Voice in the Mirror

Part One of a gothic novella

This novella is taken from a collection of gothic tales written by Lynette McClenaghan. The collection is called Voice in the Mirror and is available as Kindle only from your Amazon store.

VOICE IN THE MIRROR

Chapter 1

He left the house, fleeing the refuge it offered from this frozen Saturday afternoon as the mercury continued to drop. Damien abandoned the family court case he would be involved in on Monday, representing one of the aggrieved partners of a bitter and convoluted battle. It was much the same as any other case, and the staple of his work, except, despite intending to wrap this brief up before nightfall his progress stalled. His mind wandered to thoughts of Amber, his new flame, and plans that evening, beginning with Gerard’s party. Then he was disrupted by that same presence, clinging to the walls. It closed in on him. He struggled for breath, becoming light-headed; the focus on his work evaporating.

Trapped in a tightly bound circuit containing minute sub-points of Subject A’s matrimonial dispute, thoughts of Marianna and what passed, then what tonight with Amber might deliver. He was forced to leave the house’s cloying atmosphere. His tetchiness reached exploding point as he swung from being drowsy and bored working on Subject A’s litigation, to retreating to his master chef’s kitchen to make successive extra strong espressos from the Lavazza barista. The kitchen was over warm for a cool day. After making the last coffee he craved a smoked ham sandwich.

He switched the sandwich maker on, was assembling his creation when he flushed red. Sweat spread over his face, neck then down his body, saturating his clothes until he burned hot. He whipped off his jumper, threw it aimlessly at the gadget. Seconds later the smell hit him; he turned instinctively and saw the smoke oozing from his jumper. Snatching it up he said, ‘Damn! I’m out of here.’ He yanked the plug from the wall and dumped the unmade snack into the bin. As he stormed through the door a soft sigh breathed through the room; cool air chilled his sweaty body.

The dining room’s coolness initially offered a refuge and the reprieve he needed to press on with the case. He read and recalled his client’s insistence that her estranged husband return the family dog. He picked up the document, slammed it onto the table and shouted at the wall, ‘This is horseshit! She’s got the house, the kids, the antiques and now she wants his confounded dog.’ Wait it gets even better, she’s bleating that the kids cry themselves to sleep from missing the mutt. At this point I’d want to smack her prissy little face. Whoa, whoa; you’re getting way too emotional here!

It was definitely time to leave the case and the house that had waxed moody all morning. He turned his back on the mess of papers spread over the table before his attention switched back to a faint sound that hit his right ear. Stray papers blown from the table floated through the air as discarded autumn leaves before touching the floor with one last rustle. His pace picked up momentum as he stepped from the room, closed the door, raced down the stairs. The biting chill of early winter rushed at him as he opened the door, grappling to force it from his hand; hitting him with a more fierce blast once he closed the door. He walked along the path, remote in his hand ready to strike at the garage door. The wind lashed at him, pushing vigorously, forcing him to step sideways to correct his balance.

Once in the car and out of the driveway he raced along the network of streets to the main road. Turning right and wildly onto the road the car careered into the traffic followed by a blast from the driver he cut off and came too close to. He accelerated, whipping the car along the road, nudging ahead of cars in the main shopping strip of the middle-class eastern suburb he lived in. Escaping the main drag he pulled away from the markers of civilisation. He passed the last crossroad managed by traffic lights at the edge of the busy suburban hub, the cluster of road signs then the 80 km limit finally giving him licence to speed up. He pumped the car; it gasped, lurched gutlessly, leapt over the road before finding harmony with it then slid smoothly along it.

Traffic thinned out; Damien threw caution to the road rules forcing the aged BMW ten, twenty, thirty kilometres over the limit. The road narrowed to a single lane; the footpaths became unmade dirt tracks attached to the roughened edges of the road. It dropped beneath the car without warning, flattened, transforming into a sweeping curve. The car left the road scratching over the gravel then fishtailing dramatically. Damien grappled with the wheel to return the car to the bitumen. It resisted, skidding recklessly over the rough and smooth surfaces until it careered across to the opposite side of the road. Damien swung the wheel into the opposite direction to avoid a car that appeared almost from nowhere.

