The Mirror

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

My smile had never physically been capable of being that WIDE. Cutting into the now nearly non-existent cheeks on either side.

I stare back into the mirror, fully aware of the feeling of my jaw hanging open, a trap ready to catch whatever bugs may wander in.

I watch as the mirror "me" moves its fingers up toward its own chin as I confirm my shock and facial expression with a second sense since my sight has decided to betray me. I feel around my lips. At my agape mouth and my chin drawn downward.

'Am I finally losing it..?' I close my mouth. The bone-chilling grimacing jeer remains. I shiver and turn away, hoping my vision will readjust correctly to reality when I look back.

I close my eyes and inhale a long, measured length of air in through my nostrils. Out through my mouth slowly. The kind of breathing you're supposed to do with yoga.

I turn back towards the mirror slowly. Eyes still clenched shut.

I lift my eyelids a millimeter a second. What feels like an eternity passes, but I draw it out as long as possible. If you can't see it then it doesn't exist...right?

"Stop being such a little bitch, Fiona" I mutter to myself quietly.

With a motion similar to pulling the tab on those old, one-piece blinds and watching them fling upwards, rolling chaotically at lightning speeds, I yank my eyelids open with every force of will I have.

I'm staring back at my own face.

Terrified, now, but undoubtedly and irrefutably mine.

“Fiona!” My whole body tenses. Obviously, I’m fucking rattled and shaky all over. I hold my hand in front of my face, observing the trembling movements. Breathing in deeply through my nose, then exhaling in a quivering sigh, I focus all of my mental energy on calming every inch of my body. Hands placed firmly on the white vanity attached to the large mirror, grounding myself with the feeling of the smooth and cool polished wood.

‘In, 2—3—4, Out, 2—3—4—’ Increasing the amount of time I can maintain each motion. Filling up with air, and depleting myself, squeezing my diaphragm like a balloon. I won’t deny that the sounds I made resembled that same comical squeaky shriek of deflation. I stare back at my reflection. Just me. Normal, plain, everyday me. With my bookshelf and ancient armoire in the background and the corner of the blue comforter of my twin bed. Completely, and utterly commonplace.

“Fiona!” My mother yells up the staircase again. “Geez, don’t tell me she snuck out again.” I hear her mumbling as her footsteps creak up the stairway.

As I gasp out a final exhale, I straighten up, gathering myself in preparation for my mother to, inevitably, come bursting through the door.

“Fiona Ann!” the door bangs against the wall with the force of her throwing it open. It ricochets off and sways creakily. “How many times have I said that you need to come down when I call? I can’t constantly come to you. I have better things to do than hunt you down all the time, you know?”

She finally glances at my face. I’m sitting on my bed now, quivering slightly. Still struggling slightly to breathe. I look up at her with panicked tears pooling in the creases of my eyes.

“Honey, are you okay?” she rushes to my side, collapsing the lungs I’d just started to get used to re-filling with a concerned squeeze.

“Mo-—om” I squeak out, “I can’t…”

“Ah, sorry! You just looked like you had just seen some shit—stuff.” She gives me a side-glance from her surveil of the room—looking for who she should be throwing hands at— to see if I notice her slip-up. I do, but just barely. I can’t get that face out of my head.

It wasn’t just the smile that was off. The whole figure looked eerily gaunt, no, elongated. Stretched. Grotesquely so. The eyes were pits, void of expression and purpose. The fingers that reached up to touch its chin were extended and spindly, more resembling branches of a ghost gum tree rather than phalanges—the whole creature was a poor imitation of a human.

“Honey?” My mother’s voice interrupts my rumination. I see her face come back into my line of vision. Replacing the horrific appearance of the demon dancing behind my lids.

“Hm, what? Sorry.” I respond, not sure if she asked me something and I was too far submerged in my own thoughts to hear.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She inquires quietly, still a touch of anxiety in her soothing voice.

I think back to the last time I told her something like this. She took me promptly to a psychiatrist, worried that I might be a schizophrenic.

“It’s likely just an overactive imagination mixed with anxiety that we see presenting now in a lot of teenagers”, she had responded reassuringly to my mother’s distress.

