The Reflection

Daylight had passed quickly since he’d begun to trod through the marshy, sodden field, boots getting sucked deeper into the mud with each step. A sullen rain had plastered hair to his head, obscuring his vision. It was a surprise when he’d nearly tripped over the small, dark object embedded in the slick grass - he’d thought it was a jagged rock or broken piece of machinery, but upon closer inspection, the offending item was the corner of a small, rectangular box in an unfinished, deep grey. It was tightly sealed and locked, so he’d tucked it inside his jacket to deal with somewhere drier. He plodded on, in search.

After what felt like hours of looking, his hand clasped a small brass key which was hanging on a piece of brown cord, nailed to the back of a worn fence post; just as it had done for the last 20 odd years. It had taken longer than usual to find the correct post - he hadn’t been here in quite some time, and the dim light of late afternoon didn’t help. Heading hurriedly back to his car, he kicked one boot and then the other against a tire to fling off some of the remaining soil and debris. Shutting the car door immediately drowned out most of the noise from the rain, and he relaxed slightly, sagging against the worn seat and turning on the heater. Although it was heavily clouded, the sky was getting perceptibly darker by the moment, as it did in early Winter. He’d finish the remainder of the drive up the single lane road before inspecting the box.

At the top of the hill, a two-story house stood outlined against the murky sky. It had slate blue shingles and white trim that was starting to peel, but the walls and pitched roof remained steadfast, as they had through many instances of worse weather. He was admittedly quite curious about the metal box, and jogged from the car to the covered porch, unlocking the old, wooden door with clammy fingers.

The house smelled faintly of dust and stale air, but looked largely the same as he remembered. The entrance had a small sitting room to the immediate left, and to the right, an open kitchen with a large wooden table in the center. His uncle Taft had left him the house upon his recent passing, in addition to $20,000 and a small but beautiful parcel of land surrounding it which he was very grateful to have; there had been no mention of any buried treasure in his uncle’s will. Then again, the box could be older than that - he thought back to who had owned the land before his family, but had no real recollection of who that may have been, although he had heard stories of odd occurrences in the surrounding area as a child. The last years of Taft’s life had left him withered and frail, almost as if he had been slowly drying up from the inside out.

He gazed at the box over steepled fingers for a time while seated at the table, and was then surprised when the box broke cleanly at the lock with one determined strike of a hammer. Examining the lock, he noticed it had started to rust, which must have considerably weakened the metal. His initial reaction was slight disappointment - the contents contained a single small, black notebook. He gingerly picked it up, curiosity returning as he imagined what must be important enough that it was locked up and buried in a remote plot of land. Opening the cover, he read the first line of text and his skin prickled at his spine. “MY TRUE WILL AND TESTAMENT,” it pronounced, in wiry capital letters, his uncle’s signature below.

Franklin Taft had been an isolated man in his old age, rarely leaving home save for bi-weekly trips into the small town at the bottom of the hill for food and supplies. He had always been a fairly kind uncle during their sporadic visits over the years - engaging in games of checkers from time to time, although not very forthcoming about his own life and more prone to listening than talking. He had a thin smile that would tug at the corners of his mouth, but never burst into laughter or seemed very lively. Thus, it was very strange to see his uncle’s scrawled hand in the small notebook, without any context as to why. As far as he knew, the will that had been read by his uncle’s attorney had been accurate and whole.

There were several lines of text on the following page, the first reading as follows: “Nephew, you have your inheritance as I am now dead and buried. However, you have not yet earned it. At the back of the property, behind the house facing North, is a small clearing of trees. Wait there tonight at the first hour of the new day.” The words were clear enough, but he had trouble letting their meaning sink in. Was this some sort of final joke? It didn’t seem like something his uncle would do, not having a grand sense of humor in life. In the end, he decided he had nothing to lose than to wait in the clearing and see what, if anything, would happen. He could then say he’s followed his uncle’s wishes, and go to bed after his long day of travel.

There was no wind as he stood among the tall pines that evening, and the rain had given way to a sliver of a moon peeking through wispy, trailing clouds. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, letting the minutes go by and not seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. He blew his breath out in exasperation, the cold air turning it visible and silvery for a moment against the backdrop of darkest green needles. It was then that he noticed a shadowy figure standing in the trees directly ahead of him, half covered, and still. Slightly taken aback, he called out in uncertainty, hoping to gauge who he was dealing with. The figure did not reply, but instead, took a slow, even step forward.

When the figure had cleared the trees enough for the meager moonlight to reveal its identity, his stomach lurched down and every sense he had began to shriek in alarm. The figure was still at least 20 paces away, but there could be no mistaking who it was - his own face, body, and clothes were reflected back at him in perfect, terrible similarity. What made it somehow worse was its expression; a frozen, toothy smile and penetrating, unblinking eyes.

The urge to run was overpowering, but he found that his body was locked in the unyielding grip of his reflection’s gaze. It made no effort to quicken its step, but kept the steady and even pace as it closed the distance between them. Eyes streaming as he continued to look ahead in terror, he watched as his reflection got impossibly close, closer still, and then felt the unique sensation of the shadow crossing through his skin, and spreading outward inside his flesh, from fingertip to toe. He shuddered, dropping to his knees, and was overcome with a terrible sucking feeling coming from the core of his body.

His mind was racing faster than it ever had before, thoughts going this way and that, and all he could think was that this couldn’t possibly be happening - even as he felt the steady ebb of his life force being slowly, patiently drained away, almost as if he was drying up from the inside.

Minutes or hours passed like that, paralyzed as the thing adjusted its position inside his center, but he slowly began to feel his faculties returning. Dazed and sick, he made his way to standing and began to stagger back towards the house - he was terribly thirsty, and he had the overpowering urge to find some sort of shelter. Small, morning birds were singing as the sky lightened to a palest blue, a cheerful cacophony that filled him with incredulous rage. He crawled into the upstairs bed, unable to sleep, and stared at the yellowing wall.

A handful of days passed in a hazy blur, consisting of eating, drinking, and trying to make sense of his new reality. He found that he could express himself in small, insignificant ways, but the thing coiled in his chest would not allow for him to have too much agency of will - talking seemed to take the most energy, as did the very idea of running. Almost as if by habit, his mouth would twitch up at the corners from time to time, although he had no inclination to smile. He sat at the large kitchen table once more, his hands unfolding the worn checkerboard and assembling the pieces. Should he be black or white?