Dancing in the Dark

The mirror showed a reflection that was not my own. The entrapped image swerved past my vision in a blur of crimson and black; two figures locked tightly together in a furious twirling dance, so prominent in the mirror as to be almost upon me. They whirled in violent agitation, every limb seemingly in motion, tearing at each other in a frenzy that somehow never afforded a change in their condition or dress, a rocking, chaotic cacophony of sight that threatened to overwhelm me with only their forms. And that couple was just one of many, a fragment of the vast panoply of dancers in the reflected ballroom, all of them moving with fantastical intensity, their figures shrouded in red and black drapery, their faces masqued in Venetian styles, full-faced and adorned with feathers and glass and metal, but all somehow subdued, as if they were coloured in a minor key. Despite the heavy coverings, there were, among the heaving, feverish movements, occasional flashes of ivory as the couples whipped past; as a cowl slipped back from the forehead, or a cuff rode up briefly on the dancer’s arm, and the contrasting speck of white rang out through the demented red and black and dark gem-metal faces.

The mirror filled an entire wall of the ballroom, it’s vast length and height encompassed by a heavy gilt frame, adorned in baroque curlicue that protruded far above and beyond the mirror’s face. Around the margins of the mirror glass, it showed the fungus-like mottling of age, where moisture’s seepage and time had tarnished the silver backing in creeping blotches. It dominated the room. It thrust itself into the sightline and mind and mind’s-eye of every person there, it cast its own light, like a bright, harsh, shadow, across us all, and lay as a heavy weight on our thoughts and bowed our heads beneath its terrible splendour.

In its visage, it captured the shape and dimensions of the room, the long hall with many beams and fretworked arches, the immense space and parqueted wooden floor. But it did not show the crowd of people, huddled at the far end, as far from the mirror as possible. Some sat idly, staring blankly, others congregated in small groups of intense discourse. One man was still yanking futilely at the doors, a reflexive, rhythmic jerking movement that was beyond any reason or hope, and muttering as he did so, his head twitching with every pull at the vertical handles. And nobody was dancing.

I paced the length of the mirror, searching for anything unusual, anything that would help us understand it and, hopefully, escape. I scoured the frame and the glass, looking for clues as to its nature and its terrible abilities.

“Gareth,” urged my wife, Elizabeth, “come away from it.”

“I should be safe, it hasn’t been an hour.”

“Darling… please.” I heard the fear tremor in her voice and turned to face her.

“If we’re to escape then we must figure this out, and if we’re to figure it out then we have to examine it.”

She clutched her hands together, “But, it needn’t be… it needn’t be the mirror. Perhaps there’s another way out,”

She noticed the knotted frown that instantly crossed my brow and before I could respond to her assertion she continued quickly.

“We haven’t tried everything – come and talk to Evelyn, she says there’s something else we can try.”

Evelyn Van der Waal; the person I’d least like to talk to…

18 hours earlier.

“Darling, don’t be such a grouch about the party, please.”

“I don’t think I’m being a grouch, I just feel uncomfortable around them, and it’s not just the Van der Waals.”

“You shouldn’t. You – we, are quite as rich as half of them.”

“It’s not that Liz, it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“Well, they just seem to have a… different take on life, they take it all for granted, they don’t really get it, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. The Van der Waals worked jolly hard to get where they are,” said Liz.

“What? They inherited a packet and got lucky with investments – particularly bonds – ”

“So inheriting money makes them bad, does it?” she asked sharply.

“No! No, it’s not that. I mean, look at us… the business couldn’t have succeeded without that loan from your father, and I’m grateful for it. And, well, I think that’s the difference – I doubt the Van der Waals of the world realise their good fortune.”

“What makes you think that?”

I paused before responding, trying to put my finger on what bothered me.

“It’s not just the Van der Waals, they all do it. But it’s… some of the things they say, about other people – particularly poor people. Like, when they say ‘they don’t know how good they’ve got it’ about someone on minimum wage. Or how there should be harsher sentencing on these kids who have stolen a car or a pack of smokes – as if they’d even notice, some of them have ten cars.”

“But they’re just concerned darling, I mean everyone wants to feel safe, that we live in a lawful country.”