He slowed down as he approached the foothills of the massive mountain range in the distance. The road flattened again, the breeze quietened; surrounding foliage that draped over the road became still and solemn. The prickly demeanour that followed him from the house had dissipated and now he felt strangely alone. The odd car travelling in the opposite direction passed almost without notice. Damien couldn’t recall whether he had turned off the main road. Wondering how long he’d been driving from the travails of the day, he checked the clock on the dashboard: it read 15.30. He guessed he’d been driving for half an hour or more. He glanced in the rear-view mirror; distant cars turned off the road or crept along slowly closing the gap that stretched behind him. He looked ahead at the empty road, swung the car in a neat U-turn away from the mountain range.

Damien was relieved that it would be too late to continue with Subject A’s litigation when he returned home, but felt strangely jaded and defeated at the thought of bucking up to make a good impression on his date. Given that he resolved to abandon the case for the afternoon he didn’t feel pressured to hurry home. He glanced at the speed limit sign reading 80km, checked his own speed – at 20km below the limit he could afford to give it some stick. Still outside the rim of suburban civilisation he was yet to hit the sweeping and undulating stretch that had given him grief. And now driving at a more moderate pace it would be a breeze to navigate.

The signs ahead indicated a drop in speed, a slippery when wet and winding road ahead. He was prepared for the first curve until the tyres screeched, barely holding the road. He removed his foot from the accelerator to avoid encountering the same hairy experience. Again it struck him as odd that he was alone on the road, or had he simply been oblivious to the traffic sharing the road? He hit the dip, a sharp left propelled the car and it leapt forward, accelerating. In terror he pounded the brake pedal trying to slow the car before he crashed or again was forced onto the other side of the road. Only this time he might not be so fortunate. Suddenly the roar of the engine dropped; he pulled over onto the tight verge then stopped the car. He pulled the lever to flip open the bonnet. Bracing himself to check the car’s mechanics, he shut his eyes and took several deep breaths.

In the past hour he’d lost control over the car. Shaken and peeved he couldn’t comprehend how he’d skated off the road. He was 100% sober. Since Marianna’s death, funeral and inquest he’d hit the bottle for the first few months, then toughened up and had been in control of his alcohol consumption for the past six months. Now paranoid, Damien trawled through his mind trying to piece together when he had the last drink: Last night before eight – quitting after two Heinekens – left as the others drank on at the Den. It was the same crowd from the Family Law practice he had worked at over the last three years. They teamed up with other legal practices at the same Friday night watering hole: The Lion’s Den.

For eighteen months Damien encountered Amber in the foyer of the building they worked in, stepping in and out of the lift with a nod and smile, then they met formally at the Den.

He threw his hands up in the air: Hell – I’d have to be more sober than a minister. And not for the first time he was the first to leave as the others ribbed him. Gerard, tonight’s party boy, shouted: Saving yourself for tomorrow night on my tab?

Damien recalled flushing embarrassment: Another snippet of information, piece of the puzzle to give Amber the impression that would instruct her to give up on me. Dismiss him as too complicated to become mixed up with. He bucked up with the thought of taking Amber to the party, announcing to Gerard and their colleagues that they were an item. Time to attend to practicalities – stuff up tonight – Amber will fall off the radar.

Damien stepped out of the car to examine it. He looked, tapped and wriggled the mechanics under the bonnet, finding nothing out of order. He shrugged, returned to the car determined to drive home with extra caution. He started the engine, the car moved, smooth and powerful in the manner he was accustomed to. Following the travails the day delivered he was going to appreciate the solitude of the road and surrounding bush before he hit the clutter of the suburban landscape. The sky brightened flushing a spray of weak late afternoon winter sun through bare branches of deciduous trees. Damien smiled inwardly: Perhaps this is an omen that fortune will prove favourable tonight.

The car picked up speed effortlessly and without drama as if being propelled forward by a playful wind, delivering the exhilarating sensation of being pushed on a swing sweeping through the sky. Had he accelerated without realising? No! He was certain, absolutely certain that he drove cautiously. The speed gained momentum as the car hurtled along the road. He glanced at the speedometer registering over 100 and climbing. He entered another bend. As he recalled this was the last stretch of winding road until hitting the edge of suburbia. Desperate to slow the car down, he pounded the brake pedal several times.

