In the House of Mirrors

by Tim Meyer

  I grabbed the Denlax and snapped two pictures. “I got you, you son-of-a-bitches.” I breathed a sigh of relief, as if I had just completed a marathon. It was over. The stalking was over. I could go back to concentrating on work, or figuring out why this camera acted strangely. Although, now I considered trading it in for a digital one. I had no need to return to Boone's house. I could let go of the Denlax, and be done with it. Yes, it was intriguing. Yes, I wanted to know who the old man in the picture was. But, on the other hand, what good would it do me to discover these things, other than satisfy my own curiosity? Couldn't I throw the damned thing away? Eventually, I'd come to terms with never learning its secrets. If I concentrated more on Aurelia instead of the stupid device that produced nothing but oddities, maybe I could make something of this relationship. Maybe she could be it for me. Maybe she could be the one.

  My thoughts of ditching the Denlax and moving on with my life were suddenly interrupted by a phone call. I looked down and saw Aurelia's name. Speak of the devil, I thought, no pun intended.

  “Hello?” I answered. I put my uncle's notebook down and looked to the other thing I brought with me, to study in case there was some down time: the article about Boone's house, which held some interesting details about his family life, particularly regarding his son, Geoffrey.

  “Ritchie?” Aurelia said.

  “What's up?”

  “Are you busy?” she asked. She sounded upset, as if something were wrong.

  “Not particularly. I was just finishing up some... uh... work,” I said, trying to hold in a small burst of laughter.

  “Oh, well I can call back later.” She sounded dejected.

  “No. Not at all.” I scanned the article, reading over the parts I found a little coincidental. “I just finished.”

  “Good. Can we meet up? There's stuff I need to tell you. Things I think I should tell you in person.” A brief moment of silence hung on the line. I thought she might say more.

  “Now? Uh, sure. Where do you want to meet?”

  “How's about the The Golden Crown Diner? It's open twenty-four-seven and they never rush you when you're finished eating. It's a good place to talk.”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Wanna give me... let's say a half hour?”

  “Okay. And Ritchie?”

  “Yeah, Aurelia?”

  “I hope you won't hate me.”

  “I don't think that's possible. In fact... I have some things I'd like to discuss with you.” My eyes drifted back to the article, the part about Boone's son Geoffrey once being a patient at the Mental Health Facility in Benton, the very place where Aurelia claimed she was a nurse.

  “Okay, I'll see you soon,” she said.

  Just when I heard her hang up the phone, my car door was ripped open. Two hands, with strong arms attached to them, yanked me out of the driver's seat, and sent me to the pavement. Then a sharp pain shot into my ribs, which spread throughout the surrounding parts of my body. It took me a few seconds to realize that my assailant had kicked me.

  I struggled to get to my feet, and before I could, my attacker was back at it, sending another steel-toe boot at my midsection. He connected once more, and the air was expelled from my lungs. My body hit on the sidewalk, hard.

  “You son-of-a-bitch,” a man's voice said.

  I looked up to see who had attacked me.

  “Why are you following us?” Marty Olberstad said, and then drove his foot into my stomach for the last time.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had never been much of a fighter, even during my adolescent days. Never even thrown a punch, unless you count the heavy bag at my old gym. Fisticuffs was simply not my thing.

  My ribs ached. I crawled on the ground, squirming like a worm through the mud, waiting for Olberstad to drive his foot into my midsection once again. Luckily, he never did. I reached for the steering wheel, grabbed it, and used it to regain my footing. My legs and knees felt weak, as if the bones and muscles had melted away. I felt the looming presence of Olberstad nearby, although I did not see him. It was dark, and my vision had blurred. I struggled to find my breath once I stood up. My lungs worked overtime. Then, without any warning, a fist emerged from the darkness and rocked my jaw, snapping my head sideways. Blood flew from my mouth in tiny droplets, and I couldn't help but fall back to my knees.

  “Why are you following us?” Olberstad asked. “Don't think I haven't noticed. First you follow me to church. I thought it was a coincidence. Well, bullshit. You followed me from my apartment, didn't you? Didn't you?” His face contorted into an angry squint and he lashed out with his foot again, this time missing me.

  “Yes,” I huffed. It hurt to speak.

  “I should have done something right there. But I didn't think much of it. Then you showed up the very next week. When that bitch Aurelia was supposed to be accepted into our congregation. How convenient,” he snarled. Olberstad was pissed. I made my way back to my feet with my hands out in front of me, pleading with him. He kept his distance and continued talking. “The next thing I know I'm running for my life, because somebody set the fucking place on fire. And you know who I think that somebody is?”

  “Me?”

