THE MIRROR

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Written by Ashly Damon

Edited by Bradley Bell

The eyes stared.

These things had been staring at me for some time, oh yes. Never stopped really, they only took a break when I did, to blink, yes, yet never stopping its focus.

Mimicking eyes.

Such brilliant things of white and blue steel gazed out at me with a focus not unlike the sun’s rays, ever glaring. It had mimicked my face too, frowning when I did, almost tearing at the sides when I laughed or screamed. Only when I tried to test the mirror image did this happen.

I am not mad, not at all.

If I can prove what this thing is, then yes, I will be proven sane.

The fact of the matter is that I have locked myself in my study for three days now just to prove this point. Oh there have been some crude remarks from people who cannot understand, that is perfectly understandable. But I know there is something within this mirror, and am determined to prove it.

I had acquired this office desk and mirror some time ago at an auction. I had heard it belonged to quite an eccentric writer whom often found inspiration within his own reflection, fortunate for me he had passed on and its value would surely grow if not seized now. It has always been a fond hobby of mine to collect unique furniture. This seemed to fit the bill perfectly.

So all was fine, for a time, and a novelty was hung around this tall office desk and mirror, that is until I began my writing. I would sit there for hours and fill out my due paperwork, seemingly alone, that is until I noticed it.

To any other eye it would have been imperceptible, but mine is a finely tuned thing! I would occasionally glance up at myself and whisk my beard, and for a fraction of a second after, as I put my hand and eyes down back to continue writing, I would see my hand sit on my chin still in the mirror. Instantly my eyes would shoot back up to check, as one does, but my reflection was perfectly fine.

So I thought myself to be daft.

Six months passed of this occasional slow reflection until I decided to ask someone for advice. I brought in a friend, and made them sit at the office table with the mirror to see if they saw strange like I had.

The answer was no, and worded to make myself sound daft and strange of mind.

I began to investigate this eccentric writer to whom it once belonged. As it had turned out, the auctioneers hadn’t told me the complete story when they sold it to me. The previous owner had ended his own life before this mirror.

I began to fret over such a thing, perhaps it was haunted.

“If you feel you need to get rid of it then do so! This peculiarity growing in you is concerning.” A friend had said to me.

“No, it only adds to its value. As a collector it would be a waste for me to throw this away. Would you want it?” To which the answer would always be no, and not at all to do with the price I was asking for.

One evening I was doing my office work and I noticed a movement in the corner of my eye. In the mirror a bottle of ink had been knocked over. I looked to my own to see it was still standing up.

A shiver ran down my spine.

Black ink crawled up the mirror to form letters.

It pronounced “MINE”.

I fell back off my chair and staggered away from it with my hand to my mouth, clearly horrified.

Soon it occurred to me that it must want to possess my body. The thoughts of it began to possess me; I wouldn’t leave the house, intent on sitting in front of that damn mirror! Isolation came easy for me; nobody else cared for me but my collectables.

I ran out of food, still I sat at that mirror, watching the movements completely fascinated by it. Terrified and fascinated at the same time. And yes, I had tried to destroy it in a moment of panic – it proved to be a resilient piece of glass.

And here I am, with my fingers pressing down hard on the mat of my office table, my eyes intent on that mirror.

“You will not have my body, you madman you, oh yes. My body, for me, not for you.”

The wild stranger within that mirror I had come to despise.

I felt his eyes burning into my own.

“Go away, yes, go away now. I am tired of you, I am sick of you, go away go away!” I grasped the mirror with both hands. I lifted it up and threw it against the ground.

Yet it did not smash.

Any remaining terror left within me was released. I screamed at the top of my lung, my feet dashing wildly at the mirror, the man inside it dancing up and down under my feet.

Perhaps the most terrifying of all was the moment when he stopped dancing. His eyes pulled back and his lips spread into a hideous smile. He knelt down and grabbed hold of my foot. I tried to yank it away to no avail.

I cried out in anguish as I was pulled in.

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