The car screeched along the bitumen. It bounced, slid and fishtailed along the road in a more violent and dramatic manner than before. He checked the rear mirror; in the far distance he caught the blurred image of a red car. His attention flicked to the side mirrors; on the driver’s side a shadow fell over the car. When his attention returned to the road, the car still careering wildly, he saw a succession of cars approach from the opposite direction. Without warning the trusty BMW slammed to a stop.

On impulse, he bounded out of the car. From the side of the road he surveyed the traffic which passed unremarkably without appearing to notice him or the manner in which his car was skewed across the side of the road; the rear poking out. He circled the car checking it out for damage. How extraordinary! He noted the crunched number plate, bent fender, and a bump on the bonnet; pushed in as though punched. A cold gust passed over him, followed by warm breath rustling over his neck, then a single human sigh. Another exaggerated sigh drew a breath before being replaced by the short rasping breaths of a runner.

Damien bolted back into the car, slammed the door shut catching the edge of his stylish trench coat in the door. He shoved the key into the ignition, his hand trembling as he flipped the engine into action. The car gasped and grunted to a ragged start then lurched forward before taking off in a rush. The car bounded along the road. Damien’s already jangled nerves were hit with a fresh assault. Rapid hammering that hit the rear right panel amplified his terror and desperation to return to the assurance of suburbia.

He accelerated in a futile attempt to outrace the hammering that became louder and faster. The car twitched and slithered over a sheet of water left by an isolated downpour. Still he drove on furiously to escape the unseen thing he was convinced pursued him. Despite his desperate state he couldn’t help noting that the road had been littered with foliage.

Damien didn’t have much time to dwell on the state of the day. He was distracted by the right rear door rattling furiously before it opened then slammed shut. He hit the accelerator again, then again; the car shot to a speed well beyond the legal limit. Momentum that propelled the car forward, now hugging the road, in conjunction with instinct that replaced cognitive thought, induced Damien to press the button on his key ring to automatically lock all doors.

Sooner than expected he reached the outer rim of the suburbs, marked by footpaths and double lanes. The day returned to still, cold and benign with a spread of cumulous clouds that he encountered when he left the house. Anaemic patches of blue broke through cloud cover gracing the day before succumbing to night’s oncoming shadow. The switch from the menace that struck as he drove to then away from the mountains to the ordinary calm of an unremarkable winter day nevertheless pained Damien with ugly thoughts.

Driving along the high street minutes away from home he couldn’t remember why he left the house, only that he had to leave. Where had he intended to go? He had completely forgotten. And despite no further sign of menace, he looked into the rear vision mirror then back; expecting whatever it was that hunted him to return; but it didn’t. When he turned into his driveway, he took one last look into the side mirror catching a flash of something, something, anomalous before it was gone. And then it registered with him why he had left the house.

From inside the car, he flicked on the remote, watched the garage door slide up, looking intently into the space as if expecting something to emerge. Only what would get itself into a locked windowless garage? As the car rolled into the garage he flicked another switch to turn on the light. And within the sanctuary of his car he shut his eyes, breathed deeply before unlocking the doors. He stepped warily along the driver’s side of the car, intent to avoid the temptation of taking a glimpse into the side mirror. Unable to resist he looked into its depth, only seeing the empty surface of the mirror darkened within the poorly lit cavity. He reasoned that he should check the boot. He knew that he was being over cautious, but paranoia and superstition had become a feature and companion in his life.

He had travelled a long way from the young man he was who graduated from Christchurch Boys’ College, awarded Dux for every subject he studied; blitzing it into the top ten in Law. He could have worked at any legal firm in the North or South Islands. Instead he wanted to make his mark in Melbourne or Sydney; bigger, noisier and more cosmopolitan places than the rural flavour of far flung New Zealand.

