False mirrors, p.23
False Mirrors, page 23
Mesmerized by the distorted reflections which flickered across the mirror's mottled surface, the Sentinel was oblivious to his Guide's urgent pleas. He stepped closer, swept the side of his hand over the glass and stared at the face reflected there. Pale blue eyes, identical to his own met his gaze and held it.
And held it...
Until someone called his name.
"Jimmy! Come on. Help me out."
Nine year-old Jim Ellison glanced over his shoulder at his best friend, Charlie Evans and grinned. "I already saved your life three times today, Charlie. What more do you want?"
He and his 'squad' -- which consisted of Charlie and three other school mates -- had spent the day waging 'war' against another group of fourth graders. The backyards and alleys of Charlie's neighborhood had been their battlefield, a handful of plastic squirt guns their armament. An unexpected mid-summer storm had sent them scurrying for shelter. The old root cellar below Charlie's house had seemed an ideal location to wait out the rain and plan their next series of skirmishes against the 'enemy.' The only drawback was that there was no electricity in the dirt-floored room, and therefore, no source of light other than the narrow sliver of gray daylight shining through the crack in the closed wooden doors. Charlie was busy rummaging through the cardboard boxes stacked haphazardly along the wall on the opposite side of the dark cellar looking for something to rectify that situation.
"I know, I know. I owe you," Charlie muttered. "But I can't find the candles I left down here."
"So?"
"So you're the one with the super hero 'see-in-the-dark' eyesight. Help me look for them."
"Yeah, come on, Jimmy. Help him out. It's dark in here," piped up another one of his 'team'.
Harry Saunders' freckled face was paler than normal when Jimmy glanced his way. Bob 'don't you dare call me Robert' Hansen, who had fearlessly run point for their afternoon's adventures stood next to Harry looking nervously left and right as if he expected something to leap out of the shadows. Only Brian Smith, the fifth member of their group seemed unconcerned with the lack of light. He had seated himself on the lowest plank of the short flight of wooden steps which led to the closed doors and was busy pulling a book of matches and a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.
"Put 'em away, Brian," Jim growled in annoyance. "Those things'll stink up the place."
"Brian, did you steal some more of your dad's smokes?" Bob called out. "I thought you said he threatened to ground you for the rest of the summer if you did that again."
"What he doesn't know --"
"Forget about the cigarettes, for a minute, will you?" Charlie hissed. "The candles, Jimmy?"
While the others were obviously fumbling in the dark, Jim had no such problem. He could clearly see the objects in question. "They're on a box to your left. About level with your shoulder," he answered. As his friend located the candles and struck a match to light them, Jim turned his attention back to the old standing mirror in front of him, frowning slightly as he studied his reflection in its mottled surface.
He was tall for his nine years -- a good five inches taller than Harry -- and was better muscled than his friends, although much of that development was due to long hours of football practice. While the others wore their hair long enough to touch the back collar of their shirts, his dark hair was cropped short -- his father's preference, not his. The pale blue eyes which stared back from the mirror held a trace of wariness which was also absent from his friends'. Overall, he guessed that he was 'okay' looking -- supposedly Kelli, a girl in his class had told Charlie that she though Jim was 'cute' -- but it was something he hardly ever thought about. The differences he could see on the surface and the ones which lay hidden occupied enough of his time.
"Hey, Jimmy. Stop playin' kissy face with yourself and get over here," Charlie demanded.
Flushing with embarrassment, Jim turned around. His four friends were seated on an old tattered blanket which had been spread on the damp dirt floor and the lit candles flickered atop an upended wooden crate. Jim walked over and took his place in the circle, eyeing the dark brown bottle in Charlie's hands uneasily.
"Is that what I think it is?"
"Yep!" Charlie grinned, raising the beer bottle to his lips and taking a quick drink before handing it to Brian. Jim watched as the second boy wiped off the top and took a longer pull before handing it to Harry whose green eyes shifted to Jim's uncertainly.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea, guys," Jim said quietly. "If we get caught --"
"We're not gonna get caught, Jimmy," Bob interjected, prodding Harry with his elbow. Harry shot a mortified look at Jim, took a quick sip and released the bottle into Bob's eager hands.
