In the House of Mirrors

by Tim Meyer

  For the next few hours I helped him transfer the photographs from what he referred to as the bath—a trough filled with strong-odored chemicals—into another trough filled with water, which he called the wash. After the wash, the pictures were to hang on the clothesline, in order for them to dry. I asked him if his father ever feared that this process was going out of style, or being murdered completely by the digital age. He told me that film had already died and few people still use cameras that require this process. Old professionals usually, stuck in their ways. “In a year, we'll be digital. Environmental agencies have already outlawed the process in most states. They say the chemicals are too harsh, bad for the environment, the ozone layer, and what-have-you.” Developing film, it would seem, lost the same battle VHS did to DVD, the same way newspapers are losing to the Internet.

  After he showed me the process in the most elementary way, I apologized for dragging him into this mess. I felt horrible for doing so, although to my credit, I was as innocent as he was when it came to the camera and its unique ability. He told me to forget it. “Whatever happened, happened. Can't change it.” Little Chris was a lot smarter than his round, dumb face led me to believe.

  We waited in the dark room, drenched in amber light, for the pictures to finish developing. Chris sat on the chair farthest from the photographs, his enormous cranium resting on the palm of his hand. I caught a glimpse of him dozing off a few times.

  “Hey,” I called to him. “Wake up. I think we're in business.” The basketball game was beginning to take form. It looked like it was being played inside a cloud, but clarity begun to sneak up on it. Unless... I started to think back to the pictures I had snapped of Boone's house. One of the pictures appeared very cloudy. And we know how that turned out.

  The basketball game became clearer by each passing second. A small wave of relief passed through me. I leaned in, getting as close as I could to the photographs, combing over every one, looking for anything out of the ordinary. They looked as normal as they did when I took them. There weren't any black spots to speak of, nor were there old men with claw-like hands charging the viewer. Although they weren't fully done drying, there was nothing abnormal to report. I moved on to the few pictures I snapped of the woods and the housing development across from the park. The houses looked untainted, in the way that none of them were severely decrepit, or had strange figures standing on their porches. They looked as they did when I photographed them. There were three photos I took of the woods that lay to the right of the residential area.

  Two of them remained as they were when I pulled the trigger on the Denlax.

  One was not.

  7

  It was the last photo we had developed. It was barely visible, cloudy with outlines of what appeared to be a dense forest. It certainly wasn't the small patch of woods surrounding the tiny little park, the natural landscape I had snapped with the Denlax. These were not a cluster of trees found scattered throughout Central New Jersey. This was a deep, treacherous forest you'd read about in fairy-tale stories; the kind where children get lost and ultimately get gobbled up by big bad wolves or famished witches who like snacking on young human flesh. The trees were gnarled, their branches naked and looking like outstretched arms. On the outskirts of the forest was a grassy area, which became more focused as the photo neared its dry state. Standing on the grass, was a figure, which also became clearer as I motioned for Chris to come have a look.

  It was a woman. I could tell by her long hair, and the way it was curled. As the photo dried, I could make out her tall figure. She wore a white corset. A red spot formed on her stomach. Or where I thought her stomach was. It turned out, that the red spot was in an area lower than her stomach. It started near her crotch and ran down her leg. Her face was as white as her attire. She looked like a zombie. She reminded me a little of Lynne, which sent shivers throughout my body. Her hair was long and blonde like Lynne's, her figure perfect. The Dead-Woman had one hand on her stomach, just above the blood-stain on her corset, and the other was in front of her face. She had one finger over her lips, which were curled in a creepy, unsettling smile.

  She was telling me to be quiet.

  “I'm assuming this broad wasn't in the park,” a voice said from behind me.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin. My heart skipped a beat, but thankfully it wasn't the kind of skip that would require another hospital visit.

  “Jesus, Chris,” I said. “You can't sneak up on me like that.”