The uneasy feeling of being alone but having company washed over him. He hesitated behind the boot, tentatively stretched his hand out, the keys clutched tightly in his hand. There’s something in here – I swear! If there isn’t, then I’m a madman. He plunged the key into the key hole; the boot flung open, revealing nothing. On his way back to the house, along the path from the closed garage, Damien looked back, to the side, stopped to listen out for even the tiniest sound, but everything was eerily still. The sudden prickling sensation that ran over his skin suggested that he wasn’t alone. He resisted running in terror, accepting that he had again been engulfed by paranoia he began to run. He had a flash of imagination that he was running: faster and faster, not daring to look back at that something he couldn’t see that pursued him.

Although it was still daylight Damien returned to a darkened house. Under the small neo-Georgian porch the oncoming night threw shadows against the facia of the townhouse. He felt the brooding mood of the house stirring within, imagining snatches of Marianna swanning around the house. The setting that Damien returned to was a familiar one. When he moved into the townhouse with her in the first days they discovered that it was a cold hole, more often in shade than light. This fact was almost inevitable given that they lived in the rear house of a duel-occupancy block. It was enclosed by the band of trees at the back of their property, and double-storey homes on each side of the townhouse.

Before he entered the house he was convinced that this gloomy well he called home had altered. The first thing that seemed out of place was that the house was eerily quiet without the boondoggles howling from the front door or windows, squabbling for the first pat then to be fed in that order. Since Marianna had gone, Aleister and Antigone had changed from being extraverted and boisterous Orientals to taking on shades of Marianna’s tempestuousness. They swung from sulking under a chair or desk when he was immersed in work or in deep thought, to bursting in unison from nowhere lamenting and wailing. They’d hunker down and slink along the floor, ears flattened against their heads, hair raised, sometimes hissing or emitting a guttural growl.

Chapter 2

Damien opened the door slowly listening out for the cats. Beyond the door’s usual creak on account of the moist wood expanding, he was met with discomforting silence.

Closing then locking the door, he called out, ‘Aleister, Antigone!’ Then he listened out for even the tiniest sign of them stirring; racing up the stairs at the end of the foyer. ‘Aleister, Aleister, Antigone!’

But there was no sound in this house that customarily rattled, groaned and breathed with life; warning of worse to come?

This wasn’t the first time the cats vanished; it happened now with more disturbing frequency. They often hid for most of the daylight hours. Such as this morning when they appeared briefly to demolish the gourmet meat loaf; the pong from the laundry announced that they had used the downstairs litter tray. Wanting to assure himself the cats still existed in the dimension that he lived in, he called, ‘Aleister, A-a-ntigone’. She bolted away; he, ready to flee, hesitated. Damien bent down, patting the seal point’s glossy coat. ‘I’m not the bad guy – absent stranger.’ The cat purred then slunk warily from Damien’s hand when it heard Antigone howl from the second floor of the townhouse. Damien picked up the cat; it struggled free before bounding away.

They were upstairs, but where? From the time the cats became part of Marianna and Damien’s lives and household they had the propensity to vanish then to materialise, Tardis-like. Immediately after Marianna’s departure they acted bewildered and betrayed; their first signs of desperation were confined to howling either inside or outside her study. Then spitting and hissing at the bureau where she smashed her head half open as she crashed backward in a drunken state. And today he defied the pattern he had established with meticulous obsession. To assess Aleister and Antigone’s welfare he filled, measured then refilled their food bowls. For two flighty cats this pair had voracious appetites. He noted that the food bowls were empty when he left the house or was confined to the dining room riveted to Monday’s case.

Marianna indulged the cats’ habit to trail the shopping bags; ransack them for chicken fillets and fresh fish. Now he tried to lure them from their bolt holes with this same ploy until he was seized by a strange sensation drawing him from the kitchen. He tried to resist the pull up the stairs, but it was too powerful. And although he was achingly tired from the cold and the journey, he glided up them, swept up by an unseen energy. They’re in Marianna’s study – that’s where Antigone must be. Except for the bathroom he left upstairs doors ajar for the cats to retreat into.

It was this act that escalated his unease. When downstairs or at night unable to sleep, doors slammed shut or he was woken by one of a succession of bangs. These instances were often the precursor of other strange sounds permeating from walls, the ceiling and other cavities in the house. He tried not to dwell on the unearthly wails that burst through his head at increasingly frequent intervals, dismissing this as residual grief. The silence that followed was more unsettling, amplifying the jarring vibration that cut through the house.