"Come on, Jimmy," Charlie chimed in. "I've been sampling my dad's stock for months and he hasn't caught on yet. I just stuff the empties back into the case."
Jim frowned at the bottle Bob was holding out to him. Charlie's dad might not mind, but his father would have a fit if he came home and found beer on his oldest son's breath. Jim could easily imagine the lecture he'd receive -- and the disciplinary actions which would undoubtedly follow. He glanced around the circle, noting the challenging, judgmental expressions in his friends' eyes. This was a test -- they wanted to know if he was one of them.
The need to belong -- to be accepted by his peers -- prompted him to reach out and take the bottle. As he raised the bottle to his lips, he resolutely ignored the image of his father's angry face which flashed through his mind. He would deal with the consequences of his actions later. His father's current work schedule had kept him at the office until well past his sons' bedtime for the past several weeks, so as long as he didn't get falling-down drunk -- unlikely on a few sips -- his dad would never find out what his oldest son had been up to. And if he did, well, it wouldn't be the first time Jim had felt the sting of his father's disappointment.
The tepid beer tasted like the nectar of the gods as it slid across his tongue and down his throat. Jim grinned and passed the bottle off to Charlie who raised it in a salute before taking his next drink. Warmed by the sense of camaraderie and emboldened by his sortie into dangerous, 'rebellious' waters, Jim relaxed and decided to go with the flow. The first bottle of beer was quickly consumed amidst conspiratorial grins and whispered challenges. A second bottle started to make the rounds and Brian pulled out his cigarettes again. Jim frowned but offered no challenge as his friend lit up and passed the pack around. While only Charlie took Brian up on his offer, the enclosed space quickly filled with the smoky haze, making Jim's eyes water and bringing on the first signs of a headache.
Seeing Jim's discomfort, Harry popped up the steps to see if they could risk opening the doors, but returned with a regretful shake of his head. The rain was still falling. Jim nodded his thanks and refrained from commenting that he could have saved Harry the trip. He had been monitoring the heavy thud of the rain drops against the wooden doors for some time. They beat a rhythmic counterpoint to the hammering which was going on overhead.
The sudden realization that there was someone in the house besides Charlie's eighty year-old grandmother set a swarm of nervous butterflies loose in Jim's stomach. "Hey, Charlie. What's going on upstairs?"
Charlie calmly swallowed a mouthful of beer and passed the bottle before answering. "My dad's tearing out a couple of walls on the lower level to make a new bedroom for Grams. Since she fell and broke her hip last winter, she's been having problems getting up and down the stairs to the second floor. Don't worry, Jimmy. He doesn't know we're down here and with all the racket he's making he's certainly not gonna hear us." The screaming wine of a power saw cut the air underscoring his point. "Besides, where's your sense of adventure? The risk of getting caught is part of the fun, right?"
Jim rolled his eyes, but found himself nodding and grinning along with his school mate.
"Since we're going to be stuck down here a while," Bob interjected, "how about a couple rounds of 'Truth or Dare'?"
His suggestion was immediately seconded by Brian. A third bottle of beer and a portion of a fourth were quickly drained -- a measurable drink of the fermented brew the assessed penalty in the game. By the time they lost interest in razzing and testing one another, all but one of the candles had melted to fat sizzling blobs. The remaining flame flickered and danced each time a gust of wind beat against the outer doors, it's faint light barely penetrating beyond the blanket where the boys were seated. The increasingly spooky atmosphere of the cellar provided the perfect segue to a new topic of entertainment. Ghost stories.
As their official 'host', Charlie had the honor of going first. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet, wobbled over to the mirror which Jim had been looking at earlier and dragged it closer. He flopped down on the blanket and struck a dramatic pose.
"It was a dark and stormy night..."