  “Sorry,” he said. I noticed the color returned to his face. “Look, all the pictures you took with the disposable came out normal. There weren't any black spots, or... ghosts. Should we call them ghosts? Because that poor girl looks as dead as my Aunt Lorraine.”

  “I don't know what you'd call her. But she doesn't belong in my photos, that's for damn sure.”

  Chris plopped the small envelope full of the disposables down on the counter. “Like I said. Here are the photos. They're normal. Nothing wrong with them as far as I could tell.” He looked at me in the eyes and nodded. “You know what that means?”

  I did.

  “Means it's the Denlax that's doing it.”

  He nodded. “But how? And why?”

  I turned to him. “That, my friend, is what we're going to find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I refused to do any photography until the weekend, when I'd do whatever I could to capture Marty Olberstad and Aunt Danica being naughty. I also wanted to take a few more pictures of Boone's house, and the ghastly figure who resides there. I decided to keep Little Chris in the dark about what was going on, what I planned to do. Told him I'd be back next week to develop some more rolls. He didn't seem happy about it, acting as eager as I was to unlock the mysteries the Denlax provided. I couldn't blame him. The camera's supernatural effect boggled my mind, keeping me awake at night. It did the same for Chris. He hadn't slept. He claimed he barely ate that week, although I couldn't tell. Not to sound like a dick, but Little Chris could have gone another week without food and still been okay. He was a big boy, despite the moniker I had given him. I gave him my phone number anyway, just in case there was an emergency.

  I left Cameraland with a nagging feeling of sorrow for dragging the poor kid into this bizarre mess. They say fate unites us all, and I can't really argue with that. We're all tied to it, in some way. Life has a funny way of fucking with you. It's always changing, throwing curveballs. It can change instantly, as quick as the flash on a camera. It's a lesson I hadn't bothered to learn until much later. However, Little Chris learned that lesson. That's why he ran like hell when he saw something he couldn't rationally explain. If it weren't for me, he would have stayed gone. Why didn't I run? I guess I was either too stupid or too determined to stay.

  Either way—more often than not, those two classes of people end up getting hurt. Or worse.

  2

  Uncle Bernie called me later in the week, begging me to meet up in the same bar where we had a few weeks back. I agreed, although I warned him I didn't make much progress since our last conversation. He said that was okay, that these things take time. I got the sense that Uncle Bernie was bored, that his wife was spending too much time with Marty Olberstad.

  I arrived at the bar and sat down on one of the stools. Uncle Bernie was nowhere to be found. I surveyed the restaurant area twice, and there were only six people sitting at the bar. I was going to give him ten minutes, then I was going to leave.

  About five minutes later, my cell rang. “Hello?” I answered. It was a number I didn't recognize.

  “Hey, Ritchie. It's Bernard,” my uncle said. “I hate to do this, but I ain't gonna make it down to the bar tonight. Danica is flipping shit.”

  “What happened?” I asked. I hoped he didn't confront her about his suspicion. He'd blow my deal wide open. If he told her that I was sent to spy on her, she'd probably call me out before Aurelia's big ceremony, squashing any romantic hopes, along with any chance of figuring out why the camera warped C
arter Boone's church into an abandoned heap of shit. Uncle Bernie had the power to screw me on all accounts. There was the simple fact that Aunt Danica had never met me, and even if Bernie told her that her nephew was hired to take pictures of her committing adultery, it was possible I could continue crashing the Order's weekly masses without causing a stir. As long as he didn't mention my name. But even if he didn't, the paranoia in me assumed she was smart enough to figure it out. She might remember our little introduction at the end of last week's mass. It was possible she already suspected me of being an impostor. After all, Carter did. I saw it in his eyes. If I was going to let this whole thing come down on my head, to let my chances of becoming more than just emergency contacts with Aurelia crash and burn, I wanted it to fail on my own doings, not Uncle Bernard's. “You didn't do anything stupid, did you?” I asked.

