Night Moves

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was strange to notice how the image had subtly changed over a two-week period.

When the mirror first came to me, I thought it was just warped like one of those mirrors you see in carnivals. My reflection seemed slightly out of kilter, slightly Dali-esque. The frame, though, was magnificent. The mirror made a striking centerpiece on the wall of my dining room.

I found myself spending more and more time standing in front of the mirror examining my image. I’m not sure whether the background was always the same. I’d struggled to focus on it, captivated as I was by the face looking back at me. I swear the image blurred and changed before my eyes. Sometimes it was just me, boring old me, but sometimes the reflection seemed beautiful. Over time the image moved further away from what I see in the bathroom mirror. What I saw that day was a woman . . . a captivating, confident woman . . . a wildly beautiful woman.

I knew then it wasn’t me looking back from the mirror, the mouth was too wide, the teeth too sharp, the eyes glinting gold . . . oh, don’t get me started on those eyes. They say the eyes are a window to the soul. If that’s the case, I wanted to pull the blinds down and the curtains across. I didn’t want to see what was in there. But by then I couldn’t help myself.

I don’t know why I kept creeping back and staring into the abyss, staring into the eyes of the Goddess, the creature in the mirror. Afterwards I somehow felt unclean, sullied. I always ended up in the shower trying to cleanse myself under scalding hot water.

For those first two weeks, my life followed a pattern. I went to work, came home, ate dinner, then looked into the mirror. After a time, sometimes hours, I’d tear myself away, have a shower and go to bed. By the time the image had morphed into its true self, the nightmares had started.

I found myself in a dark and chaotic world. It was hot and dusty, so very, very dry. There was no water in this concrete jungle, and I was parched. My thirst overwhelmed me. Then came a smell . . . a tantalizing smell . . . a smell of life. With the smell came a sound . . . a rhythmic beat . . . thump, thump, thump, thump. I turned towards the smell, my nostrils dragging the rich scent into my lungs. I heard a growl . . . deep, throaty . . . a hungry animal scenting prey. The sound was coming from my throat.

I heard all manner of sounds in the distance, sounds of things attacking, of things dying. I could still hear the thump, thump, thump of my heart beating. My senses were heightened. I was scared. Scared and exhilarated. The sounds and scents and feel of this world excited me . . . I could feel a blood lust rising. I raised my head and howled at the world.

I woke, drenched in sweat, sheets tangled around my limbs, trapping me. Kicking them away, I ran to the bathroom, threw on the light. My wide eyes stared back at me. My hair and skin were soaked with sweat. It was so real. Even now, I could taste the dust of that place. I gulped down some water.

The mirror! Grabbing a towel, I strode into the dining room. Holding the towel in front of me I managed to tuck it around the mirror to cover the glass.

Heading back to the bathroom, I jumped under a cold shower to rid myself of the rancid scent. I pulled out a new set of sheets, remade the bed, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep until my alarm went off at 7am.

I woke exhausted but relieved. With the towel tucked around the mirror to hide it from view, perhaps I could get back to normal. I dressed and made my way to the kitchen. Strong coffee to wash down toast and marmalade. Munching toast as I went, I took my breakfast through to the dining room. The toast turned to ash in my mouth. The cup shattered as it hit the tiled floor. The mirror was proudly on view. The towel was gone. It hadn’t just fallen off, it had disappeared.

Backing out of the room, I searched for the towel throughout the house. It wasn’t there.

Am I going crazy? I don’t know. I could scarcely breathe. My heart felt as though it were trying to climb out through my mouth. I sank into a chair, my head pounding with a sudden headache. I focused on calming my breath. Breathe! Breathe through the eyes . . . a trick I teach my clients to calm down. Reaching for the phone, my hands were shaking. I called my boss and let him know I wouldn’t be in. I told him I had a migraine. It wasn’t far from the truth. My head was pounding. My eyes felt so sensitive to the light.

The eyes . . . those eyes, flashing gold. Somehow, I was back in front of the mirror. Shaking myself out of my trance, I checked my watch. It was 3pm. How had time disappeared like that?

I made myself an early dinner, standing up in the kitchen to eat. By the time I had cleared away, it was 5pm. I was exhausted. I crawled into bed and was sound asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

I was back in that exciting, wild world. My eyes were caught by a vivid splotch of red in front of me. It was the towel I had so carefully wrapped around the mirror the night before. I smiled. Red was a good color, the color of blood.

