The Mirror

The mirror’s reflection showed more than it should have

‘Don’t you just adore this house?’ Sylvie stared up at the ornate ceiling and smiled, ‘I can’t believe we actually own it.’

         ‘It’s so good to see you happy again, sweetheart. I’ve been so worried.’ Mark held his wife at arm’s length and looked into her eyes.

         A shadow passed over Sylvie’s face before she attempted another tentative smile. She kissed her husband on his lips. ‘I’ll be okay—we all will. A new beginning in this beautiful house is just what we need, and remember Dr. Ross told us last week how pleased he was with my progress.’

         Although she smiled, Mark knew his wife’s depression, after the still-birth of their much anticipated fourth baby, still lurked just under the surface. How he prayed the move would do her good. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and looked around at the spaciousness of the living room. ‘Can you even imagine how many families have called this home?’

         ‘I know, it’s crazy to think it’s been standing here since 1840.’

         ‘Well, this old place is going to be brought back to life. We’ll make it our own. The kids will soon wake up any ghosts there might be lurking around the place,’ Mark laughed just thinking about his noisy brood, ‘they’re going to love this house.’

***

Several months had passed since Sylvie, Mark and their three children moved into the house on Chapel Lane and still the place continued to surprise them.
One afternoon, five-year-old Lauren stumbled against a bookshelf in the library only to reveal a hidden door. A single, dim light bulb cast a feeble glow, the light not reaching corners of the cellar which remained cloaked in dark shadows. Far too nervous to investigate, Sylvie decided to wait for Mark to check if it was safe before venturing down there herself.

***

‘It’s been a very long time since these spiders were disturbed.’ Mark murmured, cautiously making his way down the steps, brushing large webs from his face.

         ‘It’s okay, love, no ghosts down here,’ he called up to where his wife hovered at the top of the stairs.

         ‘What’s down there?’ she called.

         ‘Just junk, it looks like. Old chairs, a baby’s cot. There’s there’s a mirror, do you want me to bring it up?’ he shouted, his voice sounding muffled.

         ‘Yeah, ok, if you think it’s something I’d like.’

         Sylvie heard Mark shifting and dragging heavy furniture, muttering something to himself along with the occasional expletive until she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
He appeared carrying a large gilt-framed mirror in both arms. His sweaty face was plastered with spider webs, the unwieldly item he held prevented him brushing them away.

         ‘Christ! It’s filthy down there,’ he shuddered and propped the mirror up against the wall before dusting the dirt from his hands and bare arms.

         ‘A good place to store unwanted things though. No one would ever guess it was even there, would they?’

         ‘Some of that junk must have been there since the original owners lived here. You should go down and take a look.’

         ‘Maybe one day when I’m dressed for the occasion,’ Sylvie laughed, pointing to her white dress.

         ‘Of course, not the right attire, is it?’ Mark acknowledged. ‘So, what do you think of the mirror? I know you were talking about getting one for the bedroom.’

         ‘I’ll clean it up first and then see how it looks.’

***

Sylvie thought the mirror might be too ingrained with years of grime and she might find it difficult to bring it back to its former glory— yet later that afternoon as she began to clean the gilt frame, she noticed how easily the dirt wiped off—almost too easily. As she wiped the glass it gleamed brighter than she’d expected, like a pool of water. With difficulty she hung the heavy object on a hook already fixed on the bedroom wall. She had a strong feeling it had been in that exact position before.

         Stepping back to see if it hung straight, she frowned. Something about the reflection was off—wrong, somehow. The room in the mirror seemed dimmer, softened by a gentler light, as though she weren’t looking at her bedroom at all but through a window into another version. Out of nowhere, an overwhelming sadness came over her, her arms felt suddenly empty, and tears of utter despair poured from her.

***

One day, not long after that episode, which Sylvie dismissed as a temporary setback and grief over the lost baby, she decided to go and take a look in the basement for herself.
         Wearing a pair of dungarees, her long blonde hair shoved carelessly into a baseball cap, she donned a pair of rubber gloves and carefully descended the stone steps. She soon realised Mark had been right, there seemed to be nothing of much interest or value.