But I was not convinced. This hadn’t JUST started. My parents used to say that I could convince myself that any shadow was a spirit, any cat a demon, any shift of movement the Fae. And overtime I began to believe that I had a rogue sensitivity that blew everything out of proportion. How could I not? That’s what everyone constantly tried to convince me of.

The one incident in particular that drove my mother to presume me clinically insane was actually a rather interesting one. My mom and I had been walking out of the grocery store when I was thirteen and passing a white-haired homeless man sitting with his back up against the concrete wall. He was half asleep with his stuff sitting piled in a shopping cart next to him. His hand latched tightly around the ledge at the bottom. A safeguard against anyone that would attempt to yank it out of his grasp. Everything he owned, shoved into one small, rusted shopping cart.

Behind him loomed an insanely tall figure, the size of a moderately sized tree. They hunched over the man, staring intently with bulging eyes resembling the kaleidoscope of a fly’s except for the distinctly human pupil layered on top, but white. The maw pulled agape in a howl, like the painting of that man screaming and covering his ears. The creature’s skin sagged, hanging loosely off of too prominent bones. The ribs in particular were hollowed out, covered only by a thin, viscous membrane that left them gooey and transparent. On top of the rest of its grotesque visage, its arms appeared sewn to its sides. They clung there, trapped and useless.

I leapt back, crashing into my mother and letting out a chilling scream.

“What the hell, FIONA?!” She shoved me off of her and turned me roughly around, shaking me slightly. “What is WITH you?! Why would you scream at that poor man?”

After the ‘what is WITH you’, she grabbed my arm and started essentially dragging me to the car after witnessing the man wake up with a start. She probably thought I would induce a heart attack if I stayed there any longer.

“I…you didn’t see that?” I stammered out with difficulty. I whipped my head back to look behind the man to confirm that I wasn’t crazy, but the beast was gone. I blink rapidly, wondering vaguely if the image before me will change back to what I initially saw.

It didn’t. I was dragged to the psychiatrist the next day. After confirmation that I was only a teenager seeking attention and NOT, in fact, clinically insane, we never spoke of it again.

But I still think about that man and how he never noticed the monstrosity towering over him. Never felt like something was constantly monitoring his every move, maybe even controlling it.

My mother never did understand when I tried to briefly explain to her what happened. I didn’t want to go into too much detail about it either. Every thought about that day left me uneasy, laden with crushing anxiety.

I doubt she would understand my feelings now, let alone believe what I had seen.

“No. I probably just need food.” I said, smiling weakly.

She examines my face again and sighs. “Sure, we’re having baked spaghetti tonight.” She manages to cautiously smile back. Clearly choosing to stick a pin in it for now.

“Sounds great!”

I follow her downstairs and sit down at the table, pretending to listen to my parents’ small talk and poking absent-mindedly at my baked spaghetti while my mind is plagued by flashes of grotesque humanoid creatures.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I sit up, dazed, wondering why I’m up at—I glance towards my digital clock, the red numbers barely discernible in my bleary-eyed state— ‘three…thirteen..? Eighteen?’

Three-something in the morning.

‘What is going on? That’s so weird’. I rub at my eyes, having to take extra care to clear the sleep from them so I can somewhat make out the dark room.

A resounding ‘thunk’ comes from the makeshift closet, followed by the sound of nails pulling at wood, scratching.

“Mr. Tibbs?” I yawn out, fumbling for my glasses on the nightstand. I switch on the bedside lamp and cringe at the blinding change from near pitch black to all-out, artificial daylight.

The antique, mahogany armoire rattles slightly, swaying precariously on its stubby feet.

I falter on my journey towards the giant piece of furniture. ‘How did he even get in there..? I feel like I would have noticed…’

I turn the handle and slowly let the door creak open on its own, at its own pace.

I creep my face forwards around the thin frame of the door. A small comfort of a flimsy barrier between me and whatever lies within.

The door finally clears enough of the door frame and I catch a glimpse of the full length, seven foot tall mirror at the back.

Of the creature clamoring its way slowly out of it. And I’m face-to-face with the unnerving visage again. Writhing and contorting its body in its steady attempt to crawl free. Spindly, claw-like appendages gripping at the walls on the inside of the armoire, searching for leverage. They locate a groove in the wood and latch on, knuckles buckling and bleaching whiter than the already pallid skin. Eyes wide scoops into the face. No nose, just that drawn, chilling leer.

