The Mirror Succubus

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. It was not the first time I had seen her in the mirror – the woman from my dreams – but it was the first time I was certain she was real.

She first appeared in my dream four nights ago. I was sitting in a field, on a thick, woven blanket. Wildflowers swayed, though there was no breeze. The warm, static air smelled like honey and cinnamon. There was little noise – birds sang, a frog croaked – but the sound was muffled. Like I was underwater.

Then I saw her, moving slowly towards me. She was glowing in the sun. She looked like an angel – no, more like a mirage. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t focus on her.

I said hello as she approached. She didn’t reply. Instead, she knelt down. She kissed me softly on the lips. Tugged the straps of my dress from my shoulders, let them fall down my arms. Put her mouth on my breasts, kissing each nipple. Slipped her hand under my skirt and parted my legs. Slipped her fingers inside me.

I awoke abruptly as I climaxed, tears splashing down my face. Gasping, I sat up, eyes falling on the mirror across from my bed. For a moment, I saw her in the glass. Staring back at me, a quick lick of her lips. Then she was gone.

I tried to fall back asleep. I tossed and turned, confused by what had happened. I had never had a dream so real, never had an orgasm so intense. I willed myself to fall asleep, to have the dream again. I stared at the mirror, hoping for another glimpse of her.

That morning, I had two cups of coffee instead of one. I called out of work. I was tired, understandably, and felt like I was coming down with the flu. Most of the day, I slept intermittently. Sometimes, when I woke, I swore I saw the field from my dreams in the mirror, but it vanished in a second.

I saw her again that night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Each night, in the field. Each night, a gentle kiss. Each night, her fingers sliding over me, into me. Each night, her face in the mirror when I woke, thighs slick and tears in my eyes.

Each day, I called out of work. Each day, I slept, desperately wishing for the dream. Each day, I stared into the mirror, hoping to see her. I never did, though I often saw the field, just for a moment. I felt sicker, more exhausted – maybe this was the reason for my vivid dreams. Fever-induced hallucinations, I thought.

As the sickness grew worse, so did my appearance. Ashen skin, dull hair, hollow cheeks. My breasts sagged. My lips chapped. My weight plummeted. I realized I was wasting away, and quickly. I had no energy left to care.

I spent the entirety of the fourth day sitting on the floor, propped up against the bed frame. Across from me, the mirror – full-length, with a mahogany frame and intricate clawed feet. A real antique, purchased for $23 at a garage sale last month.

My mother always told me: mirrors are portals to the spirit world – don’t keep a mirror in your bedroom – if you do keep a mirror in your bedroom, cover it at night and face it away from your bed – mirrors are soul-stealers.

Maybe the woman from my dreams was a spirit. Maybe her soul was attached to the mirror. Maybe she had always been around, but I couldn’t see her before I got the mirror. After all, my apartment was built in 1906. Dead things are left to linger in old buildings.

Or maybe it was, as I suspected, hallucinations caused by a viral fever. After all, I grew sicker each day.

I couldn’t explain it, but I was desperate to see her again. So in front of the mirror I sat, waiting.

On the fifth night, I did not dream – at least, I did not dream that dream. Instead, I woke at 3am (my mother always told me: nothing good happens at 3am – 3am is the Devil’s Hour) and saw the woman in the mirror.

She did not disappear this time. She gazed back at me, her face eclipsing my own reflection. This time, I saw her clearly.

Beautiful, but chilling: glowing skin, almost translucent; slender hands with long fingernails; delicate collar bone draped in loose, pearly fabric; high cheekbones and soft, pastel lips; fine, milky hair, almost floating behind her; everything white but her eyes.

Her eyes were blood-red.

She smiled at me. Reached out a hand and caressed my thigh. Though she was physically behind the pane of mirror-glass, I felt her touch. Felt her fingernails running over my body, her breath on my neck. Her breath was sweet. I don’t know how long I sat in her ghostly touch.

I smelled it first – the odor. That sweet aroma was gone, replaced by something rotten.

I opened my eyes, repulsed. The face looking back at me was not the same. Her elegant features had transformed into something demonic, indescribable. Her naked body was covered in scales, each small movement changing their color, as if reflecting unseen light – white, purple, black, green. From her head sprouted two small horns.

Then – my skin, caught in claws. Deep cuts materialized in the soft flesh of my thighs, my calves, my arms. Blood oozed out of tattered limbs. She reached up towards my face, and I felt my cheeks spill open. My mouth filled with blood. I choked on iron. Everything went dark as my eyes were pried from their sockets. I heard the mirror break, and knew she was in the room.

I felt her claws. Her touch, once so gentle, plunged into my chest cavity. I could still feel as she grabbed onto my heart.