I sighed, “Maybe they believe that… but then, well, that time when the riots were happening across town, and Evelyn’s comment – do you recall it? No, I think you weren’t in the room. She said that they’re all vermin, the rioters, like rats and they should be treated like rats, if they’re going to behave like rats.”

“That’s Evelyn though, she’s a tad forthright, but she’s not hurting anybody. But, please let’s not fight darling, you know it upsets me. And I need to go. Mary’s going and you know how much I love to catch up with her, we hardly ever see each other, now she’s moved.”

That wasn’t entirely true, Liz caught up with her sister almost weekly, but they used to see each practically every day, when Mary was living nearby. They’d catch up for a coffee or lunch or dinner, and occasionally go partying, and Lizzie missed Mary dreadfully. It was, truly, impossible for me to deny Liz and Mary the opportunit. Besides, I quite liked Mary, if she was at the party I’d have someone reasonably human to talk to.

The Van der Waal estate was…palatial. It was both imposing and delicate in appearance, a confection of white stone and painted timber with soaring turrets. The ball-room was directly at the front, up the flight of broad, massive stone steps that ended in double doors, currently pinned back allowing yellow light to spill out into the night with a wave of conversation and laughter.

The doorway helped frame the remarkable space of the ballroom. However, as we progressed through the entrance it served more to overwhelm. Past the arched portal we progressed, into the atrium, where stone columns spired to a vaulted ceiling. The atrium in turn disgorged us into the ballroom proper, an immense, sprawling space, lit by chandeliers, beyond which the ceiling was just a shadowy suggestion, lost in the glare. The guests stood in scattered clumps; despite their numbers – and there were many – the room felt borderline sparse.

And over it all, like some ancient, petrified monarch, glowered the mirror; dominating this vast room, seemingly reflecting back at us all that we were and all we could conceivably be.

Thankfully, I was quickly distracted from the horrid thing. We’d barely stepped inside when an elegant blonde woman, styled in the fashion of a 20’s flapper, pounced immediately on Liz.

“Oh, so good to see you,” said Liz, embracing her sister.

“It’s wonderful you both came,” said Mary. Her voice was a slightly hardened contralto, it suited her, both generally and in the flapper costume. She disengaged from Liz and pulled me into a tight hug.

“Thankyou for coming Gareth, I know these to-dos aren’t your thing”

“How could I miss the chance of seeing my favourite sister-in-law?”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she replied.

A waiter with a tray of drinks approached us.

“White wine, ladies, sir?”

“No,” said Liz, “I’d prefer a red. And I just need to duck off to the ladies’ for a moment, I’ll be right back, darlings.”

Mary and I took a glass each, then settled our drinks on a food-laden table. Mary drew a faux cigarette holder – she’d replaced smoking with vaping but kept the affectation. She leaned back, holding the stem between her fore and middle finger, palm up and out, with her other arm folded across beneath the elbow. I deliberately turned to avoid the mirror’s domineering visage.

“Dreadful old thing isn’t it,” said Mary, “apparently they got it from Italy – Venice I think – had it brought out and installed at enormous expense.”

I nodded mutely.

“Still,” she continued, “that’s the Van der Waal’s. If they’re going to have something big and tasteless, at least it will be expensive, big and tasteless.”

I chuckled, I’ve always appreciated Mary’s rather caustic view of those to whom she refers as the pseudo-stocracy. The fact she includes herself in those observations makes them all the more astute.

“So is Richard here tonight?” I asked.

She glanced across at me.

“No. He’s got a new little piece of pussy to play with. They’ll be holed up in the town apartment while she tries to convince him to make her the next Mrs. Aleckson.”

“No chance of that I take it.”

Mary gave a throaty laugh and took a sip of her wine.

“None what-so-ever. Every time he gets a new girlfriend, I hire a private eye to get some snaps. If he tries to divorce me, I’ve got him fucking over a barrel… literally in one picture.”

I winced slightly. Mary, quite the observant person, and rather more gentle than she pretends, noticed immediately.

