The Pull

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. The face looked like mine: same green eyes, same thin nose, same plump lips. She even wore my favorite lip gloss - a perfect mix of pink and brown. I raised my hand, and she followed. We both ran our hands through our wavy brown hair.

Yes, the untrained eye would swear the woman in the mirror was me. Only I could spot the subtle differences. Still, I never meet its eye.

I had once, foolishly; not knowing the risk, I dared not do it again.

The day everything changed started like any other workday. I needed that mid-morning coffee break and walked from the office to my favorite coffee shop. But that day, that day something was different. As if out of nowhere, I noticed a small antique store I’d never seen before. How could I not have noticed this before? I walked the same path from work to my favorite coffee shop at least four times a week. But more importantly, why did I feel so drawn to it? I had never been into an antique store, I don’t feel drawn to the usual dark wood furniture, ornate and fragile pieces of art. In my mind these types of things were nothing more than something else I had to clean around. But something that day called to me from under the antique shop’s, sun faded sign. The shop harbored an obviously overcrowded window display. In the window stood out a velvet settee, a silver tea set, on dark wood, rickety tea cart. There was a Victorian doll house in need of repairs and some porcelain dolls staggered around like my grandmother had. Their eyes locked on me but none of it spoke to me, none of it should have even drawn my attention.

I did not plan on entering the shop at all. I had no reason to go in. My apartment, a third floor walk-up, was small as it was. With barely enough room for the furniture I owned and used, I didn’t have room for useless collectibles. The practical person in me told me to walk away; to continue to the coffee shop, then get back to work. That’s what my brain said, but something pulled at me. Something told me to go inside and before I knew it, I found myself walking to the back of the store.

The store smelled of dust with a poor attempt at covering it with something that smelled of pumpkin spice. The floors felt sticky under my feet as I navigated the rows of plates, furniture, and art. I was not sure where I was going but could not seem to stop walking. It was like something had taken over. Then suddenly, my eyes locked on a flicker of gold. As I got closer, I realized it was a medium sized golden mirror.

It sat leaned against the back wall, partially covered with a dusty, muslin drop cloth. It stood about half the size of a dressing mirror. My pulse raced as I pulled back the cloth exposing it fully. It was too dirty and tarnished to make out a reflection. The glass was foggy and covered in so many black spots I doubted it could even be saved. But glass is easy enough to replace. Once again, feeling practical, my brain tried to chime in. Why was I even thinking about how easy it would be to replace the glass in an old mirror? Why did I care? The ornate gold gilt rectangle didn’t match any of my other décor. I didn’t need a mirror. I didn’t even know where I’d put it or what was so special about it. And yet, from the moment I saw it I knew I had to have that mirror.

I wrestled it to the front of the store where an older man with wild grey hair stood behind the counter. The man was disheveled, in a brown tweed jacket and wrinkled pants, the kind of character you would expect to run an antiques store. He didn’t seem surprised when I asked about the mirror but didn’t have any information to give me about its origins. He eagerly told me the price and was already ringing it up before I agreed to take it. His face was stoic and flat as he took my money, but as he handed me my change his dark blue eyes grew wide as they staired piercingly into mine. There was an odd silence. Then, he spoke.

“You’ll have to carry it out yourself,” he said. An obvious tremor to this voice. “I – uh – got a bad back.”

I draped the dusty muslin back over the mirror and grabbed it as best I could. It wasn’t heavy, or even that large, but the size and shape made it awkward to carry. The old man held the door open as I carried it out, then instantly disappeared back into the shop as soon as I crossed the threshold and the door slammed behind me, shop bell ringing as though it may fall off.

I skipped the coffee shop and went straight to my car to place the mirror securely in the trunk. For the rest of the day my mind wandered. I was wholly unproductive and off task as I found myself thinking about the mirror: how to fix it, where to put it, even where it had come from. In no time, it was 5:00 and I was rushing to my car. As if on auto-pilot, I arrived home without any memory of the drive. Instead, I had been polishing the mirror in my mind and thinking about the perfect place to display it.

Once I got it home, I had carefully laid it on the kitchen table. To my surprise, a little soap and water worked wonders. As I wiped away the dust and grime, the mirror took on an alluring shine. The silver backing was missing in places, but it added a hint of charm to the piece. I smiled proudly has I hung it on my living room wall.