A panic he couldn’t define crashed through his head. He had to find the cats. He was afflicted by the disturbing thought that he’d find them: In a mangled and broken state. This thought was disrupted by the raucous ring of his phone; a brass band blasting though the house. He had to remember where he left it before the noise drove him insane: Guaranteed that this would send already hyped up boondoggles to an elevated state of agitation. The phone’s jarring sound brought on a headache: Just what I need on my first real date with Amber; likely to be the last. He shouted, ‘Shut the f—k up. What did your last slave die of?’ He threw his hands up running wildly to his bedroom, its incessant ring boomed louder. ‘Shut the f—k off, a—hole!’

It wasn’t the ringtone that wound him up, but the frequency with which it erupted at all hours. He tried to keep it switched on and close by; alternatively, off and out of sight. Only over the past weeks, months, he couldn’t pinpoint when, he was convinced it turned itself on. He’d rush to answer it, not on account that he felt duty bound, but to shut it up. When he first heard this exuberant ringtone he had to have it. He remembered senior years spent at college then university when he played trumpet with the brass band. He expected that by the time he answered the caller would be gone; this happened more often than not.

To his surprise the caller spoke, ‘Hi Damien, where have you been?’

Her light and breezy voice amused him. He teased, ‘Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?’

‘Amber you fool! What planet are you on? Don’t you ever answer your phone?’

He considered telling her the truth. What was he going to say? I’ve just been for a country drive because my house was spooking me out. Recognising that it would be lost on her, he remained silent.

‘I’ve tried your number all afternoon. Whatever you’ve been up to must have been real important.’

‘It has and it hasn’t.’

‘Now that sounds interesting.’

‘Sorry to disappoint. The whole day has been mundane. I won’t bore you with details.’

‘Try me – I’m...’

‘Seriously; you don’t want to know.’

‘Try me. Now I do really want to know. ’

‘I’ve been working on round ten of a case representing an aggrieved maniac of a women. Jesus, I feel sorry for her ex.’

‘You haven’t seen anything until you’ve worked in Criminal Law.’ The words had left her mouth before she could reel them back. Oh God – he’s going to think I’m an insensitive b—ch.

Damien breathed hard into the phone.

‘Engage brain before speaking. Really! You’d didn’t need to hear that.’

‘I’m the one who needs to apologise. You did ask about my day and I confirmed it’s been uneventful.’ He almost choked on the story he’d just spun. Amber’s enquiry about his day had compelled him to want to tell someone about the life of the house that was spinning out of control around him. Until today he rationalised that its moodiness, then the boondoggles’ paranoia, had nothing to do with him. He dismissed the very idea that his nerves were jangled from the surreal reality that engulfed the townhouse. He feared that something sinister had taken hold of the house, and his life.

‘Hey – you sound tired. Has your candle been burning too brightly?’

He made a pretence of bucking up, snorted humour. ‘That’s impossible. Turned in last night before ten, didn’t surface until after ten, fully powered by caffeine.’

Amber mused: Is this Damien’s promise that he’s going to be the life of the party? She was going to say: A clandestine dark horse; the legal profession’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Before she had a chance to utter so much as a word, the mood was broken by intense feline screeching surging though the house and into the phone. She couldn’t help herself and fuelled by interest and genuine concern for Damien, she said, ‘Sounds dramatically beastly.’

Defying his uneasiness, he feigned indifference. ‘I give you my word, it’s not.’

‘That you own the scariest felines I’ve heard. You are a man of mysteries.’

‘No, only a very ordinary one…’

‘One I want to know better. Seriously, I’m looking forward to tonight, and counting on you to not let me down.’

‘Why would I?’ His comment rang insincere in his ears. There’s every reason to bail out. The day started out ominous, then foreboding, delivering more menace in a matter of hours. More menace than he’d been accustomed to over the year since Marianna had gone. Events that erupted into his life and the townhouse becoming stranger by the week, possibly by the day. Today’s events ramped up to a greater level of ill ease.

