Don't Look Up

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. And I had my answer, as horrible as that answer was.

I should have listened. Should have believed. But I had no reason to, did I?

Bless Ezra. He tried to convince me not to go through with it. “I’ve heard about some really weird experiences, Jo,” he said when I explained my next experiment.

“Whatever,” I told him, brushing off his silly superstition like I always did. “I promise you, whatever you’ve heard, whatever they said they experienced, it’s all in their heads.” I’d been digging into rituals and mystic processes for several years now without any ill effects. In fact, I had to admit I’d even worked my way through some old trauma thanks to some of the hokey but clearly effective procedures, even if I would never drink tree bark again for as long as I lived.

The hallucinations might have cleared me of my fear of heights, but I could do without all the purging, thanks.

“You really should read this.” He tried to hand me his phone, open to the forum app where I’d first found instructions for the ritual. As if I didn't already know more than he ever would about what I had planned. “Everyone is saying don’t do it.”

“But they’re doing it, right?” I couldn’t help but snort and push his phone away. I’d already been through the comment section, carefully recreated the instructions. My own ritual was already prepared, set up and waiting for the strike of midnight. “Have done it.” He shrugged, lips twisting, ready to continue to protest. “And lived to tell about it.” I couldn’t help the snicker that escaped. “Right?”

“It says you need someone to be here, just in case.” His hesitation actually hurt a little.

“I’ll be fine.” If he didn’t want to contribute, he could leave. This wasn’t the first time my boyfriend of three years decided to wimp out on me and abandon me to my research. And yes, I was very aware abandonment was on my list of traumas I still needed to work on, but it didn’t stop me from letting him off the hook. Logic was on my side. “Besides, you have work in the morning, and this is going to take all night.”

He finally left at 9PM, making me promise to call him as soon as the ritual was over. I did consider asking one of my friends to sit with me, but honestly, most of them didn’t have the stomach for it. Made me wonder why we were friends in the first place. I always seemed to be the one left out until they wanted a creepy story to tell.

I took a nap after Ezra left, setting my alarm for five minutes to midnight, as instructed. The forum’s OP was firm about his instructions and, in order to assure myself my research was accurate, I chose to follow his guidance to the letter, as I always did. That meant when my alarm went off at 11:55, I was already awake and anticipating the next few hours, rising with the steps of the ritual listing themselves out in my head.

You have to be in place at exactly midnight. I fetched the candle required, the old, silver lighter my grandfather left me tucked in my pocket as I exited my room and headed for the door to the basement. Leave your cell phone behind. It won’t work anyway. The ritual will interfere with all electronics. I’d found that interesting considering I’d read several versions of this process, some of which seemed much more elaborate and insisted on a phone being present, for safety, apparently. I fumbled my way to the door in the dark, that much of the instructions similar to the variety I’d investigated before deciding on this one. Don’t turn on the lights. And make sure you close the door behind you when you enter your ritual room. I made it to the door and down the first step, closing it behind me. There had been ambient light upstairs, enough to make the journey here relatively easy. But the empty black below, ensured when I covered the two small windows when I’d set up my space, meant descending was a treacherous process.

“Maybe if I fall and hit my head,” I whispered to myself in the dark, “I’ll see things, too.” That had me chuckling to myself, even as my socks slipped and I was forced to grasp for the railing to keep me upright. Another nervous giggle, this one fed by adrenaline, had me slowing my pace.

That meant it took me a little longer than expected to reach the bottom, to shuffle my way forward to the chair I’d set up. I took a seat in the large wingback I’d dug out of storage, my grandfather’s leather seat cracked and worn but as comfortable as I remembered it. He'd have cheered me on, encouraged me to be fearless. The scent of his pipe smoke still lingered, like he was with me, protecting me. That familiar smell rose around me as my body compressed the cushion and had me grinning.

"Another ghost story to tell, Grandpa," I said. He'd begun my interest in this topic long ago, laughing when he couldn't make me squeal like the other kids.

