The Haunted Mirrors by Suzanne LaBounty

As Harry Plotznik's station wagon bounced up the driveway to park behind the moving van, his wife erupted from the house, shaking her fist and hollering at him. Carole, normally a mild, willowy woman, appeared furious, and this surprised Harry.

With the car windows closed, Harry could not hear her as she marched across the lawn to him, yet he did not roll down his window, but only switched off the engine. And there, from the relative safety of his front seat, he ran a nervous finger over his thin mustache and reviewed his recent history for anything he might have done to inspire such spousal rage.

Everything had been fine three hours ago when he'd let Carole off at the house to clean before the arrival of the real estate agent. He pictured his wife as he'd left her, blissfully cleaning the kitchen, while the movers, Marv Felton and his assistant, had carried Aunt Maddie's furniture out to their van. As agreed, Harry'd spent the morning in town with Aunt Maddie's lawyers. So that, as of this morning - the last papers signed, and probate done - the house was officially his.

There had been no surprises, no disappointments. He had not dallied on his way back to the house. He had not flirted with anyone, nor made any unwarranted purchases. As a matter of course, Harry mentally ran down a list of important auto-biographical dates, birthdays and anniversaries and such, and this was not one of them. The Realtor was not due for another hour, so Harry was not late.

Thus, unable to identify any fault of his own that would justify such an excess of wrath as his wife now evinced on the lawn, shouting like a madwoman outside his car window, Harry now began to fear she might be disturbing the neighbors. And as an insurance salesman from Toledo, Ohio, Harry knew the commercial value of maintaining a solid reputation. One must always appear reliable. It was no excuse that he and his wife were now in Pennsylvania, hundreds of miles from their own home and would never see these neighbors again. Public upsets like this were not to be encouraged.

So, Harry, a little man with a big nose and hairy forearms, opened the car door and promptly banged his forehead on the door carriage on his way out. Embarrassed by his clumsiness, Harry rubbed the rising welt on his forehead and fiercely turned to face his wife.

But Carole was taller, and angrier, in slacks and a sweat shirt and pink rubber cleaning gloves, and while she had backed off to let him out of the car, she was coming straight at him again. Her eyebrows were shoved together. Her eyes shone with rage. Her wide mouth worked madly, making shrill noises that were surely intended to hurt his ears. Harry stepped back against the car, his arm raised in a gesture of defense, and still she came at him. She was hollering about the dog.

The dog? Harry lowered his arm. Barclay? What about Barclay? He adored Barclay. The truth be told, Harry thought Barclay was far superior to his wife in almost every way.

Carole speared him with a murderous look. What about Barclay? she sneered. Her lips curled into a vicious smirk and Harry had just enough time to note the gray hairs in her normally brown locks, and her skin, usually taut and tan, was now remarkably pallid. In fact, it sagged from the bones of her face, etched, he saw, in fine, black wrinkles. And just as he wondered what on earth had happened to his wife in the three short hours he had been gone, she lunged at him again so that he jumped back.

Don't you listen to me? she hissed. Don't you listen to anything I say. That's what I've been trying to tell you! Where's Barclay? he cried. Carole pulled off the pink rubber cleaning gloves, one snapping finger at a time, and for a moment she looked like she was going to slap him across the face with them, but she said, Your dog is in the house. Wait! Give me the car keys first!

What for? he asked. He was already trotting toward the house. The Realtor will be here - GIVE ME THE CAR KEYS, HARRY! Carole screamed this in her loudest voice. That stopped him cold. Nearly stopped his heart, too, it was so un-Carole-like. He turned to her, his eyes wide, already fishing the keys out of his pocket.

I can't take it anymore, Harry, she said, lowering her voice. I hate this place. It does things to people. It makes people - see things. I'll be right back, Harry. Don't worry, I just want some air. Just give me the car keys and go save your dog!

Save my dog? Harry threw her the car keys and ran into the house. Carole drove off without looking back.

Unfortunately for Harry, the house into which he heroically dashed was not a friendly place. Within was a warren of dim passageways and dark rooms, a casbah of switchbacks and wrong angles, where Harry's reclusive maiden-aunt, Madeleine Plotznik, had spent her entire adult life.

He stopped in the near dark of the foyer, wondering which way to go, and for the first time he felt the wrongness of the place. The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in a large oval mirror that hung on the wall to his left. Fouled by the antique's murky surface, Harry's frightened white eyes stared back at him. To his horror, he found he could not look away. His eyes were locked, trapped, on his own pale face while the mirror's ornate frame seemed to shudder to life and slither like snakes around his reflection.