“You’re a sweet boy, Gareth. Always have been, and I see how you dote on Lizzie so. But my marriage is a rather different affair. Like most here, my marriage is about money. Oh, some of them would protest, no, they’d say, no – it’s all about love. But the honest ones, which is most of them, are quite matter of fac. They know it’s about wealth and power.”

Liz returned then and dragged us out to dance. As with everything at a Van der Waal function, the dancing was extraordinarily well planned. The cordoned off area of sprung floor was expansive, yet not excessive – at least not by the standards of the room. In addition, trained dancing companions, taxi-dancers, had been hired.

I kissed my wife on the cheek and let her know I was going to borrow a taxi-dancers. She pouted, but she knows I love to try different dances. And I did enjoy it. My partner, Anna, was an excellent dancer and led me through several complex dances with skill and subtlety so that it almost felt I’d done it myself.

“Thank you, Mister Wilson,” said Anna at the conclusion, “I am finished for the evening – I’m only employed to half past ten, and it’s already well past that.”

“Well thank you, Anna.”

As she walked off, I turned, searching for my wife. Without the dancing to occupy my senses, the cacophony of the room washed over me; overloud voices competing with background music, the scent of perfumes mingling with each other, with the smell spilt wine, and food left out overlong; the slightly sticky heat of so many warm bodies, clammy on my skin; the blaze of chandeliers, a fraction over-bright, but still leaving grey, dusty shadows in the corners. And over it all, that looming bloody mirror, staring down at me like a judgmental god, bright-eyed and dispassionate and cruelly truthful.

“Lost her again have you?” asked Mary from behind me.

“No… well, yes. I was just hoping to catch her about maybe going home early.”

“No chance of that, dear boy, not with a party this good.”

“I’ll see if she wants to leave in an hour.”

Mary smiled at me sympathetically before collaring a waiter for a glass of wine, then wandering off into the thronging crowd. I, however, picked up the half-finished drink she’d left and skulked off to scavenge some remnants of food. Unfortunately, what had been appealingly glazed two hours earlier, had devolved to something mildly greasy and distinctly unappealing. I searched morosely through the meagre pickings left but gave up. A drinks waiter was passing by so I tried for another glass of wine.

“Sorry sir, we’re no longer bringing drinks. You can still go to the bar though.”

He gestured to a bar-table – right near the mirror, where a single waiter was serving. Now that he’d mentioned it, I noticed most of the wait staff were filtering out, leaving just guests.

I dawdled to the bar, trying to ignore the mirror, and snagged two glasses, then hurried back to my nook, as far away as I could. There I perched on a table-edge, slowly sipping my wine, pondering just how soon I could find Liz and leave. Nobody else was leaving yet, it was considered gauche to leave before midnight.

I finished my second glass of wine and wandered around the room looking for Liz. I finally found her, talking with Jane and Andy… Montigew? Montaguw? She called them the Monties anyway and she and Jane had been to school together.

“Oh what is it darling?”

“I think we should be getting on soon, it’s a busy day tomorrow.”

“Oh no darling, there’s nothing too urgent. We can stay another half hour or so, surely. I’ve only just caught up with Jane.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, “why not. Hi Jane, Andy.”

Andy shook my hand, Jane nodded.

“How are you doing old chap?” asked Andy briefly.

“Yeah not too bad, not to bad. Look, I might duck over and grab another drink. Did you want one?”

“Thanks awfully chap – a glass of shiraz. And Jane will have a chardonnay.”

“Darling, if you’re stopping by the table get me a shiraz.”

I smiled weakly and walked away. There was a queue at the bar. I stood in line staring at the wall and thinking about my bed until I reached the front.

“Two glasses of shiraz and two chardonnay please mate,”

“We’re out of shiraz, sir,” said the waiter.

And all the lights went out.

There was a brief hush in the conversation, then a growing chorus of chatter sprinkled with cat-calls and laughs.

“Forget to pay the utility bill Evelyn!?”

“Someone get the spare, this one’s broke!”

Then, on the edge of my hearing, there was a sizzling, a scratching that rapidly grew, emanating, I guessed, from that infernal mirror. As the pitch and volume escalated the conversation died to nothing, overcome by the chittering crackle, now so loud I clapped my hands over my ears. Yet still the sound grew, until it seemed a physical thing, scrawling its way across my skin like ants and vibrating my very bones in terrible harmony. Then, with a fearful crack, the sound abruptly stopped completely, leaving ear-ringing silence behind.

