew a picture of an ornate mirror when asked why she murdered her family.

Miles couldn't believe this story hadn't been blown up yet or turned into a documentary. This was the type of gory and eerie case that put true crime authors on the map.

"Candy!" he called to her.

He heard her small, bare feet trot on the hardwood to his home office. Her long legs were exposed and she was wearing one of his button downs.

"This case," he took the last drag of his cigarette before crushing it in his tray, "is perfect." He blew the smoke towards her and opened his arms, beckoning her to sit on his lap.

Candy was not only his agent, but his on-again, off-again hook-up. She was married to an asshole in New York, and Miles was deeply terrified of commitment. It was a perfect match.

She wrapped those long legs around him and sat on his lap, "I told you!"

He kissed her. Her short, blonde bob framing her sharp, angular jaw so well. Sharp as a knife.

Could a woman this beautiful wake up one day and butcher me with a knife like Lydia Lauriette did to Stan, too? he thought to himself.

He tasted the wine and cigarettes as their tongues lapped over each other, but before Miles could let it go further he needed to get the Lauriette case out of his mind.

"Want to take a drive tomorrow?"

Candy tossed his shirt on the floor, baring her naked breasts and sliding off his lap to the floor.

"Sure. It's a work trip, remember? I can do whatever I want," she purred.

She writhed on the hardwood and he slammed his computer shut. Enough thinking about Lydia. Focus on Candy. Lydia will be tomorrow.

He ripped the buttons of his khakis off and joined Candy on the floor.

__

The drive to St. Germain felt longer than three hours, but Miles knew it was only because he was so excited.

Candy sat in the passenger seat absorbed in a book, and he sat thinking about all the questions he would ask the townspeople about Lydia and Stan.

But this mirror. The drawing of the mirrow was taking over his thoughts of the questions. The mirror is what no one else was looking into. Investigators chalked it up to a crazy woman just talking crazy, not a lead into what triggered her killing spree.

"Babe," he said to Candy, "can you reroute us to find an antique store near here? We're only about 45 minutes away from St. Germain. I have an inkling about something in the Lauriette case."

"Sure, what's your hunch?"

"Something about this damn mirror," he answered to himself, too lost in thought to care if Candy heard him.

As fate would have it, his itch was right. There was an antiques dealer only ten minutes away.

They pulled into the small gravel parking lot and walked into the small, unassuming building. It was made of old, untreated and uncared for wood, and had a sign painted in white paint with the simple words, "ANTIQUES."

Candy opened the door and a bell chimed. They were immediately greeted by the smell of dust, and a thin orange cat that hopped off the check-out counter.

Candy whispered to him, "Antiques. . . or junk?"

Miles choked down his laugh when he saw an elderly man come from around the corner, "Mmm, good morning to you both."

He was short, and his ebony skin had deep lines carved above his forehead and his brows seemed to be frozen in a furrowed state.

"Morning sir," Miles waved, "I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions?"

The man's face was unchanged but his eyes squinted in hesitancy, but he walked behind the checkout counter anyway, "What is it that I can help you twos with then?"

Relieved Miles pulled out a screenshot of the drawing Lydia Lauriette drew of the mirror.

"I was wondering if you ever sold a mirror like this to a woman a few months ago?"

The man's eyes quickly darted away from the picture and looked at Miles, then back to Candy.

"Get out."

"Excuse me?" Candy said.

The man hurriedly ushered them to the door, nearly tripping over the orange cat, "I said it plainly enough. Get OUT!"

Miles lifted his hands in protest, "Whoa sir, whoa! What's going on here? Why do we need to leave? What's the matter?"

Candy was shaken and looked to Miles in anxiety.

"Who are you two?" the man asked.

"We're writers," Candy answered. "Miles is a true crime writer and I'm his agent. Miles is writing a book on Lydia Lauriette."

The man stared at Candy for a long time, searching her eyes for the truth.

He walked around them to the front door but didn't open it. He locked it.

"What do you want to know about that mirror?"

"So you recognize it then? Lydia Lauriette got this mirror here didn't she?"

He nodded once.

"What can you tell me about it?"

The man took a deep breath. "It's something that poor thing should have never messed with."

"What do you mean? Weren't you the one to sell it to her?" Candy interjected.

The man looked offended, "I didn't sell it to her. She took it."

"Can you explain a little more?" Miles clicked the recording button on his phone that he put in his pocket.

"I had a man come into the store the day Miss Lydia come to pick something up. She was a real nice lady. Liked to collect things. Shopped here a long time. . . well, a strange man come in one afternoon and tried to get me to buy that mirror. I told him no. I sensed that mirror was evil. I told him to get it out of here. Well, Miss Lydia heard this and offered the man $50 for it in the parking lot. I went out to her car when the man drove off and told her to get rid of it. Throw it away. I kept tellin' her it was no good and I didn't take it because it was evil. And Miss Lydia was a prayin' lady. She said she sensed nothing evil 'bout it and that it was the hot air gettin' to me. Well, that very week she killed her husband and baby Emma. And. . . and that mirror is still up in that house."

The hair on Miles arms raised. Evil.

"So it's a haunted mirror?" Candy blurted, "a haunted mirror killed Stan and Emma Lauriette?"

The man's face went grim and he looked to Miles, "Whatever you do, don't go lookin' for it. It needs to burn. Someone needs to go up and burn that house to the ground and burn that damned mirror with it. Now I best you go on about your day."

The man walked unlatched the door and opened it wide.

Candy took the first steps out and Miles followed but watching as the man locked the door on their way out.