  “No, no,” he said, as if my question agitated him. “My crazy-ass wife wants me to go to some stupid community theater play. Or whatever the fuck it is. I told her I was going to have a drink with you, and—”

  “You said what?”

  There was a pause. I think the anger in my voice surprised him.

  “I said I was going to the bar to have a drink with you. She flipped shit. What's the big deal? Why do you sound so pissed off? You're not the one going to a community rendition of Peter fucking Pan.” The sound of his whiny voice irritated me.

  “I sound pissed off, Bernard, because you just told your wife that you were going to the bar with the guy you hired to spy on her!” I yelled into the phone, loud enough to alert some of the patrons around me. They swiveled their heads in my direction. “What were you thinking?” I asked, much more quietly.

  “Relax, you baboon. I didn't tell her I was going with a guy I hired to photograph her. Whaddya think I'm stupid?” I didn't until a few moments ago. “I just said I was going with my nephew. I don't see the harm—”

  Wincing as if I had been stabbed, I told him to shut up. “Did you use my name?”

  “I don't remember—”

  “Try.”

  “I don't think so. What's gotten into you?” he asked.

  I rubbed my temples. He was giving me a headache. “Listen to me, and listen carefully. You do not mention my name to your wife. In fact, pretend the Naughton side of the family doesn't even exist. Does she know my mother?”

  “They met once or twice. Years ago.”

  “Good. I hope her memory sucks then. You don't have a nephew, Bernard. Do you understand me?”

  “I don't?” He sounded befuddled.

  “No. Never did. Ritchie Naughton no longer exists. If she asks about the nephew you were going to have a beer with, lie to her. Tell her that it was a close co-worker who was the nephew you never had. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” he choked. “Jesus, Ritchie, you're really getting into this.”

  “Don't fuck this up for me, Bernard,” I said, and then pressed the red button on my cell phone, ending the call.

  3

  There was a dream that night. Before I drifted off to sleep my last thoughts were of Boone's house in the middle of the woods, and the things I thought I might see during Aurelia's initiation. The murder of swine. An orgy where the participants are drenched in the blood of a goat. Incantations shouted in Gregorian chant. There were a million other ghastly images my over-tired brain conjured.

  After a few hours of rolling around on the couch, doing my best to clear my head, I finally drifted off into the land of dreams. I was walking down the path that led to Boone's house. Little Chris was with me. We were both walking as if we were soldiers in enemy territory. I was equipped with a flask that had the words “holy water” etched on it. Little Chris held a Louisville Slugger, resting it on his shoulder as if he were stepping up to the plate. Ready to do this? he asked me.

  I nodded. The path twisted and turned and as fast as two fingers snapping, we were in front of Carter Boone's reclusive abode. Only, it did not look like the place where Satanic conventions took place every Saturday night. Instead, it stood as it did when the Denlax had transformed it. Pieces of the siding had vanished. Bits of mirror were revealed where the siding had been torn away, where before a black nothingness hid beneath the house's shell. We stopped in front of the house, perhaps no more than twenty-five feet away. We surveyed the area, making sure we were not to be ambushed by whatever was protecting the house.

  The House of Mirrors, Little Chris said.

  Not for long, I assured him.

  Before we could advance on the house, a figure emerged from the porch. Had it been there the whole time? Probably. Watching us. Waiting. Ready to protect its place of residence at all costs.

  The man whom I had inadvertently photographed, the one who walked with a cane—which he gripped tightly with his claw-like hands—started toward us. He was as ugly as I remembered. The sense of smell is usually absent in the dream-life, but I swear I could smell the bastard with such clarity that I forgot I was dreaming in the first place. An unearthly odor tainted the air. Something rotten. A mixture of dead meat and herbal substances. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what it smelled like, but it turned my stomach inside out and my dream-self grew nauseas.

  I've warned you... the old creature with sickly green skin said. This is our territory. This is the House of Mirrors. This is OUR DOMAIN!

  You can't stay here, pal, Little Chris said.