It pulls further into the small space triumphantly, revealing long, oily, stringy light-brown locks that fall against the borders of its grin.

I gasp in a breath the consistency of needles and slam the door shut, locking it in one fluid motion. Why antiques always seem to have locks always eluded me. But, hey, it's convenient.

‘Shit, shit shit shit what do I do?’ I run into the doorway of my room, unsure where to run next to hide. I daringly glance behind me, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The armoire shifts from side to side, beginning to also swing violently towards me, slamming into the wall on the back-swing and threatening to topple forward at any second as a groan emits from the ancient mahogany. ‘Okay, less time than I thought…think Fionaaa…oh!’

I turn left and rush down the narrow hallway of the second floor towards the staircase. I take the stairs three at a time, nearly flying down the second half of them as my sock catches on one of the loose staples that should, theoretically, be holding the carpet tight to the staircase.

“Fuck!” I yell, stumbling in midair and swaying as I catch my balance on the next ledge down.

I all but leap the remainder of the staircase, despite my close call, and sprint into my parents' room down the hall from the kitchen. My mom rolls over towards the door and squints her eyes open the slightest bit upon my entry. "Mm…Fiona? What's going on..? It's the middle of the night."

“Mom! I know this is gonna sound completely batshit insane, but something just came out of the mirror in my armoire!” I relay too quickly, my words slurring together urgently.

“What are you talking about?” She mumbles. “There’s nothing in your armoire. I thought you got over that years ago.” Her eyes flutter closed.

“No, mom! This is not me being a stupid little kid! There’s actually something chasing me!” I all but screamed. If I didn’t have to wake my dad up I would rather avoid that. He could be significantly less understanding, which was saying something.

“Go back to sleep.” She shuffles, lets out a breathy sigh, and goes completely silent.

‘Yeah, don’t I wish, but that’s not an option anymore.’ Sloshy, thudding footsteps echo down the hallway, creeping closer and closer at a snail’s pace. I look around the room for somewhere to take cover. ‘The bathroom locks!’ I rush into the large room and spin around. I close the door as softly as possible and flip the lock closed just as silently, not wanting to deal with the repercussions from waking both of my parents up at 3 ‘o’ clock.

I finally allow myself to take a second to breathe after my flight through half of the house. I place my hands on the marble countertop. Again relying on a chilly smooth surface for comfort. Air comes in ragged heaves. Arms shake vigorously. I try to calm myself once again as I lift my gaze up into the mirror to take in the rest of my physical appearance.

And am met with my own pale and terrified face. I put my hands up to touch it. Soft skin. I got really lucky when it came to my lack of puberty acne. Green eyes lit up with adrenaline and fear. Dirty blond hair frazzled and tossed in a fleeing frenzy.

And white, branch-like fingers clasp gently over mine. Almost a soothing gesture in itself, the awful, freezing fingertips land on my face too, overlapping my own.

The startling figure hovers behind me in the mirror. A good foot taller than me, and warped to the extreme, but a reflection of myself in appearance.

It leans its haunting face over my shoulder, smile ever-present, and whispers something unintelligible. Its appendages wander upward to the top of my head and a pointed tip punctures deep into my skull. Ice rushes through my veins and a tingling numbness creeps its way from my toes upward.

‘Is this what it’s like to be paralyzed..?’ I muse, far too calmly for the current situation. But it doesn’t hurt. It just feels like…a void is filling me up.

The creature begins to drag its finger gratingly down my skull and through my spine. The cold follows, each spot it touches numbing until I can’t tell if I’m even in my body anymore.

I feel a slight stretching in the middle of my back and watch the demon splay the two halves of my back wide apart. Like mangled wings.

And then it steps into the space between the split. Into my body. Merging with my very being.

I feel the hemisphere of my back, neck, and skull seal shut afterwards.

And just like that, I’m cold, and numb. But the creature's defining feature transferred as well. That wide, emotionless smile stretching as far as physically possible across my visage.

My mom knocks on the door. “Fiona, what are you doing in there? Everything all right?”

I distantly feel my hands unlock the door.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I direct that mask of a smile up at her.