Harry struggled like a fish on a hook, making little strangled sounds. With Herculean effort, he tore his gaze away, and stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest. When he looked back, the snakes had stopped. They were brass curlicues again. With shaking hands, he propped the front door open for light and left the foyer in search of his dog.

The living room carpet was threadbare. There was nothing left of Aunt Maddie's life but stains. If you wanted to be rude, and did not count the cats, no one cared that Aunt Maddie was dead. Although she had been a pretty and pleasant woman when young, she had not aged well. In the end, at only fifty-six, she was a wrinkled old hermit who kept to her vicious self. Barely in charge of his fear, Harry, her only living relative, peered down the mouth of the dim hallway that was the main artery of the house. He could feel he was not wanted there. He wondered if it was Aunt Maddie in the house, angry at him for removing her furniture and adopting out her cats? Or was it something else?

The front door slammed shut behind him.

He spun around to find the culprit, but he was alone. For a blood-pounding moment Harry stared at the door, unable to think, then he heard Barclay barking upstairs. He turned and sprinted toward the sound. Down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the back bedroom where he found the Irish Setter's barking coming from behind a closed bathroom door.

Fighting panic, Harry steeled himself for a fight. Expecting an intruder, an animal, or worse - expecting to be jumped at - he reached out and tentatively twisted the doorknob, quickly pulling his hand back. When nothing took his arm off, he pushed the door inward a few inches with his finger tips. Nothing happened. The dog kept barking. So, as quickly as he could manage it, he pushed the door wide open and risked a peek inside.

The lights were off in the bathroom. He could just make out Barclay growling at a spot above the sink. Then fear washed over Harry as he realized the mirror was above the sink. The old dog was at war with something in the bathroom mirror, his hackles up, bristling with rage and fright.

Nerves on fire, Harry edged into the room, found the light switch on the wall. At his touch, the single fluorescent bar above the mirror blinked on and off, fighting for life - tink-tink-tink-tink! - casting the room in a spiteful blue haze that popped and sizzled like paparazzi cameras.

Harry called to the dog, ordered him to heel, but Barclay would not be distracted from the mirror. So Harry was forced farther into the bathroom. He kept his eyes lowered. Above all, he did not want to look into the mirror. Yet, peripherally, he could not help but see his reflection move in the glass beside him.

He forced himself to focus on the dog, whistling to it, calling its name, but his gaze was inexorably drawn to the looking glass. It drew his eyes to it like a magnet draws metal. And there he was again, stuck, looking like a corpse in the blue-white glare. As his gaze locked once more on his own frightened face and he realized he had fallen right back into the same trap, his reflection abruptly drained away into the glassy skin of the mirror. Then the bathroom behind him seeped away until the empty glass glowed like moonstone.

Terrified, hypnotized, Harry saw smoke now, thick and white,curling in that netherworld on the other side of the glass. In the roiling haze, a creature the size of a man was taking shape. A foul thing, a devil thing. A horned thing that once fully formed leaned forward through the smoke. It leered at him. Mocked him with yellow eyes and bared fangs, then vanished with a leap into the mist.

More shapes crowed up against the mirror. Pale, naked men and women pressing up against the glass. Savage, witless, their hungry eyes fixed on Harry.

And one of them was his Aunt Maddie.

With a cry born of pure horror, the was spell broken. Harry grabbed Barclay by his collar and pulled him out of the room, banging the door shut behind them. They raced downstairs together. And when Harry opened the kitchen door, Barclay fled to the remotest part of the back yard where he sat beneath a tree, looking relieved and miserable and stunned, all at once.

Harry followed the dog outside but before he could close the back door, it wrenched itself out of his hand and slammed itself shut at his heels. So, bewildered, his heart mad with fright, Harry joined his dog under the tree. They sat on the grass together and considered the house and their harrowing escape from it.

It was a nice summer day in western Pennsylvania. Fluffy white clouds dozed in a merry blue sky. A gentle breeze cooled their faces, so that the apparitions in the mirror were difficult to trust. Indeed, from their vantage point at the far end of the lawn, the white house seemed quite ordinary. Appealing, really, with the ivy trim running up the chimney and all. Nary a hint of the nightmare awaiting inside.

After frowning at the house for a while this way, toying with his Errol Flynn mustache, Harry began to wonder if his Aunt Maddie's soul might have somehow been trapped by the evil thing in the mirror. He recalled all those other ghastly faces. Were they prisoners, too?

An insane question, of course, but it nagged at him: Was his Aunt Maddie a prisoner in the mirror? Finally, although Harry did not like it one bit, he stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. You stay here, he told Barclay. I'm having another look in that mirror. The dog, although worried, did not argue.