Jim leaned forward as Charlie's voice dropped to a theatric whisper and found himself blinking furiously to clear his suddenly blurry vision. He sat up straight and immediately regretted it as his stomach rolled queasily. He swallowed hard, blinked a couple more times and, as casually as he could manage, wiped his sweaty face with his shirt sleeve. When had the room gotten so hot? He glanced around the circle, but none of the others appeared the least bit uncomfortable. Their gazes were all locked on Charlie, transfixed by his tale.
Jim tried to concentrate on his friend's words, but his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. He caught something about an old woman, a needle and a mirror, and glanced at the reflective panel in confusion. His vision blurred again, then sharpened until he could see each minute imperfection in the glass. He squeezed his eyes closed and stifled a groan.
He was miserable. His clothes scraped painfully against his skin. His head hurt and his lungs felt like they were on fire. The odors which assaulted him were the worst. The rank smell of stale beer from the case of bottles in the corner fought with the mildewed odor emanating from the blanket. The cloying pungency of the herbs which Charlie's grandmother had hung in bundles for drying made him want to retch. He would have sworn it was impossible, but he was certain that he could identify every ingredient the old lady had used to can the preserves which filled the wooden shelves.
He felt woozy. Disoriented. Jim shook his head, trying to clear it. For a few moments, his senses seemed to be working normally.
Then someone screamed.
Jim's eyes flew open and he lurched unsteadily to his feet, his gaze sweeping the room for danger. A flicker of light at the edge of his vision sent him whirling to his right. Face to face with the mirror. He stared at it, transfixed by the distorted reflections chasing across the surface, only dimly aware of his companions' frantic movements and terror-filled screams.
"She's coming!"
"I hear her!"
The heavy thud of approaching footsteps pounded against Jim's ears, drowning out the sound of his own racing pulse. Someone jostled him aside, almost knocking him to his knees. An ear-splitting screech jolted the room and he caught one brief glimpse of Harry's frightened face before the room exploded with white light. A knife-like pain stabbed at his eyeballs and tore the breath from his throat. Gasping for air, he inhaled a lungful of sage-drenched smoke...
And curled forward, coughing and sneezing into a pair of strong arms.
At the first glint of recognition in Jim's eyes, Blair hauled him off the couch and across the room to the balcony. He pinned the miserable, gasping Sentinel against the wall with his shoulder and fumbled with the doors, trying to flip the locking latch without dropping the still smoking purification stick. His second attempt was successful. He shoved the glass door aside and pulled his partner out into the fresh morning air. Positioning Jim so he could lean against the railing, Blair dumped the sage bundle into a rainwater-filled flower pot.
He took a good look at his friend, decided Jim was holding his own and ducked back inside the loft. Seconds later he was back at the Sentinel's side, rubbing and patting his partner's back with one hand, clutching a bottle of water and tissues in the other. In full hover mode, Blair murmured a continuous stream of reassuring words which shifted to anxious questions when the older man's breathing started to even out.
"Are you with me, Jim? Are you all right?"
Ellison grabbed one of the tissues, swiped at his still tearing eyes and nodded.
"Good. Because I want you to be fully conscious when I throttle you to within an inch of your life!" The frosty blue glare Jim shot him was no match for the inferno burning in Blair's as concern crescendoed to rage in the blink of an eye. The grad student stood toe-to-toe with the ex-ranger, prepared to give him the dressing down of his life. "You promised me, Jim! You promised you'd listen. You swore you wouldn't go too deep."
"Chief --"
"You stopped breathing!" Blair hissed.
"How --" Ellison coughed and cleared his throat, "How long?"
"Too long," Blair spat back. The terror he had felt when he hadn't been able to get a response out of his Sentinel returned, threatening to buckle his knees. He pushed it aside, ran his fingers through his hair in agitated exasperation and started to pace a tight circle in the confined space. "You were doing fine until you got fixated on that damn mirror." He turned and glared at Jim. "You stopped breathing. I could barely find a pulse." Blair shuddered and shook his head. "And then things got really freaky. You started talking to someone named Charlie. Said something about saving his life. I thought maybe you were channeling the dead, man. It was your voice, but different... younger. You sounded like a kid."