I sniffed the air. Oh, it was so tantalizing . . . I could smell fear and blood, mingled with another scent that had my blood coursing through my body. Gliding forth on all four limbs I found my prey. It was a child, mewling and drooling and oh so delicious. It was being held by a woman. She was occasionally running a finger over a cut on the child’s neck, then licking it clean. It was she who smelt so tantalizing. She was my mistress . . . it was she who could command me. She was watching me as I rounded the corner. She invaded my senses. I howled. I prostrated myself on the ground, afraid to approach. She could slay me with a word, a look. Her eyes glinted with satisfaction as she smiled at me grovelling before her. She was holding the child, but not as a mother might. No, she held the child out to me, offering the child to my hunger.

I bounded forth and snatched the child in my jaws, shaking it as a terrier shakes a rat. The child’s cries were quickly silenced. I have never tasted such richness. The build-up of fear, the helplessness and hopelessness in the child had permeated its blood and flesh, lending it an added piquancy. As the blood coursed down my throat, it was as nectar from the gods. It was life! From death comes life. That is as it should be.

Sated, I stopped and looked at the woman who had fed me. I padded over to her and rubbed my head against her hip. I knew well the richness of the gift she had provided for my first feeding. She stroked my head and told me I had done well.

I woke, my sheets again soaked with sweat. I burned with fever. As the image of the child pounded itself into my head, I jumped and ran, making it to the bathroom just in time to throw up in the toilet bowl. The black bile gushed from me, leaving me shaking and fragile.

When next I looked into the mirror, I saw the woman of my dreams. She smiled at me. I blushed. For the first time looking in the mirror, I saw the backdrop to the woman. It was the same concrete city I had wandered in the night. When I saw the small corpse tossed into a corner on top of my red towel, I screamed and ran from her sight.

It was then I decided I had to find a way to dispose of the mirror so it couldn’t come back to haunt me or anyone else. Could it be destroyed? Could it be permanently lost? I’d have to think on that. For now, though, I would wrap it in a blanket and lock it away in the bottom of the filing cabinet in my study. Mirror locked safely away, I fell into bed.

That night, I again dreamed. The next morning, I vomited bile, disgusted with myself for the pleasure I took when in the dream.

In the morning, I was only a little surprised to find the mirror back in its place on the dining room wall. Wandering into the study, I found the blanket neatly folded in the locked filing cabinet.

Finding the calm inside to do my job has been difficult of late. I have felt as though everyone could see my inner turmoil, my horrifying nightmares. I felt as though my skin had been peeled back to expose my rotting soul to the world. My startle response was through the roof. Hell, I was almost through the roof if someone came up to me from behind.

The following morning, I woke up refreshed, untroubled by the dream of the night. I had fed well in my dream. I woke, stretched, and purred in contentment. Without thinking, I licked the blood from my hands. Life was good. Life was rich.

I hummed to myself as I showered and dressed for work. I wouldn’t need breakfast this morning.

This morning the reflection in the mirror was mine, as was the background. I like my smile, my eyes. The eyes, they say, are a window to your soul. There was a flash of gold in the reflection of my eyes – pretty. I felt whole . . . complete . . . comfortable in my own skin.

When I got to work today, the hospital was buzzing with the news of the latest patient to be brought in. He’d been attacked, his throat almost ripped out. He was lucky to be alive, although he would likely never talk again. They were saying the wounds looked as though they’d been made by human teeth and nails.

The unrest in the mental health unit where I work is palpable. Over the past couple of weeks, the patients and staff have become more and more agitated. There has been more aggression in the air. I lift my nose to smell the air. I pick up an underlying scent of fear . . . the rank odor of the coward, the victim. There is a sharp scent of testosterone in the air. I smile and look around, humming to myself. The scent of fear grows strong as I make my rounds. Even the big men blanch and try to make themselves small as I walk past. My mistress has taught me well. I hold the power here and they know it.

My mistress has tasked me to share her teachings with others. It is time to start recruiting likely bodies. Men and women who will thrive when exposed to the power of She. Her old world is done. This world will make a wonderful new hunting ground.

This workspace . . . this asylum . . . is such a bland environment. It could use something on the dining room wall to enliven the place. Perhaps I could donate my mirror? Yes. This would be a good home for it.

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

She is released, the world will fall!

I laugh, buoyant with anticipation. The world has shifted. The rules have changed. What was inside has been released. She is free. She is within me.

Ahh, my heart sings! My blood stirs. This world is so rich with life. The hunt has started. I am readying my pack.

I settle my next client into the patient’s chair in my office. I smile at him and watch him cringe in fear as my eyes flash gold. I feel his pulse strong but erratic under my fingers as I take hold of his wrist for a moment. I breathe the scent of his fear. It is invigorating. My strength is so much greater since I accepted the gift of She. My power is in my eyes. The eyes are the window to the soul and my soul is howling in triumph!

Did I mention that I am a hypnotherapist?

“Take a deep breath and look deep into my eyes. I’m here to set you free from your past. Your future is in my eyes. Look deep into my eyes.”