Harry opened the screen door gingerly. Inside, the house was ominously silent. Ready to jump out of his own skin, he sneaked up the back stairs, feeling noisy and vulnerable. In the bedroom, he found the bathroom door standing wide open. Within, the fluorescent light buzzed and blinked. Harry inched forward, not looking at the mirror. The bathroom corners were so dark they might have been piled with coal. On his left, the tub was a pale outline in the murk. Finally, when he was all the way in and stood beside the sink, Harry gathered his courage and turned full-on to the looking glass.

His wide-eyed reflection stared back.

For a moment, all appeared normal. Just himself, the empty bathroom behind him, the tiles on the wall, the curtainless shower rod. Harry was the only thing that moved. Puzzled, he leaned over the sink for a closer look. The fluorescent light tinked! - and he was staring right into the creature's yellow eyes!

Before Harry could pull back, the thing reached out of the mirror, grabbed his neck, and shook him. Shook him like a rag doll. Shook him until his tongue lolled from his mouth and blood roared in his ears. Shook him until his knees gave way and he fell to the floor.

The creature in the mirror howled with laughter.

Harry scrambled back against the tub. A dozen gray faces rose up in the mirror, laughing, screeching at him. Around and around the smirking demon, the naked people danced. And there was Aunt Maddie. Oh, there could be no doubt about it, a young, beautiful, blue-skinned Aunt Maddie, bloodless and mindless now, gibbering and pointing at him.

He rose to his feet. The figures in the mirror dissolved, the laughter faded. He was left staring at his own reflection. But now it was a changed reflection. Why, how handsome he looked in the mirror now! As he watched, his hair thickened. His chin grew stronger - aye, more manly. His nose straightened until it was barely his nose anymore. And beneath their newly arched eyebrows, his eyes shone with a fresh intelligence that demanded admiration. This, Harry thought, was a face with instant credibility!

He bent over the sink to more closely examine himself in the mirror. Yes, there! Even the welt on his forehead was gone! Harry blinked in wonder at his reflection, much like Narcissus must have blinked at his.

Suddenly, the demon leaped up in the mirror! Its scaly fist came right out of the mirror and punched Harry full in the face! Harry sat down hard on the floor as the creature howled with laughter. Then the light winked out. Tink! And Harry was alone in the dark.

Harry pulled himself over and sat on the commode. His nose was bleeding. The front of his face blossomed in pain. After a moment of glum review on the toilet seat, Harry decided that even if his Aunt Maddie was a victim in the mirror, he was at a loss as to what do about it. On the bright side, he supposed, she certainly seemed to be having fun in there. She'd been as madly inflamed as the rest of them, and she'd never looked better.

His head crowded with macabre thoughts, Harry left the room by crawling on all fours past the vanity, out of sight of the mirror that glowed on the wall like a moonstone. On his way back down, he was sure some unseen evil rushed by him on the stairs. Knocking the breath out of him, it filled him with a sudden dread for Barclay's well-being. He sped down the stairs after it.

But his dog was not in the backyard. Not in the side yard either. He ran around to the front of the house, calling the dog's name, coming close to hysteria. He ran into what looked like a party in the driveway. Marv Felton, the rangy mover with the big ears, was leaning against the front of Harry's car. Carole and Barclay were sitting on the hood. Marv was talking, Carole was laughing. They had cans of beer and a big Styrofoam cooler at their feet.

Everybody looked over as Harry rushed breathlessly into sight.

Oh, for crying out loud, cried Carole, sliding off the hood. Marv, won't you look at his? Oh, Harry, look at yourself, your nose is bleeding! Here, honey, put an ice cold beer on that eye! She rummaged around in the cooler, then approached him with a beer. Now before you say anything, I know how I wasn't going to drink anymore unless it was a special occasion. I know I promised. I know how we talked about it, honey, but today I really needed a drink. That's all I could think about today, a drink. They looked at each other. She said, I'll get a tissue for your nose.

Marv Felton's arm was in a sling and the man's lower lip was fat. He looked older, too. Harry frowned as he examined the mover. He would've bet good money Marv's salt-and-pepper hair had been jet black that morning. Marv was looking right back at him, amused. You looked in one of them mirrors, too, didn't you, Mr. Plotznik? Sure you did! Look at yourself! You've aged ten years.

Carole looked Harry and gave him a Kleenex. He's right, Harry. You look like an old man now. Then we'll be like matching bookends, dear. He glanced pointedly at her newly gray hair. To Marv, he said, Did you look, too?

Did I look in a mirror? Oh, yeah. Marv held up his arm in its sling. Oh, yeah.

And did it - hit you?

Knocked me flat.

That made Harry feel better because Marv was a pretty big guy who looked like he could take care of himself. Your assistant is all right?

Yeah, Marv laughed, he was the only one with any sense. He high-tailed it out of here the moment it all started. Harry popped open his beer and took a swig. What was it, do you think?