She tried to sound considerate rather than prematurely disappointed. ‘I’d understand if you bailed out of Gerard’s party.’ She thought: If Damien looks as seedy as he did yesterday when he left The Lion’s Den the last thing he needs is a raucous party with Gerard at the helm. Gerard’s parties, at least the ones he went to, were livened up with high-jinx antics. These parties weren’t for the faint-hearted. Tonight would go off with a bang, as Gerard was turning fifty.

The moment of silence filled the space; Damien glanced at his watch. Breaking the silence, he disrupted Amber’s last thoughts as her mind drifted onto the possibilities that troubled Damien. ‘Let’s not waste time deliberating on reasons for me to stay home with two wild cats.’ He still had time to find them, take a shower, change into some fresh clothes and pick Amber up.

‘Then I’ll see you at about seven. You’ve got my address?’

Do I give the impression of being that hopeless? ‘That’s some vote of confidence. Your number is punched into my phone, and written in my telephone directory. Since I couldn’t find you listed online I asked Gerard.’

She groaned inwardly. A great start when you put your foot in it. Idiot! Engage mind before mouth.

He flicked off the phone, it beeped back. This sound of no consequence was replaced by the same screeching that disrupted his phone conversation. It amplified to an agonised howl then an ear piercing hiss. He was propelled from the master bedroom; from the corner of his eye he caught the door into Marianna’s study inch open. Damien turned, stepped up to the door and through it in one graceful sweep. Antigone sat on Marianna’s drafting board placed at the centre of the room. The cat’s eyes blazed hostility, ears flattened back, hair raised from its back, tail swishing. She lowered her head, eyes fixed on him, uttering a guttural growl.

What’s up this time puss?

The growling reduced to silence and Damien moved closer to the cat, stretched out his right hand, Antigone’s head arched up. As he touched the seal point’s silky coat, the fur bristled again, tail swished. She flipped around, lashed him with a paw then bounded from the room. Hell, that’s one messed up cat. Must think I’m a homicidal maniac. This last thought stung. A year ago he was acquitted of manslaughter; the court declared conclusively that Marianna’s death was accidental, that he, the accused, was innocent and blameless.

Still his hands dripped blood. He hadn’t touched her when her clenched body moved closer to him; the hands open, claws ready to tear him apart. She assaulted him with vitriol and a litany of accusations before turning to silent rage. Then her eyes changed from hot anger to a wide-eyed, far-away look as if she was in a trance. This last impression reverberated in his mind. In a state of futility he accepted this as true then resigned himself to the strangeness that afflicted the house and his life.

Damien’s attention was broken by a faint rustling sound within the room, followed by Aleister emerging from behind a drape. He crouched down, called, ‘Here boy.’ The cat dutifully trotted over to him, allowing him to pat then pick it up. The cat purred faintly. At least you haven’t dismissed me as being the bad guy – yet.

The remnants of sunlight lingered under the setting sun. The cat struggled free; as it leapt from his arms his attention shifted to the window where a shadow fell, darkening half the room, retracted, then fell over the same spot again. Goosebumps formed over Damien’s arms. He strode over to the window to close the half-opened drapes. The right drape lifted away from the window then sunk back against the glass. This explains the chill in this room, and the shadow that fluttered on then off. But if his memory still served him well he hadn’t opened the window since autumn started to freeze over.

He glanced at his watch and was reminded that time was closing in on him. He had to put concerns about the cats aside. Things were relatively normal for cats that swung from being mildly destructive to hostile. He was reassured that he actually found them – today. He was no longer alarmed by the sound of a distressed cat; its plaintive cry directing him to the wardrobe or nook it had been trapped in for heaven knows how long. Since Antigone was a kitten she had a knack for working open places and her way into them he believed only Houdini could. Today he didn’t find Aleister or Antigone in a place such as when he found Aleister in the washing machine. He held this humorous image of the cat summonsing the machine’s lid to open and accommodate it to find refuge amongst unwashed clothes. Then he despaired at the frightening thought of the cat being battered, torn apart and drowned as the wash progressed from start to finish.