  “That's right, motherfucker.” Olberstad drove his fist into my stomach. Whatever his foot loosened, I felt break when he connected with my ribs again. “The results came back. Boone was a victim of arson.” He grabbed my hair and forced me to look into his eyes. “I don't think you did it alone. I think that little cunt of yours is every bit responsible. Don't worry. We'll deal with her soon enough.”

  “You lay a finger on her—”

  Another fist found the side of my face.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Olberstad sneered. “See, the old man actually wants the authorities to handle this. And although he is the boss, so to speak, I have to disagree with the way he goes about certain things. Like how to deal with pretenders. Unwanted vermin who sneak and slither their way into our quiet organization.” He tightened his grip on my hair. “Why? That's what I really want to know. Why did you do it? We never did anything to anybody. We kept to ourselves. We never went around town, spreading our faith, forcing our religion down people's throats like some of the other trashy organizations do. We just wanted to be left alone. We just wanted to do our thing. And you—you just had to intervene. Did you destroy our place of worship because you simply don't understand it? People tend to do that. It's in our human nature.”

  “It wasn't about your stupid cult, you dumb bastard,” I wheezed. “It was about you, Marty.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  I nodded to the salon. “Her husband paid me to take pictures of you.” I watched as a new expression took over his face. Sheer astonishment replaced his anger. “Yeah... nothing to do with the Order of the Black Book at all. Her husband caught onto you guys and I was hired to take a few pictures. That's it. How I ended up inside that church with you crazy assholes? That's beyond me. It was a bad decision on my part. I snuck into the place after following you that night. If I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn't have even stepped foot on that property. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have even followed you.” Loosening his grip, his eyes darted away from my gaze. His eyes found my car and I knew he spotted it; the Denlax. “So you listen to me, you piece of shit. Get your hands off of me or I show her husband proof of what he has suspected this whole time.”

  He pushed me back up against the car. “Who are you to make demands?” He took his paw and squeezed my face. “I should end you right now, but I'm not going to. You know why? Because we're on a street and there would be way too many witnesses. But know this: I will come for you. We will come for you.”

  A scene flashed in front of my eyes, a sequence from the first dream I had. It was of Lynne when she turned into the lizard creature. Isn't that what it said to me? “We will come for you.” It was close enough. The same basic message. I began to think that Olberstad was a part of this in some way, that he wa
s in cahoots with the old man from my pictures. Paranoia was getting to me and soon every face I saw would look a little green to me.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said we're going to come for you. Payback for burning down our place of worship.”

  I chuckled. It cost me another shot to the ribs. After that, Marty tossed me aside. He opened the driver's side door, reached in, and grabbed the Denlax. He turned to me, holding the archaic device in his hand, not knowing what to make of it.

  “I'd say it's definitely time to invest in a new camera,” he said, smiling. “What do you think?”

  “Marty, I'm begging you. Don't do it.” The funny thing was, a part of me wanted him to do it. Go ahead, smash it all over the pavement. The madness it brought me would be over. I'd no longer have to worry about my pictures coming to life. I wouldn't have to worry about Little Chris losing his mind. If the camera was no longer usable, my worries would have been cut in half.

  But on the other hand, I wanted to know. I needed to know. The old man in the pictures was up to something, and I had to know what it was. He didn't want me looking on him, but it was too late. The camera showed me what it showed me. The old man was up to something very bad indeed. It was my job now, my duty to figure out what it was and how to stop it. It was up to me.

  The camera chose me.

  “Does this camera have sentimental value to you? Does it mean a lot to you?” Olberstad asked, as if I were his pet and he was asking me if I wanted a treat, dangling one in front of me.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well so did that house you burned down. You and your little bitch.” With that, he smashed the camera on the ground, and then proceeded to step on it repeatedly, until the camera was nothing but bits of plastic scattered along the sidewalk. He laughed as he did it, putting angst into each step. The crunching sound of the plastic breaking beneath his foot was like nails on a chalkboard. I cringed with every stomp. When he finished, he looked at me and shrugged, as if to say “well, what are you going to about it?”

  “No...” I said. I didn't realize it, but I was on the verge of tears. “What did you do?” I asked. “What did you do?”

  “A favor. That thing is older than dirt.”

  Unaware that I was acting on the first thought that came to my brain, I lashed out with my fist, aiming for Marty's jaw. He was probably so thunderstruck he didn't have time to react. There wasn't any attempt to block or dodge me. I had an open lane. My fist connected with the side of his face, and I heard a popping sound. I knew I had broken his jaw as soon as the force of my knuckles whipped his head to the side. Blood exploded from his mouth as he stumbled backwards, and eventually fell to the ground.

