Mirror Image

It was approximately four o’clock in the morning, and the girl in Room 217 was having a nightmare. She writhed in her bed, screaming unintelligible strings of words. Her screeches mostly consisted of curses aimed at people and places that, as far as the doctors who treated her knew, did not exist; though, sometimes, she would yell something about reflections and a knife, all of which aforementioned doctors took to be figments of an overly active imagination gone bad.1

The girl was no stranger to nightmares; nor was she unacquainted with misery and suffering. Though she was young—twelve years of age at most—she had experienced a lifetime’s worth of pain.2

She had been nine years old when both her parents were brutally slaughtered in their sleep. The crime was shrouded in a cloak of mystery; the culprit had never been captured. It was also unknown why he had spared the small girl, who was separated from her parents by only a thin wall, and why every mirror in the house had been shattered into a million pieces.3

Though the girl had escaped essentially unscathed physically, her mental condition had been in tatters. Immediately following the event, she had been moved to a rehabilitation center, and for months she had refused to acknowledge anyone and anything, would do nothing but stare, unseeing, into the distance. When she did resurface, it was with little memory and a deathly fear of mirrors.4

She was in no way cured—she drew disturbing pictures of demon-like creatures and refused to relate their meaning or origin to anyone, and would scream inhumanly whenever she caught sight of her reflection in a window; all mirrors had been removed from her ward. She was plagued by horrific nightmares, and, though she told no one of their content in her waking hours, those who dealt with her were fairly certain they had details aplenty from the horrid things she would yell about in her sleep.5

This night was not unlike many others; a crowd of nurses and doctors had congregated around her bed, and were striving to calm her.6

There was, however, one small difference—tonight, there were two figures that had broken off from the group and were having a private conversation of their own, a little way separated from their colleagues.7

They were a doctor and a nurse—Doctor Rayne, a middle-aged, frazzled man who was the girl’s main doctor, and his assistant, Nurse Donovan, a plump, cheery woman whose face betrayed how worried she was at that moment.8

“Are you quite sure?” The nurse questioned; it was an inquiry she had made before. “Do you really think she’s ready?”9

The doctor nodded, his reaction the same as it had been the first time she asked, when he had first conveyed to her his plan. “Yes. Her nightmares are becoming less and less frequent; this was the first one in over a week. It’s a definite improvement. I am certain that she can handle it.”10

“I don’t know,” Nurse Donovan countered dubiously, throwing a glance behind her at the child in turmoil behind her. “I don’t think she is quite prepared to face her fears, especially without warning as you are planning.”11

Doctor Rayne sighed and followed the nurse’s gaze to the girl. “I have my doubts, I admit. But she must do it sometime.”12

“I agree, but…” the nurse trailed off, searching for words. “I just don’t think she’s ready, not yet. What if she lapses back into her impassive phase? That was horrible. I don’t think she wants to go into that again.”13

“That phase was after her parents were murdered,” Rayne pointed out. “I don’t think anything could drive her to do something quite that drastic again.”14

“Perhaps not,” the nurse agreed reluctantly. “But it is my opinion that she is not ready quite yet.”15

Doctor Rayne cast a glance at the child, obscured as she was by consoling adults. “I don’t see how we can put it off any longer,” he sighed. “If we don’t make progress soon, people will start getting suspicious. We don’t want to lose her. I think she is ready—give it about a week, and she will be sufficiently prepared.16

Nurse Donovan exhaled resignedly. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”17

***18

The girl in Room 217 had finished drawing another picture. She stared up at the attendant who had taken her picture, and was now staring at in, confusion and a tad of fear in his eyes. “What is this, sweetie?” he inquired, striving to stay calm.19

The girl almost let the truth slip past her lips, but restrained herself. Just because her mind had gone did not mean she was helpless; she had certainly noticed that sometimes, in some situations, the truth was not best. This was one such situation. “It’s just a drawing,” she answered simply.20

“I see.” The attendant was turning the picture this way and that, obviously attempting to discover its true meaning. “Why is it so dark? There are hardly any colors, just black and red.”21

The girl shrugged, absentmindedly picking at the wrapper on one of her crayons. “I don’t know. I guess I just like those colors.”22

“Of course you do.” The attendant smiled in a manner that the girl had learned was reserved only for those whose sanity was believed to have fled. “Shall I hang it on the wall for you?”23

“No!” The girl burst out, her child’s face contorting into a mask of rage. “You mustn’t hang it on the wall.”24

“Oh.” The attendant hurriedly lowered the picture. “Why is that?”25

“Because they’ll come for me if you do.” Her eyes were wide with fear. “They’re getting stronger. They’re in my mind and they make me draw them, so they can get more powerful.”26