         A large set of drawers loomed against a far wall; each drawer yawned open at varying angles as if someone had been frantically searching for something lost.
Sylvie lingered by an iron bedstead. For a moment she felt she shouldn’t be there, intruding on something that had once mattered deeply to someone. It stood against the far wall; its frame mottled with rust. She imagined a couple once sleeping there, could almost hear the lover’s whispers. Or perhaps someone had died on that bed, the thought filling her with sadness and the wonder of how this dark cellar still held the ghosts of ordinary lives.

         It was then she saw the baby’s cot. Tentatively she reached out and stroked the smooth wood. The paintwork peeled beneath her trembling fingertips. For a few moments she saw not the old, useless item but as it was when new—white paint gleaming, soft blankets folded waiting for a new child and the faint sound of a lullaby. She gasped when she imagined, for just a second, the shape and form of a sleeping baby. She stepped away pressing her hand to her flat stomach.

***

That night Sylvie couldn’t sleep, her mind reflecting on her time in the cellar. The moon hung high and full— she’d always found it difficult to sleep under its bright light. She sighed and crept from the bed. Mark lay on his back, open mouthed, snoring softly. As she padded across the oak floorboards the mirror reflected her approach, her fair hair and long white nightdress seemed to shimmer in the moonlight. She passed the mirror then realised something was different. She retraced her steps and faced the glass.
Her heart literally stopped for a few beats when she saw the back of the room reflected in the mirror but where her bookshelf should be, stood the cot, the same one from the cellar, bathed in flickering candlelight. She turned back to the room, the bookcase stood where it always had been. And yet… Sylvie turned again to look in the mirror and saw the cot again. This time she saw a baby’s tiny hand waving and in that moment knew this was her baby, the one cruelly taken from her at the moment of her birth.

         She reached out and gently touched the glass, fingers sank in, as if into water.

         ‘What are you doing?’

         She pulled her hand away when she heard her husband’s voice, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from the mirror.

         ‘Come on back to bed, sweetheart. You’re so cold.’ Mark spoke gently. He held her shoulders and turned her away from her reflection, ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘I’ll make you a warm drink. Get in to bed.’

         Sylvie allowed herself to be put back to bed like a child.

***

Over the next few weeks Mark’s concern for his wife’s mental health grew. She became more withdrawn—spending less time with him and the children.

         One evening, under the pretext of an early night, Sylvie sat on the end of the bed, watching her reflection. The mirror was in shadow, the only light in the room coming from a bedside lamp. She spoke softly to her baby, ‘Forgive me, I should have protected you, held on to you longer.’

         Her reflected image stared back. The baby in the cot made little sounds of contentment. Sylvie’s eyes welled with unshed tears ‘Please,’ she murmured, ‘just one more moment. Let me hold you.’

         The glass wavered and showed herself bending into the cot and lifting the baby, cradling it against her chest but still not realising she{/} hadn’t moved at all. The woman in the mirror rocked the child, smiling faintly.

         The room around her tilted, her skin prickled with cold as she pressed both palms to the mirror’s surface—it was cool and yielding, like the first step into deep water.

         ‘Sweetheart?’ Mark’s voice came from the doorway.

         Sylvie turned to him, ‘I can see her,’ she said, voice distant, dreamlike, ‘our baby. She’s alive, Mark. She’s waiting for me.’

         Mark started forward to hold his wife who seemed on the verge of collapsing, ‘Sylvie?’ Mark called out, but before he could reach her, she had leaned into the mirror, into the scene of her reflected self, holding their baby. There was no sound, only the soft sigh of air closing after her. The mirror rippled once, then stilled, its surface blank and empty.

         When Mark reached the glass, it reflected only his terrified face and the empty room behind him.

***

In the days that followed, he'd convinced himself he must have been delirious, it wasn’t possible Sylvie had been swallowed by a mirror—she must have wandered off not knowing what she was doing. He reported her disappearance to the police, although making no mention of the mirror.

{indent{/}Dr Ross, Sylvie’s psychiatrist informed them of her deep depression after the stillbirth and how he feared for her safety.

***

Weeks later, Mark took the mirror down to the basement. For an instant, he was sure he saw her standing behind the glass — smiling, serene, holding the hand of a small child as she walked away swallowed by darkness.

Words 1660
Written for The Bard’s Hall Contest

PROMPT:

You find an antique mirror in the attic of the old Victorian House you just moved into. But something's not right! The mirror is CURSED!