As I positioned the mirror, for the first time, I saw myself in the reflection. I didn’t notice the differences at first. As I said, the reflection was almost perfect, but the longer I stared, the deeper I ventured into the uncanny valley. I began to feel disconnected from myself. I studied the reflection that I have come to realize was “not me.” I noted the absence of scars and blemishes. I marveled at how perfectly the hair lay: not a hint of frizz or tinge of gray. There was no furrow in the brow. My gaze moved passed its thick lashes to meet its eyes. Would they have the same tiny glint of gold? Suddenly, I felt a jolt.

Our eyes were locked for only a second before I felt its hands wrapped around my neck. The hands that had looked like mine could now not have been more different. The touch was cold and clammy. “My” fingers, though they appeared in the reflection to be plush and fleshy, felt more like sharpened talons tipped in ice.

With its hands around my neck, “Not me” pulled: clawing and scratching at my throat, forcing me closer and closer to the mirror as I struggled to pull away. The shimmering glass clung to her, its silverly surface stretching around her like an aura. The claw like fingers tightened around my neck. My chest burned as the air in my lungs ran out. Every muscle in my body felt as though it would rip from the struggle. The sounds around me became muffled, replaced with a ringing in my ears. My vison darkened, like the black spots in the mirror, and I saw a distorted version of my face draw closer to mine, its mouth wide like a gaping maw. Panicked, and fighting for my life, I placed my hands on either side of the frame. With a rush of adrenalin, I pushed back as hard as I could, but the reflection still pulled harder. In a final act of desperation, I planted my feet on the wall below the mirror and kicked with all my strength, launching myself out of the grasp. I flew across the room as the hands withdrew into the silver glass. The mirror rocked slightly on the wall as I lay there gasping, my hands clutched to my bruised and bloody throat. Tears streamed down my face. My throat and eye burned. My body spasmed as the muscles tried to relax and my heart rate tried to slow. When my breath finally evened out, I crawled slowly towards the mirror. Too shaken to stand, I looked up from an angle. I only peeked at first, afraid that I’d lock eyes with “not me” again. Then, as I gathered my legs under me, I chanced a closer, longer look. Eventually, I waved my shaking hand in front of the glass. A hand copied, but not mine. My blood was still caked under the jagged and broken fingernails. Trembling, I backed away from the mirror.

I never left the living room that night. Whether from fear or something else, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t let it out of my sight. I sat against the wall on the other side of the room. The few times that sleep forced my eyes closed, I was quickly jerked back awake, and my gaze immediately searched for the mirror. I couldn’t make myself touch it that night.

Over the next few days, I tried to avoid it. When I finally garnered the courage, pulled it off the wall, covered it, and put it outside my apartment door. I told myself I’d take it down to the incinerator on garbage day. It sat there a little more than a day before I felt compelled by a gnawing within me to hang it back on the wall.

After I rehung it, careful not to investigate the reflection, I thought I could leave it covered. I thought the thick towel that hung over the glass would stay until I could make it to the hardware store and buy a new piece of glass. But that didn’t last either. It was only one more day before I pulled the towel down, revealing the bright reflection spotted with evil.

The weeks that followed found me studying the mirror longer and more intently. Before long I was spending hours gazing at the uncanny reflection, all the while avoiding making eye contact.

Days passed. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t shower. I didn’t eat. Eventually, I stopped moving at all. I remained still, full attention pulled toward the ornate gold attraction like a magnet. As the stench of my own filth grew around me, the reflection before me remained unchanged. Though my hair was matted and my skin was oily, “she” reflected seamless beauty. As my life fell to ruin, she sat perfect and unblemished. Tears filled my eyes as I prayed for the strength to look away. If only I could move my feet, will myself to rip the damned thing off the wall and smash it into a million pieces. If only I could resist the pull.

I just wanted it to stop. I wanted to be free of the endless pulling. The constant call begging me to look into the mirror. I couldn’t say if it was the fear, the hunger, or the ache of my muscles that finally shattered my resolve. Weak, pain shot through my legs as I crawled toward the mirror, but my eyes were dry. I was out of tears. Tears were useless anyway. All that mattered was the mirror. I had to reach the mirror. I had to look.

Suddenly, I felt nothing, the pull stopped. The mirror no longer hung before me. Instead, I looked out across my apartment. A woman stood facing me. No, she stood facing a mirror and the mirror showed a reflection that wasn't her own.