It was fitting, then, that I used not just his chair, but his lighter for this last ritual. Don’t light your candle until you’re seated. It took three tries before it flamed, to my surprise. It was usually so reliable. I fought off a little wave of nervousness just before a finger of fire finally appeared, embarrassed that my hand shook slightly as I applied it to the candle’s wick.

I’d chosen a big red one in a glass jar, left over from Christmas, the scent of cinnamon instantly reminding me of that season. Had I purposely chosen items that brought comfort? My grandfather's memory, the happy holidays? Maybe, though I liked to think otherwise. Still, there was a reassuring warmth to the smell that helped me settle, as I reminded myself this was research, nothing more, and like all the times before, I’d have a story for my paper and little else.

How wrong I was.

Make sure the two chairs are facing one another. I’d set up a small wooden chair exactly three feet away. Set the candle at your feet and whatever you do, don’t look up.

Up at the mirror already placed facing me on the seat of the other chair.

I leaned forward, the soft thud of the jar hitting the concrete floor louder than expected as the glass slipped through my fingers at the last moment. The flame flickered but survived while I waited for it to settle. If the candle goes out, the instructions said, run and don’t look back. Don’t try to light it again. Just get out.

No need for that, it seemed. I rocked back, the jar between my sock feet, letting the leather of my grandfather’s chair embrace me as the flame of the candle cast a merry little light just below my line of vision.

Stare at the floor and only the floor. You do not want to look up. That felt nonsensical to me, but in order for this ritual to be accurate, I had to do as I was told. When you’re ready, ask a question. Heaven help you when you get an answer.

There was more, of course. Warnings repeated about not looking at the mirror directly, that the entity that was supposed to come could take on any voice, any form and would do everything it could to lure me into breaking that rule. That sometimes what came was happy and positive and helpful. And sometimes, most times, not. And that I likely wouldn’t like the answers I was given.

Worst, of course, that looking in the mirror meant a terrible consequence that I'd never been able to define. Even a message sent to the OP went unanswered, and no one in the forum seemed able to come up with what might happen if I did look up.

All of which was typical of such rituals, embedding fear first, while creating a subtle challenge that only encouraged participation while instilling a deep need to do exactly what has been said not to do. I told myself this was the last time, the last process I would try. It was time to dive into writing my paper and share what I'd uncovered.

The Viral Influence of Fear Created by Modern Paranormal and Spiritual Rituals, by Joanna Harvey. Soon to be doctor.

I just had to write my thesis.

And make it through this ritual.

It was impossible to know how much time had passed, but I was confident I’d finished my part before midnight. The soft chime of the old clock at the top of the stairs confirmed it, twelve strikes ringing out while I exhaled a long breath. Perfect. I let my hands settle on the worn arms of Grandpa's chair, eyes locked on the floor just in front of my knees, in full view of the empty seat across from me, if peripherally. I let the quiet engulf me, becoming familiar and comfortable with it, before I spoke.

I’d already thought out my question beforehand, as suggested. “What happens if I look up?” If I did somehow receive an answer, at least it might be helpful. I was surprised at how dull my voice sounded, as though muffled and swallowed by the black. But that was just my imagination, the strangeness of the source of light between my feet making a soft, golden circle that distorted the dark around it.

I sat in silence and waited, committed to patience. Six hours was a small price to pay for the final piece of my thesis, even if it felt like forever. There was a certain disorientation to the process that I immediately recognized, how staring at a single spot could distort vision, quiet and engulfing night without sound or other input creating a level of discomfort that could easily create an eerie sense of the otherworldly for someone unprepared for the mind’s tricks played in such circumstances. So, when goosebumps suddenly prickled my arms, a chill settling around me, I knew better than to jump to conclusions.

I sighed, though I didn’t intend to.

And another sigh echoed me.

