Written by Nayomi Marrero
Inspired by the image in this post.
I shall tell you a story, its verity yours to judge.
Long ago, there was an old house in a small old town.
It was known for its absurdly large spaces, creaking wood floors, and especially for the haunted mirror down its main hall.
No one really knew where the mirror came from, but the town agreed that after its arrival the house was never the same. Tragedies happened to all of its past owners, some of which, depending on who you asked, swore to have heard a woman’s laugh or a cry.
Everyone in the town believed some story regarding the mysterious woman living inside the mirror: the dead thing inside the glass made them go mad, that she was a shapeshifter and a soul stealer—the tales go on. But they didn’t know why she was trapped in the mirror. They imagined for the simple reason of safety and protection.
Every keeper of that old house had said that in the wake of some nights they had heard knockings coming from the mirror, but barely anyone had dared to answer. Still, shivers would run through their bodies once her visit was heard.
The last person to befriend her, to call on her name, ended up leaving the house wrapped in sheets. Poor boy, they had whispered, so young and naïve.
Her name became a curse.
No one would dare to pronounce it, so she became known as just the Mirror Lady.
After the last incident, the house was abandoned, and it became dreadfully silent. The townspeople innocently thought she had left with the boy’s corpse, assuming that she was no longer trapped inside that mirror. After a year or so, the lack of company started to take a toll on her.
They began to hear her cries every few days, each time louder and louder. The neighbors could not deny her presence any longer, even the most skeptical ones. Her desperation and hurt rang in their ears and settled on the deepest part of themselves. It was said that for a long time the people would calm their uneasy minds with chants and prayers.
But still, no one could stop the shrieking days from coming.
Someone had to put her out of her misery. But how do you kill a dead thing?
As stories and legends passed on from parent to children, from neighbor to neighbor, they would get broken and twisted.
One can hope that one day the truth will present itself, but hope is such a funny thing. So untrustworthy, so deceitful.
Hope starts as a seed. It can be planted in one’s mind with just a single word, and it can grow and grow until it consumes all your deepest thoughts and dreams.
And the mind? It lives off of that, just another traitorous thing.
No one knows it better than her. And so it went. Years and years she waited to be received, to be welcomed. She longed to be let in.
Waited and waited.
Why does no one answer? So many years knocking…, thought the Mirror Lady.
The roots of hope were drying, struggling to survive in such a barren desert. As it dried, its fruits and leaves began turning bitter and brown, on the verge of death.
Desperation crawled in. At first, it was just a tiny nudge in the chest. Now, it demanded to be felt.
But what did she yearn? You just had to look at the mirror and call on her name. Simple as that. If asked, she would have responded. But no one had been so fearless.
So, time went by, and her agonizing screams continued echoing through the town.
But alas, one day turned out to be different from all the others. All because of a young man. He lived in a small residence at the other end of the town, opposite from where that haunted house was located. He had recently moved in and did not have the same patience as the others.
Thinking of the twisted stories, he opened his eyes late that night and said, “No more.” He crossed the entire town, a hammer on his hand, earning whispers from the townsfolk. No one ever truly slept on those nights. He broke the mirror thinking it was cursed. Smashed it into pieces thinking, “Free she goes.” He thought himself so clever, but how wrong he was.
Indeed, free she was from the mirror, but not from her roots. He had imagined her desperately scratching the glass, whispering, let me in, let me in, but he had not noticed how happy she had been when she had heard the door open. Nor had he heard her tiny gasp and quivering breath, a sign of relief. Maybe she had been remembered, perhaps she had been enough, she had even dared to wish.
What if I could… What if…what if…
But far from the truth she had been. Even she had her limits. She concluded all was a lie. Weeds and thorns took over.
She died knowing there was no place for her. Fear had eclipsed all. And she wept, wept for all that could have been. But nothing ever really ceases to exist, it just transmutes.
The yearning turned to anger.
Her name became no longer hers.
It’s funny. What was feared, became.
The mind, you see. The cause and effect. What came first?
So, there she was, standing behind him, now betrayed. She touched his heart, inflicting pain on his chest. How soft human hearts can be, so gentle, so delicate, she thought. And yet, so mean.
Why? Why ignore me for so long just to wound me deeper? I had been waiting, I had been hoping.
Oh, how his chest hurt. Years and years of built up disappointment crashed into him. He was feeling her pain. He could not breathe.
He ran away from her, afraid of what might be waiting for him. Though, no one could really escape from her grasp. He had hoped, hoped to end it all. After that, only fear and desperation reigned.
No one could remember her origin nor the true reason for her entrapment. Not even who she had been. Her tales were all based on unfounded fears. So evil, they had said, not caring about the real cause of her confinement.
He became the embodiment of her crooked being. After that event, it was then every night that the townspeople’s doors were being knocked on instead, the glass of her mirror already forgotten.
They were no longer unintelligible cries that terrorized these folks. Clear and dark, his hollow voice could be heard saying, “Get out, get out.”
Through every door, one by one.
Break and smash, run and hide, still she haunted them everyday. Shifting and changing herself from body to body in the least way expected. Consuming their souls, all of their waking hours and sleepless nights.
Nonetheless, in its own distorted form, in the interior of her soul, there was a trace of contentment. One would even dare say perhaps some joy. She was no longer alone, no longer ignored.
Wishes do come true, but not as dreamed.
The treacherous thing. Hope, I mean.
Such a lovely name.
Such a pity no one dared to say it aloud. And the question still stood. How did you kill a dead thing?