A dull, ruddy light flared up in the centre of the ballroom, a circle of semi-luminescence, a sickly, wavering putrescence of light, cast upwards from the floor and leaving the room somehow darker and more malignant for its presence. Atop that hellish light stood a figure, immensely tall, draped in a heavy black cape and cowl that almost, but not quite, obscured its face from view. Would that it had hidden it completely.

Lit from below, it cast long red and black shadows towards the ceiling. With every movement and gesture the shadows writhed and twisted into grotesque shapes; bestial visages snarled momentarily, long tongues lashed the air and bulbous red eyes protruded from lumpen, misshapen faces that leered coarsely and suggestively.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” the voice rasped softly, almost gently, yet there was no denying the sting of it, “welcome to what I call, The Afterparty,” and he chuckled slowly, evilly. And though the voice stung the ears, it somehow spoke to a deeper part of the body, or the soul, with a terrible seduction. Every word pierced the eardrum and then penetrated the soul and the very seat of the soul, so that deeply, instinctively, I wanted to turn and move towards him and embrace the promise of those words; of pain and pleasure in equal measure.

“Now, who should come first to the Dance? Shall we let it decide? Yes, let the mirror itself be the arbiter of… good taste.”

He flung out a clawed sickly white hand and stabbed an obscenely long finger towards the mirror. Instantly tendrils of fog-like light flowed from the mirror, now back-lit with its own shimmering tones of red. Rapidly the tendrils grew and quested out, moving with oily speed in serpentine twists, scenting, seeking, tasting the air with a softly organic sound. And watched in stunned disbelief by the static crowd.

When the first tendril encountered someone – a short, fat man – it struck with hideous speed, wrapping itself around the nearest part of him, his forearm. He bellowed in anger then squealed in pain as the tendril tightened. Frantically he beat at it, all the while squealing and screaming. The crowd around him jumped back, and, after a momentary shocked pause, they then turned and ran; some running silently, others crying and screaming.

I myself reeled back from the apparition before me, and like the others turned to flee. But halted instantly, for before me writhed one of the foul tendrils. I saw that it moved swiftly now, towards the fleeing crowd, it twitched in my direction as I moved, but pursued the others when I stopped. I stayed as still as I could, silently staring at the vile thing.

A bubbling sound to my left broke through to me and carefully I turned my head to look across. The fat man was being dragged now into the mirror. I watched motionless, as he heaved impotently to try and pull back from the inexorable retraction of the tendril, a loop of which now draped across his lower face. I saw his wild, pleading eyes beseeching me to help. Then he was pulled into the mirror, passing through the glass as though he was himself just an image, a reflection fallen from the mirror and now reclaimed.

My horror at his fate was both short-lived and redoubled, for throughout the room I heard screams of pain that meant more tendrils had found a victim. On and on and on they screamed, a seeming eternity of pain visited upon them. Still others yelled and clamoured in fear and anger. The tendril before me retracted, dragging a woman with it, an older woman in a blue dress. She was crying and begging it to stop, between screams of agony. I watched as she, and many others, dozens at least, were drawn into the mirror.

Free now to move I dashed across the hall, checking each face of the captured to ensure it wasn’t Liz. Every one of them begged me to help, but I could not, God help me, I could not. I had to find Liz. I eventually found her, huddled in the crowd by the doors.

“Liz, thank God, Liz. You’re ok. Quick, let’s go!”

“We can’t… the doors… the doors won’t open.”

“Ladies and gentlemen…” the voice rasped, “thank you for the appetizer. We will certainly patronize this establishment again. In one hour.”

And just as suddenly the lights sprang on.

A wave of panicked speech bubbled up from the huddled crowd, a mish-mash of cross conversations which came to me in frantic snatches.

“… no cell reception at all…”

“…took Barney. Barney! I mean, he’s fat…”

“…doors won’t open…”

“…had to do it, I had no choice. The children will understand…” This last I recognized as Andy’s voice.