"I was."
Physical and mental gears seized and pulled Blair to an abrupt stop. He blinked. "What?"
Jim opened the bottle of water and took a sip before answering. "The nightmare's the result of something that happened when I was nine years' old."
Blair blinked again, tried to process what he had just heard, failed. He took an unsteady step backward, collided with the edge of one of the deck chairs and dropped heavily onto the seat. "You mean it worked?" he squeaked.
"Not quite the way we expected," Jim acknowledged ruefully, "but I've got a lot to report." He glanced through the open door to the hazy loft and then back at Blair. "I'd volunteer to fetch one of your notebooks, but I think I'd prefer to let the air clear a bit first."
Blair's gaze shifted briefly to the sodden lump of sage sitting in the flower pot. "You can't say I didn't warn you, Jim," he retorted, rapidly regaining his composure.
Ellison snorted softly and pulled a second chair closer to Blair's. When he sat down, their knees were almost touching. The younger man found their close proximity immensely comforting. He listened intently as Jim recounted his experience, determined to hold his questions until the older man finished, despite his growing excitement.
"All hell broke loose when I heard that scream," Ellison admitted. "I found myself staring into the mirror. I could have sworn I saw something... beneath the surface... An old woman's face... a gnarled hand clutching a sliver of something bright..." Jim frowned and shook his head. "I know I heard footsteps. Then there was a screech and the whole room exploded in white light. I keeled over."
"Sensory spike?" Blair asked softly.
Jim paused as if considering the suggestion and finally nodded. "Could have been."
"What happened next?"
The Sentinel shrugged and sat back in his chair. "I woke up with a nose full of sage smoke."
Blair rolled his eyes and swatted his partner's leg. "Not now. Then. When you were nine."
Jim's gaze grew softer, distant. "The rest of the memory is a little vague on details, but I remember the highlights... if you want to call them that. When I opened my eyes, Charlie's dad was hovering over me, asking if I was all right. Apparently there was some kind of vent from the cellar to the first floor. He smelled smoke and came down to check it out."
"So they were his footsteps you heard," Blair murmured. "When he opened the door, he flooded the cellar with light. I'll bet the screech you heard were the hinges binding."
"You're three-for-three, Chief. Want to go for the bonus points and tell me whose scream I heard?"
Blair answered immediately. "Most likely Charlie, adding a little dramatic flair to his story."
"I knew there was a good reason I let you keep dogging my heels, Chief," Jim grinned.
Blair waved off the compliment. "You tossed me an easy one. If you ask me though, the scream was kind of overkill. The tale of 'Bloody Mary' is frightening enough without the sound effects thrown in."
"Bloody Who?"
"Bloody Mary. That's the ghost story Charlie was telling. It's a folktale about a wrinkled old crone who lives in the mirror. Any mirror. I can't remember the tale's exact origins, but it's pretty sinister. I suspect it was invented by some cranky parent to keep wandering children in their beds at night. Bloody Mary is supposed to be harmless during the day, but in the dead of night, she can reach out of the mirror. She's armed with a sharp pointed knife or needle -- depends on which version of the story you subscribe to, I guess. She stabs the unsuspecting and drags them back into the world behind the mirror, never to be seen again."
The images from Blair's own nightmare once again made an abrupt appearance in his head. He felt his face grow hot as his heart thudded against his ribcage. It was hard to ignore the similarities between his own dream and the ghost story, and between the ghost story and...
"They're the same," he gasped abruptly. Blair looked up to meet his partner's surprised gaze. "The images in your nightmare... they match almost exactly with what you thought you saw in the mirror that afternoon. The nightmare within the nightmare... Bloody Mary."
Jim scowled. "Sandburg, are you trying to tell me my senses are out of whack because of some ghost story I heard when I was a kid?"
"You didn't just hear it, Jim. You experienced it!"