When they got back in the car they were silent for the rest of the drive.

"Miles," Candy finally broke the silence, "you write true crime. Not ghost stories. I want you to remember that."

Evil.

That was all Miles could think about.

"Are you saying he's not telling the truth?"

He could see Candy shrug from the corner of his eye. "Well, I know how you Southern people are. You live in New Orleans for godsakes. You all believe in ghosts and ghouls down here!"

They rode in silence the rest of the way. Candy's attention in her book and Miles thinking about the mirror and the Lauriettes.

But instead of stopping in the downtown of St. Germain like they planned, Miles kept driving. Candy noticed a few minutes in, "Are we going where I think we're going?

Miles could hear the excitement in her voice but said nothing.

She closed her book and smiled at him, "We're going to the Lauriette house aren't we? We're going to see that damn mirror!"

Candy was right. A mirror didn't kill Stan and Emma Lauriette. Lydia did. After writing countless books about true crime, Miles knew better. He knew people kill people. Not mirrors.

The Lauriette house was fifteen minutes outside the downtown area, secluded off a one lane road.

It was an small, modest home painted in white with red shutters. The windows were boarded up carelessly and the lawn had overgrown. There were no neighbors but a small pond behind the house, but everything seemed so quiet. Too quiet.

They got out of the car and Candy was squealing with excitement. "We are officially breaking into a house! God I love my trips down here. This is so fun!" She squeezed Miles' arm but Miles himself was feeling tense.

Something horrible had happened in this house, and he was bothered Candy was so excited to break in.

He wondered if they had cleaned up the writing on the walls . . .

Breaking in was easy. A back window was boarded up with a single, thin piece of wood and Miles was easily able to pry it off.

"Jeez, it's like they want us to break in," Candy chuckled.

Candy crawled into the window first and Miles followed, feeling his throat thicken as he stepped foot into the home.

It was dark, but thin slivers of light peeked through the cracks of the boarded windows. They were in the kitchen, and it looked like no one had packed up anything. The home was left untouched since the murders.

"Where do you think it is?" He heard Candy ask but didn't answer. He knew it was upstairs in Lydia's private bathroom. He didn't know why, but he felt it.

"I'm going upstairs," he told her. He got to the stairs and avoided peering into the living room. He couldn't get himself to look to see if the writing was there. But as he climbed the steps, he heard the audible gasp of Candy, confirming his suspicions.

He didn't want to see Emma's room. Or the couple's bedroom. He wanted to see the mirror. He went straight to Lydia's private bathroom off the master. He knew it was hers, but he didn't know how.

He opened the door to the bathroom and saw it. There. Above the sink. Gold filigree along the edges and something else but he couldn’t make it out from afar.

He stood in front of it and reached out his hand.

Hair? It was. . . hair laced around the delicate, ornate filagree. He looked at his reflection.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own.

That's what Lydia had said.

But when Miles looked into the the mirror, he still saw himself. Black curly hair, blue eyes, a shadow of a beard. A mid-thirties man.

But . . . something was different.

He lifted his hand to the mirror. Yes, this is his hand.

He studied his expression by leaning into the mirror so he was only inches away.

No, still the same Miles.

He stood back where he was for a final inspection.

His lips began to form a smile.

But only in his reflection.

The hair on Miles arms raised and he began to quiver. Backing away he felt his hands touch the doors of the sliding closet behind him.

The face began to smile wider and wider. He saw his teeth bared, his lips stretching and stretching. Miles began to scream. He began to feel the edges of his mouth tear.

"CANDY!!!!!" he screamed. He felt the blood gushing from his mouth onto his chin and down his neck. His speech was slurred and he could feel his exposed teeth and the skin on his cheeks began to tear and stretch.

"CANDY GET OUT!!!!!" he tried to scream.

Miles began crawling on the floor to leave the bathroom but as soon as he reached the doorway he couldn't move any further.

He was stuck.

Immediately, he felt no more pain. His hands reached his lips and he felt them intact. His cheeks not torn, no blood on his shirt.

He stood up. He . . . was staring at the reflection again. Except . . . the reflection was standing in front of the bathroom closet doors.

The reflection of himself waved to him.

No.

No. No no no no.

Miles began banging his hands on the mirror. Banging his head, screaming.

"NO NO NO, NOOO! CANDY!!! HELP ME NOO!!!"

Miles was trapped inside the mirror and his reflection was out. He was going to kill Candy.

He saw the reflection leave the bathroom and continued to bang on the glass. Will Candy hear him? Is this what happened to Lydia? Lydia was trapped in the mirror. Lydia didn't kill her family. Her reflection did.

But as soon as this realization hit him, he saw the bathroom in flames. Everything around him began to burn.

"I can't leave Miles!" he heard Candy scream.

"It's not him, we need to LEAVE!"

It was the man from the antique shop.

He was saving Candy.

He was burning down the house.

And Miles was going down with it.

Miles watched as the flames ungulfed the bathroom. Heard the stairs begin to crumble, the roof begin to collaspe. He felt nothing but saw as more and more of the image of the bathroom begin to slip away. His vision began to slip to black, and he wondered if his reflection was able to leave the house? Would Candy be all right? Was the man able to help her escape?

The last inch of vision was slipping away, and all Miles could think about was that no more people would have to go through what Lydia, Stan and Emma Lauriette did.

Maybe when they dug up his body in the house - whatever is left of it after the fire - they'll write a story about him. Maybe Candy will write one of her own. About Miles. About their affair. About the mirror.

Because in reality, our true crime stories are just the ghost stories come to life.