I held Liz to me.

“Come on, we need to find another way out,” I said, “before one o’clock.”

She didn’t answer. Wordlessly she pointed at the mirror behind me.. Even as I turned to look, the woman beside us screamed, a senseless, animal noise bereft of thought. For in the mirror, there was no longer a reflection of us, but instead were all those people who had been taken, consumed by the mirror. They twitched and jerked like cheap marionets with no indication they had any control, excepting this: their eyes. Their eyes rolled and stared in wide terror.

The crowd redoubled their efforts to escape. The frantic yanking at the door continued, others scurried to the waiter’s doors, or scrambled to try and reach the high windows – one man tenaciously clawed his way up the heavy drapes to reach tehm. Yet none of them, not the doors nor the windows, would yield to any force, neither opening or breaking.

As the hour approached, the crowd became more desperate. Fights broke out, shouted recriminations and shoving matches, fights over nothing, and everything; strange surreal arguments, I heard in fragments.

“…last year when you…”

“Why do you always…”

“…because you think she’s prettier…”

I tried to block them out, focus on searching methodically for a means of escape, though it was becoming clear that no egress existed. Some people tried to hide or barricade themselves away using tables and I considered doing likewise, but then, what is a fort but just another trap; I doubt a bit of upended furniture would stop those tendrils.

In frustration I strode towards the mirror.

“Gareth, no! Stay away from it!”

I ignored Liz and picked up a wine bottle from the bar table and flung it straight at the mirror. I didn’t expect it to break. I don’t know what I expected, but the bottle did not bounce off the glass either. Instead, the mirror glass flexed inwards, as if it were rubber, then with a soft, organic sound the bottle slipped into the image and then hung there, rotating slowly in space.

Face to face with the mirror, it confronted me with yet another horror. The skin on each Consumed was tightening, drawing against their bones. The first victim, the fat man, was almost skeletal. Their clothes were changing, darkening to crimsoned-black and lengthening. Some of them were starting to spin slowly in place, a precursor to their later horrific dance.

“Gareth! It’s almost one.”

We hurried to the far atrium, with almost everybody else. As we did so, darkness filled the room, there was a flash of red, and the tall ominous figure reappeared.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” it rasped, “welcome to The Second Coursing.”

“No wait!” shouted one man. He stepped forward; it was Abel Drummond, a big man in the business world. He marched pugnaciously towards the figure, which paused and tilted its head in apparent interest, but then said,

“I do not wait to hear the bleating of sheep.”

“You’re gonna wanna hear this!” he exclaimed, “You want something, right? Yeah, everybody wants something. I’ll cut ya deal. Lemme go an’ I’ll get whatever you want.”

“A deal? You mean a bargain,” hissed the figure, “yes I like… bargains.”

The crowd, transfixed, watched in silence.

“Tell me what ya want then.”

“What I want… all I want, is to feed the mirror. So. little bargain man, what can you feed it?”

“Take anyone. I’ll find you more people, I’ll bring ‘em.”

“No,” it rasped, “not anyone. For a bargain to have worth, you must give something of worth.”

He looked bewildered for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder.

“Jessica! Get out here.”

A striking young woman, maybe twenty five, shrunk back and tried to hide.

“Jessica!” he turned back to the figure, “One minute.”

Abel strode over and grabbed the young woman by the arm. He hauled her, dragged her, across the polished floor. She whimpered and cried, but didn’t resist. He flung her at the figure’s feet.

“There’s her. And the necklace she’s wearin’s worth a quarter mill.”

The figure glowered down at them both for a long moment, then chuckled.

“I have a bargain indeed… two for one.”

With ruthless strength it seized both Abel and Jessica and hurled them towards the mirror, an impossible distance. They tumbled through the air, limbs whipping about, into the mirror. Now tendrils snapped out, faster and more terrible than before, and the crowd turned and scrabbled and scrambled frantically.

People pushed and shoved and scrambled over one another. A woman fell in the crush and was trampled. I saw Mary, almost dispassionately, watch an approaching tendril, and at the last instant yank another woman into its path. Beside me Liz screamed; a man was pulling her hair, trying to pull her back. I turned and punched him in the face. He stumbled backwards and was seized and dragged screaming to the mirror. People punched and bit and scratched and swore and screamed, in a maelstrom of fear and anger that rolled on for an eternity.