The Devil, Carole said, and the dull way she said it made the men feel bad for her. As awful as the ordeal had been for them, it must've been worse for thin, toothy Carole. She smiled wistfully. But didn't we all look great in there for a while? I mean, I sure did! I could've looked in that mirror forever, if it had let me. For a moment, at the end, before it threw me out, I was so beautiful! I was like a blue fairy princess. Did that happen to you, too?

Both men nodded. Then Marv said, I never looked like no blue fairy princess though. They laughed. Then the dog barked. A white Lincoln Navigator pulled to the curb in front of the house.

Oh, my gosh! cried Carole, setting down her beer, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The snobby Realtor! Oh, no! How do I look? Geez, I hate this woman!

Marv guffawed. A Realtor? You gotta be kidding! Who'd want to live here?

But Carole was standing and smoothing her hair. Why, lots of people would pay good money to live in a real haunted house, Marv. You see it all the time on television. Harry did not want to be associated with a scandal, especially a supernatural one. He caught his wife's arm.

Listen, let's not tell the real estate lady anything. You know, about what's inside the house. Okay, Carole? Let's, I dunno, let's just see what happens. Maybe nothing will happened to her.

A haunted house, huh? Marv was saying. Well, maybe someone might want to live in a haunted house, but I don't think what's going on in there qualifies as a haunting. Do you, Mr. Plotznik?

Harry blinked at him. What do you mean?

Well, those weren't exactly ghosts we saw in those mirrors, were they?

They were demons, Carole said in a small voice. She pulled her arm out of Harry's grasp. But I think you're right, Harry. I think we need to sell this place quick. Maybe little Miss Know-it-all-real-estate-agent won't look in the mirrors. Or notice anything wrong.

Yeah, sure, maybe Old Nick will behave himself, said Marv. Although, I gotta admit, it didn't attack me until I went to move the mirror in the foyer. And nothing happened to me until I was cleaning the mirror in the bathroom. Everything was just fine until I sprayed it with Windex. Carole stopped with a dreamy look, evidently remembering her fairy-princess self.

Well, what about me? Harry asked. It attacked me right off.

Maybe it just didn't like you, Harry, Marv laughed.

You're the one selling the place, Carole said. Maybe it knew that.

Before they could decide, the Realtor sailed toward them, a tall, pushy woman with platinum hair and expensive sun glasses and a smile crafted to instantly assert her superiority. Ignoring the dog on the hood of the car, she ran her eyes up Harry and down Marv. Bad day? she wanted to know.

Marv snorted and rolled his eyes. Lady, you wouldn't believe.

She turned to Carole who looked a bit wobbly but who was trying her best to smile. Shall we go to work, Mrs. Plotznik? Without waiting for a reply, the Realtor turned to the house and launched into her standard spiel. The driveway had cracks. The lawn needed mowing. The front steps were a little off kilter. The porch should be painted, something bright, she thought.

The farther she got from them, the louder she spoke. At the foot of the stairs, she stopped and called, I know a wonderful gardener. He's expensive, but he's a dream! Shall I have him call you?

The three of them only stared at her from the driveway, so she moved onto the porch. Curb appeal is half the battle, you know. New porch lamps, a nice flower arrangement here by the door would be good. Something, I don't know, Mediterranean would be fun. She opened the front door and said, We need to go inside, you know. I'm sure to have more suggestions for you inside.

You go ahead, Carole called. I'll be right there.

Make yourself right at home, Marv yelled, grinning.

The Realtor frowned and went inside.

This is a mistake, Harry whispered. We should have told her.

She'd never believe us, Harry, Marv said.

She'd think we're crazy, Carole agreed.

She already thinks we're classless and stupid, Marv said. Hey, I bet you five bucks she runs out of there screaming. Anybody?

Well, let's hope she runs out of there at all, Harry said darkly. Let's hope it let's her leave. They all thought about that and drank, and talked in whispers.

When half an hour had passed, the three of them went looking for the Realtor. They edged through the front door in a jittery clump. They found her body in the upstairs bathroom, crumpled in a pool of blood, while raucous laughter issued from the empty mirror.

Welcome home! was written in blood on the glass. And as they read the message, the blond Realtor rose up on the other side of the mirror, undead, blue-skinned, wild-eyed. She pressed her naked body against the glass, and Carole fainted.

The mirror went blank.

The authorities came and the house behaved itself. The Realtor's death was ruled a suicide. She had slashed her wrists, they said.

A week later Harry had the house torn down and all the mirrors melted. The property sits vacant to this day.


The Haunted Mirrors
©2008 Suzanne LaBounty

Reproduced by kind permission of Suzanne LaBounty

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