I caught my breath, holding it, heart speeding up a little. The intensity of the moment held me tight and I had to admit I could understand how someone looking for the supernatural would be fooled into thinking this experience was of that nature. How unexpected, that shiver of anxiety, that thudding of my blood pressure. I had myself convinced I was falling under the spell of this ritual’s nonsense when the candle at my feet flickered.

Wavered.

Panic punched me hard in the chest. I couldn’t explain the source. I knew better, that it was just a stray draft, some whisper of air that managed to wind its way down to the basement to stir the flame. A silly reaction. And a testament to the ritual’s warnings. I found myself returning to an analytical frame of mind as the candle settled down, forcing slow and steady breaths.

Until someone sighed again.

It was a soft sound, barely there. But I swore I heard it and froze again, this time in utter shock.

“Look up,” a voice said, "and find out."

I didn't think. I reacted, doing what I had been told not to because of course, I did. That was the point of the ritual, wasn't it?

I looked up. Into the mirror.

***

The next thing I remembered was Ezra. He stood next to my chair, saying my name over and over, shaking me. “Jo,” he said, crouching beside me, hugging me, his knee hitting the now guttered candle, burned down to the bottom of the jar. I pushed him away, his dark eyes lit by the light coming down the basement stairs. “I’ve been calling you for hours,” he said. “What happened?”

What…? I shook my head at him, laughed a little. “I must have fallen asleep.” That had to be it. I’d fallen asleep and imagined the rest. Created my own little night terror, courtesy of the ritual. Which could easily explain everything I thought I experienced and contribute to the testimony of others. “What time is it?”

He didn’t have to answer. The clock at the top of the stairs began to chime as he said, “Noon.”

Twelve hours. I stood, now starving and needing the washroom and a cup of coffee. It took a bit to convince him to leave, to go back to work, that I was fine. A sandwich and a hot java later and I was already dictating notes. Unfortunate that I’d failed to complete the ritual, but it happened sometimes. But even that was a valid finding to add to my paper. No shame in it, and perhaps information that could add to the topic.

I stopped on my way to have a shower when I realized I failed to finish the job.

Make sure you break the ritual when you’re done. Right. I paused at the basement door, surprised at myself and the shiver of anxiety the thought of returning downstairs raised in me. I laughed at myself even as I turned on the light, descending with firm confidence I didn’t fully feel.

The scent of Christmas lingered, cheering me up and dispelling my nerves. I tackled the windows first, stripping away the sheets I’d used to cover them before moving Grandpa’s wingback to the far corner. Only then did I realize I was putting off the inevitable and chided myself for my anxiety.

I raised my chin and made myself grin as I turned to the wooden chair and the mirror resting there.

If the glass is broken when you’re done, there’s no hope. I’m sorry, but you let it out and there’s nothing anyone can do to help you.

Three cracks, begun in the center, like someone pressed a sharp object to the middle. But not from the front.

From the inside. Broken. And the mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own--

Everything flip flops and I'm suddenly nauseated, reeling as I blink and gasp for air. The one who takes my place smiles at me from the other side. She looks like me but she isn't me. She's just taken my place, my life. And I realize the ritual wasn’t the dream. My waking was.

I am still in the chair, staring at the shattered glass, but in a void of nothing that engulfs me, silence deafening, chill devouring my soul. Lost and alone, while she shatters the mirror fully and disappears.

Before darkness takes me forever.

No, not forever. Just until I get my chance. I know now the consequences of my actions, of my disbelief. That's the real truth, isn't it? What is let out during the ritual? What OP never said, maybe couldn't say because he did like I did.

I'm not the only one who looked up.

Time slows, wobbles, my mind screaming, or maybe it's me? How long do I hang there in the dark, alone and breaking as the mirror broke?

When I see light, a candle, shining in the distance, I know what I have to do to get out, rushing toward it, anticipating as I peer through the glass to the woman sitting in the dark on the other side, a candle at her feet. She looks nothing like me. But I will look like her very soon.

Look up, damn you. Look up.