The attendant looked quite startled, but his further interrogation was cut short by the entrance of two people: Doctor Rayne and Nurse Donovan. They both smiled at the girl in the bed, but neither of the smiles reached their eyes.27

“Hello,” Rayne greeted brightly. “How are you today?”28

“Good, thank you.” The girl’s face was clear, blank—she showed no signs of her earlier outburst.29

“That’s very good,” Rayne commented good-naturedly.30

“She drew this picture,” the attendant cut in, showcasing the drawing for Rayne to see. “What do you think it means?”31

Rayne frowned, only slightly, at the sight of the drawing, which was no stranger to him. He had seen the girl draw such things in the past. He glanced at Nurse Donovan, who shook her head frantically, silently pleading with him to abort his plan. He ignored her, however, and turned back to the girl. “We have something very special planned for today,” he told her.32

“Hm?” The girl, obviously, had not been paying a great deal of attention to the conversation going on beside her bed. Instead, she had been very preoccupied with a stain on her smock.33

Rayne shook his head, but did not repeat himself. Instead, he inquired, “How have your dreams been?”34

“Oh,” the girl said. “Nonexistent, I should think. I can’t recall any of my dreams since my last nightmare, last week.”35

“Good, that’s very good,” Rayne stated. “It means you are beginning to let go.” He shot a triumphant glance at Nurse Donovan.36

“What is there to let go of?” the girl wanted to know. “I’m not the one who needs to let go. It’s them who need to let go of me. But I know they won’t.” She sighed forlornly. “They won’t stop until they kill me, just like they killed my parents.”37

The three adults in the room shared a worried glance; they had heard the girl speak like this before, though they had never been able to persuade her to elaborate much further. “Who, dear?” The nurse coaxed hopefully.38

“The people in the mirrors,” the girl responded.39

“Who are the people in the mirror?” Rayne pressed, hopeful.40

“They want to kill me,” the girl repeated. There was no fear in her voice; in was simply a fact.41

“Yes, we know, dear.” The nurse’s voice was devoid of hope. The girl was talking in circles. “I’m very sorry about that.”42

Rayne sighed. “Ah, well. Listen, dear, we have something very special for you today. It’s somewhat of a test, you could say.”43

“They used to give me tests in school,” the girl mused. “I hated them.”44

“This test is a little different,” the doctor clarified. “But we can’t tell you any more about it. It’s a surprise.”45

“I hate surprises,” the girl stated.46

“Come on, sweetie,” Nurse Donovan soothed, taking the girl’s hand in hers. “Just follow me.”47

The girl eyed the nurse’s outstretched hand dubiously. “Will it hurt?”48

“No, of course not. Just follow us.”49

Reluctantly, the girl put her small hand in the nurse’s large one, and allowed doctor and nurse to lead her away from her hospital room.50

***51

“It’s just through here,” Doctor Rayne announced, indicating a nondescript door at the end of a long hall. They made for the door; the girl’s grip on Nurse Donovan’s hand tightened as they drew nearer.52

“Here we are,” the nurse said, prying the girl’s small, thin fingers from her own. “You have to go in here, sweetie.”53

“What’s in there?” the girl demanded once more.54

“Just go in,” Rayne urged.55

Warily, the girl followed his instruction. The doorknob squeaked as she turned it; the door itself creaked from lack of use as it swung open. She looked at the two adults, who stood like sentries behind her, smiling encouragingly. Shaking her head, she stepped into the room.56

The light was insufficient at best. The room was wreathed in shadow, but she could see that the walls were peeling, and perhaps they had once been white, but were now an aged yellowish-brown. The room was sparsely furnished; in fact, she gathered, there was only one thing in the room that could be counted as furniture—a painting hanging on the far wall, though she could see no details, as it was covered in a dark velvety cloth.57

“Hello.” She jumped; she had not seen the man standing in the corner. He looked pleasant, she surmised, if a little nervous; he clutched a clipboard in one hand and a pen in the other.58

“Hello,” she returned, unsure.59

“Don’t be afraid,” the man suggested. “It’s just a test. I’m sure you’ll do fine.” The girl simply nodded, not able to respond verbally; the man seemed to wait for more before accepting that he would get no more response. “I’m going to take this cloth off. Are you ready?”60

“For what?” The girl asked, but received no answer. As the man made his way toward the painting, her mind presented her with a theory: what if a painting was not what the cloth concealed? What if it was…61

“NO!”62

But it was too late, of course—with a flourish, the man had removed the velvet, to reveal the reflective glass—the mirror—beneath.63