  Kid's right. It's time. The Mirrors must break, I said. You can't go on like this forever.

  The creature smiled. It was an evil smile, one that stretched from ear to ear and showed two rows full of blackish-yellow, decaying teeth. It started to chuckle, which sounded more like a snake hissing. The Mirrors will never break, Ritchie-my-bitchie. The Mirrors are here to stay. Don't you want to see them? Don't you want to explore their grandeur? There is an abundant amount of power in them. You could have some, Ritchie-my-bitchie. We can share. We were always good at sharing. The thing hissed again, its lips refusing to uncurl.

  I like sharing, Little Chris said. I noticed the baseball bat fell to his waist. He was no longer prepared to swing for the fences. I glanced over at him; a trance-like expression overtook his face. The creature was doing something to make him this way.

  Chris? What are you doing? I asked. But Little Chris did not listen. Instead he shuffled toward the creature, who grinned with devilish delight.

  That's it, boy. Come see. All can see in the House of Mirrors! He sounded like a carnival host, trying to get people to tour the house as they walked by. Little Chris walked past the creature, toward the house. He reached the porch. The front door was boarded up, so instead he took the baseball bat to the window, shattering it into a million pieces. The creature cackled. That's it. Enter! Enter the House of Mirrors and explore it's magnificence!

  Chris, no! I called out, but it was already too late. He disappeared into the house. I turned my attention back to the creature, who was staring at me, his smile fading slightly, being replaced by a faint look of trepidation.

  Listen to me. And listen to me carefully. These people are mine, and there is nothing you can do to save them, the creature squawked.

  Who? What people? I asked. I did not know what he meant.

  Some will enter. Most will not leave. That is the rule in the House of Mirrors.

  I don't understand, you fuck—

  It's unfortunate you found my camera. Unfortunate for you. Very lucky for me. The little old man, who was hardly a man at all, turned back toward the house. Finish what the one before you started. And it will be over. I promise. You will go on to live a full and happy life. Free from the perils of your world. Go on! Be done with this madness. It's what you want, isn't it? To be happy.

  And what will happen to her? I yelled at him.

  He stopped dead in his tracks before he reached the front steps. The girl? he asked, seemingly amused.

  Aurelia.

  The old man turned to me, the sickly smile stretching across his face one more time. The House of Mirr
ors has laid claim to her soul.

  What does that mean? I asked.

  It means, Ritchie-my-bitchie, THAT SHE BELONGS TO US!

  I awoke in a pool of my own cool sweat, remembering only fragments of what I had dreamed. The images would come to me in the following minutes, but until then I lay motionless on the couch, listening to the drum of my own heart.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday night came all too quickly. I spent most of the day gathering my shots for the Sunday paper. I dropped by Cameraland and gave Big Chris—Little Chris had the day off his father told me—a roll of film I needed to drop by the office, before the Order's ceremony at midnight. Saturday nights were late nights for most of the people who worked at the paper, but I had to have my shots submitted before five o'clock.

  Once everything was squared away for tomorrow's edition, I plotted my moves for the evening's adventure. I realized I didn't quite remember the way to Boone's place. Instead of following Olberstad from his apartment, I decided to pick up his tail later in his travels. I knew some of the roads he was going to use, so I decided to wait on the one familiar highway I knew he'd have to take. There was a convenience store, the last one before the end of civilization, and I decided to wait for his BMW there.

  It was a quarter past eleven when I pulled into the parking lot. I found a spot closest to the road, the best vantage point I could have asked for. I was early, but I didn't want to run the risk of being late. He'd probably want to get there early, maybe to help set up, or meet his lover. Then a scary thought occurred to me; what if he was somewhere else before the meeting, like with Aunt Danica? What if they took a different route to get there? What if they carpooled and took her vehicle? I couldn't remember what she drove. A Celica? A Chevy? Was it Silver? Black? Fuck me running, I couldn't remember.