Then in an instant, it ceased. The light returned and the red glow fled.

Anger. Raw anger filled me. I strode to the mirror and shouted, incoherent words I can’t recall, shear animal rage; at the mirror, at the tall figure – that malicious harbinger of doom who so delighted in our suffering, and above all, at my impotence. I beat my fists against the unyielding glass until my knuckles were bruised and split and came only to my senses at the quavering sound of my wife’s voice, trembling in desperation and love.

“Gareth, stop, please stop it. Darling…”

I drew in a hissing breath, and let her fold me in her arms.

“I have to figure this out, Liz. Gods, I can’t let this happen, not to you.”

She nodded mutely and let me go.

I strode the length of the mirror, inspecting every inch of it that I could in hasty desperation. I poured over the markings on the curlicue, seeking something beyond the casual view of it, sinking into my search, wholly consumed by it, until my wife called me away, to talk with Evelyn Van der Waal.

I might dislike the woman, but I had to give this to Evelyn, despite everything that had happened she was still calm, still seemingly unfazed and unruffled, still in control. Where the rest of us were disheveled, scratched, bruised and bloody, she was barely even sweating. Scratches… bruising… some thought nagged at a corner of my mind. But it was driven out by Evelyn’s commanding presence.

There was a section of parquetry, she knew, right next to the mirror, that overlay an old cellar. The cellar itself was poorly walled off with just plaster from an adjoining room. If we could break through the floor we might escape. I volunteered to help pull up the floor, but Evelyn directed me to attempting to break out the small portico window, just above the atrium as an alternative means, should this not succeed. It was as far from the mirror as possible – that suited me well.

I climbed laboriously up a drape, onto the arched ceiling above the atrium. There, using the heavy cutlery I’d found, I started chipping at the round glass window. It was thick though, and I could see immediately it would have little effect. But I kept at it, and pondered as I worked. Dark thoughts stole across my mind, the mirror, the figure, the futility of my attempts to break it, the way people responded – thank God Evelyn had kept calm, else we’d all just be rats in a trap. I cursed my bruised knuckles again… my knuckles, Evelyn… who’d put me as far from the mirror as possible.

I flung down the useless utensil and glanced at my watch; just a minute to two. I had sixty seconds. I leapt from the atrium roof and clutched the heavy fabric of the drape, sliding down, ignoring the tearing burn of the cloth on my hands and sprinted to the group pulling up the parquetry.

“Get away!” I screamed, “move!”

Already edgy, they didn’t question me but fled instantly. I turned and pelted towards the centre of the room, praying I had my timing right. Seconds later we were plunged into ruddy darkness again and the figure appeared. It didn’t pause for banter this time, as the diminished crowd was already screaming and scrabbling at the doorway in frenzied fear. It simply gestured at the mirror and white tendrils shot forward. And I cannoned into the bastard at full speed, tucked low and leading with a shoulder straight at its knees. We both crashed to the floor in a tangle of cloth and limbs. I was back to my feet faster, being twelve feet tall must have slowed it down.

I hurled myself on one of the passing tendrils and a feeling like an electric jolt ran through me, but I pulled it with every ounce of my strength and wrapped a loop around the figures neck as it struggled to rise. There was a hollow scream from the figure and we were yanked back towards the mirror.

I could not let go. I had to keep the tendril tied to the figure, make sure it could not escape, so I clung to its back, pulling the loop of the tendril tight. It flailed at me with long arms, but panic, or its ungainly build, of possibly just the heavy clothing, stopped it from grasping me. We hurtled toward the mirror. I tensed every muscle in my body and smacked into the mirror, felt something in my left arm snap, and was flung to the ground.

The lights snapped on. In the mirror, the whirling dancers stopped and turned to face the new figure; no longer immense and daunting, stripped naked of all her supernatural finery, Evelyn Van der Waal screamed silently in the mirror, and beat her fists against it, staring out at me with fear and hatred.

I sighed. God I hate parties.