The girl screamed, a gut-wrenching sound, as the mirror made itself visible. Why had they done this to her? Did they not know of her fear, after everything they had put her through? What was their purpose?64

The man seemed quite intrigued by the girl’s reaction, but she was no longer paying attention to him. She was staring, wide-eyed and reluctantly entranced, at her reflection in the glass. She was there, of course—her twin, in the mirror, gazed back at her. However, there was something different between the two; subtle, yes, but the girl had seen it too many times to mistake it. It was a glint in the reflection’s eyes, which were a shade darker than the girl’s own, a glint that was absent in the true girl’s eye. It was a glimmer of malice, of evil, and of power.65

The girl’s reflection was not the only thing in the mirror that was not a true replica of its counterpart in the real world—behind the reflected child, seeming to go on forever, was a crowd of demonic beasts, some of which matched those in the girl’s dark drawings. The girl could hear their rhythmic breathing, as one, together, perfectly synchronized. When she looked into their eyes, there was nothing—they were mirror eyes, looking glasses forged within looking glasses, reflecting into oblivion.66

“Welcome back,” her reflection greeted, grinning viciously.67

“No,” the girl murmured, making herself as small as possible, as far away as she could get from the accursed mirror. Why was this happening? When had she shown signs to indicate she was ready for this? They should have listened…68

“Oh, yes,” the reflection contradicted. “It is wonderful to be back. The confines of your mind are so binding—while it is nice to maintain some control, it is not the same without looking at you face-to-face.69

Already the girl could feel her own hold on what was left of her mind loosen—they were regaining control. She mentally cried out as something materialized in her in her hand: she recognized it immediately, knew it by its feel. It was the knife, the one the reflection had the power to create, its only power in the real world.70

The knife that had killed her parents. The knife she had used to kill her parents…under their influence.71

“Kill him,” the reflection urged, a whisper in her mind. “Kill the man. He deserves it. They had pushed you around for so long. Kill him. Take control.”72

“No,” the girl protested, but already she could feel herself inching toward the man. She could hear him screaming, hear him begging for mercy, but felt oblivious to it. She could sense the reflection’s glee and excitement and the prospect of kill, sense its impatience to sink the knife into the man’s flesh. She felt tears streaming down her face, but ignored them.73

She did not look at what she was doing, but she could feel it; feel the knife plunging into the man, hear his screams become weaker, until eventually they sputtered out.74

She opened her eyes; blood was spattered on the walls, angry splashes of red. Her arms, too, were gloved by his blood, as was the knife. Its surface, though stained, glinted at her evilly; she saw her tear-stained reflection there, distorted; she wasn’t sure whether it was inanimate, innocent, or whether it was the thing in her mind.75

“Very good.” She turned her eyes to her reflection, and saw that it looked pleased. “You make me proud.”76

The girl did not answer; a plan was forming in her mind. She knew what she must do to be rid of her phantoms. There was only one thing to do.77

Her reflection, evidently, had come to the same conclusion. “No,” her twin said. “You wouldn’t dare.”78

The girl advanced toward the mirror, the knife raised.79

“It won’t work, you know,” the reflection warned. “We’ll always be with you. You can’t escape us.”80

“I can try,” the girl snarled. “You forced me to kill three innocent people.”81

“It won’t work!” the reflection insisted.82

With a mighty yell, the girl brought her knife down into the mirror. There was a tremendous crashing, shattering noise, as she was showered in a million pieces of reflection. As the mirror exploded, the girl caught sight of her own reflection—it looked scared, and yet fierce: it was her, not her reflection. She had done it.83

She could hear the screams of the dying reflections in her mind. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before—she shrieked along with them, while clamping her hands over her ears.84

And then, suddenly, it was over. She was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, drenched in the man’s blood, her own tears, and the grated dust of the destroyed mirror. She could feel the knife still in her hand, and made no move to drop it. She could hear Rayne and Nurse Donovan fumbling to get in, but made no effort to assist them in their endeavor. She could not bring herself to move.85

The door creaked open; she heard her doctor and nurse screaming and yelling at the sight of the carnage; she felt someone shake her shoulder, but did not respond; someone delicately removed the knife from her hand, she did not protest.86

She did not know how long she laid there, on the floor of the testing room. She did not particularly care. She wondered if she was dead, but doubted it. She did not know what to think.87

Then, there was a voice. It was infinitely small, almost inconceivable, but she heard it. It filled her with a chilling, icy dread that steeled her entire being.88

“I told you it wouldn’t work,” the voice said in a horribly cheerful tone.89

The girl screamed.90