He returned to the master bedroom, stepped out of his clothes then into the bathroom. He switched on the fan to suck away steam; stood under hot jets of water until the numb ache that had coursed through his body faded. Once he stepped out of the shower cubical he was hit by a cloak of cold that wrapped itself around him. He grabbed a towel, tied it around his waist, then wiped the fog that clung to the mirror. He rifled through the drawer under the vanity basin for a disposable razor to shave the stubble that he hadn’t bothered with that morning.

The whirring fan rattled irritating him; the steam evaporated and he turned it off. He lathered his face, dipped the blade under running water and ran it down his cheek. Drawing the blade down a second time, his eyes fixed on the mirror in front of him, he pulled the razor away. The room turned to ice as the image of his face faded. Using his free hand he wiped away the film clouding the mirror. The first stirring of the mist that materialised in the bathroom swirled around his ankles; the cold grasped at his groin. It ascended again obscuring the mirror. As it thickened it crackled like icicles falling from a tree.

He reached out through the fog to turn the fan back on then the switch next to it to turn on the heater. The sound of galloping horses crashed over the fan’s hum. Hoofs pounded, digging up clods of dirt and spraying them over the earth. He heard the laboured breathing of horses ridden hard, the jangle of harness and the wheels of a coach rolling over an unseen landscape. A musket fired and the acrid smell of gunpowder filled the room. The word ‘Stop!’ was uttered in terror followed by something smashing to the ground.

This mist parted, swirling turbulently. It revealed a scene of two men in period costume in an open field facing each other, arms stretched, pistols raised and pointed at each other. A young woman lay in the foreground at the edge of the mirror, so close Damien could touch her. His face formed a worried look; propelled by an instinct transcending thought he reached out to touch her. Her motionless body resembled that of a wax doll, yet she seemed strangely alive. He moved his face closer to the mirror gazing intently at her. Her profile seemed familiar. He said, ‘We’ve met before.’

He was rendered silent by the subtle rise and fall of her chest which became audible. She was perfect with no sign of injury until she rolled her head in his direction. The left eye, clear and blue took in his image; the right eye had been shot out. Blood rolled down her face, oozed from her neck, seeping onto the ground into a crimson pool. Her pretty blue eye registered desperation; as she mouthed the words ‘Help me,’ he heard the words echo in his head. Then she said, ‘Help me,’ then louder, ‘Help me’. He heard these words with his ears.

She was close enough to touch. Despite being confronted by the horror of half her face being blown off, the right side of her mouth hanging wretchedly, the finer details of her visage formed in his mind. She was eerily familiar. The second shot didn’t give him time to dwell on where he’d seen the young woman before. The room filled with the same choking smell of gunpowder. Damien’s attention switched to the figure at the furthest point of the scene where the fog hovered. The young gentlemen dropped his gun; his arms fell flaccidly by his sides. His eyes widened registering shock; blood poured from the flaccid half opened mouth spreading over the white cravat held neatly together by a decorative jewelled pin. In an undramatic sweep he fell to the ground. His body twitched furiously with one last attempt to wrest back his life before becoming still and cold.

Damien’s attention shifted to the opposite edge of the fog and to the sight and rush of horses galloping away, their riders’ coats flapping in the wind. The coach that entered the scene rattled away awkwardly. The hoarse whisper of the words ‘Help me’ begged him back to the injured women who it seemed had defied death. Her lifeless body and the pallid look on her face confirmed her as dead until she opened her eye and again pleaded, ‘Help me, help me!’ She eased herself up, faced him from the other side of the mirror. The hollowed out eye sprayed blood over the glass.

Damien froze; a look of horror fixed on his face. In terror, he watched dense fog close in on the scene. The swirling mist that engulfed him dissolved, returning the mirror to its natural state. The colour had drained from his face and lips; his eyes glazed over and were rimmed with dark circles. He ran a hand through his hair that although wet stood on end. He turned away from his own image, scanned the room, walked into the foyer, to the edge of the staircase then to the master bedroom, surveying the upper floor for signs of the disturbance he’d witnessed. Nothing untoward – this house gives nothing away.

He returned to the bathroom which displayed no sign of disturbance. Did the glass reflect a bloody duel or was this a creation of my mind? Is this the precursor of worse to come? Either way Damien reasoned that it was time for him to dwell less on the misfortune that had engulfed his life in the past year. It was time for him to throw himself back to his former life.