  I quickly grabbed the Denlax and scooped the broken pieces into my arms, as if I were cradling a baby. I threw them in the car and proceeded to get in. I wanted to be halfway down the block before Marty could regain his footing, but unfortunately for me, Marty had a jaw made of steel. He was getting to his feet when I was turning the key in the ignition. I looked over and saw him approaching the car, stumbling like one of Romero's zombies. His equilibrium had been slightly altered, and I only had seconds before he regained full control of his body. He reached out for me as I reached for the door.

  Marty Olberstad got there first.

  He grabbed my shoulder and muttered something incoherently. It was something derogatory, given the tone, and I would have heard him with perfect clarity had there not been a river of blood leaking from his lips. I turned in my seat and brushed his hand away from my shoulder. There was no resistance. I could tell my punch had knocked out some energy, along with a few teeth. I twisted my body around and used my left leg to kick Marty in the stomach, causing him to hobble backwards and trip over the curb. He fell on his ass. I tried to close the door again. His outstretched arm was in the way. I shut the door as hard as I could. His hand happened to be in the line if fire.

  I never heard a grown man scream so loud.

  Marty Olberstad withdrew his mangled hand from my car. He was in tears. Holding his crippled hand close to his chest, he began to moan, calling Danica's name out into the night, begging for her help. I slammed the door and looked toward the salon. My aunt was running into the street, a look of bewilderment holding her face captive.

  I put the car in drive, and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  I never looked back.

  2

  I looked to the pieces of the broken camera, and wondered if the film trapped inside had been too damaged to salvage. I prayed that it wasn't. On that roll of film was the proof I needed to prove Uncle Bernie's worries. I hoped he appreciated the great lengths I went through to get those valuable photographs, although I doubted I'd ever give him the full story. I don't think he would have believed it anyhow.

  My mind quickly forgot all about the broken Denlax and my broken body (which I was beginning to think required medical attention with each passing moment), and remembered the next task at hand; meeting Aurelia at a diner on the other end of town. The Olberstad scuffle caused me to be late. I hoped that when she saw me, she would understand. I really didn't have time to inspect my body, but I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a big black circle forming around my left eye.

  Olberstad had a fist made of stone.

  I arrived at the diner nearly twenty minutes later than what we agreed upon. She was already sitting in a booth when I limped through the doors. The diner was pretty old fashioned, reminiscent of the old diners from the fifties, a time period I had equated with some of my dreams. Aurelia was sipping from a large mug of coffee when I took my seat across from her. Her eyes widened when she saw my face.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she asked, concerned.

  “I ran into some old friends of ours.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Marty Olberstad. And that lovely lady Danica.”

  “Marty did that to your face?” she asked.

  “And broke a couple of my ribs. Or at least I think so. Right now everything kind of hurts, so I don't know what's broken and what isn't.”

  “Oh my God.”

  I spent the next few minutes explaining to her what had happened. It was kind of hard to explain without backtracking and telling her why I was following Marty and Danica in the first place. I figured I had come here to tell her the truth anyway—about how I ended up at the Order of the Black Book, and what my intentions were. I had a lot of explaining to do. But I also had a lot of questions to ask.

  “Before I get into Marty Olberstad and why I was following him, I want you to explain something to me,” I told her. I produced the article that briefly discussed the Boone's family history. I pointed to the part of the article I found most interesting. It was circled in red ink.

  “Oh,” Aurelia said, as she looked at it.

  “Oh?” I replied. “Was Geoffrey Boone one of your patients?” I asked calmly.

  “No,” she replied. “Not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? Not exactly because he wasn't one of your patients, or not exactly because you never worked there in the first place?” She didn't answer. Her attention was turned to her giant mug of coffee. “I called there looking for you the day I read this. I tried calling your cell first, but you didn't answer. So I figured I'd try you at work. Only, I come to find out that Aurelia Anderson doesn't work at the Benton Mental Health Facility, nor was there ever a woman who worked there of that name.”

  “I can explain,” she said.

  “There was, however, a John Anderson who was a patient there. And the very informative secretary told me she seems to remember an Aurelia being his emergency contact, because she remembered calling her one day when Johnny had an accident, something she refused to go into detail about.”

  There was a long pause, as if something I said had gotten to the core of her, shook her up.

  “Aurelia, I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to—”

  “Johnny was my brother,” she said. “My younger
brother.”

  I saw tears form in the corners of her eyes. I stretched my hands across the table, and she took them into her own, after she wiped away a few droplets that escaped their wet prison. I told her everything was going to be okay, that she could tell me anything, as long it was the truth.

  What she blurted out next, I didn't quite expect.

  “Ritchie?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked. She seemed upset. I became worried. Also, the diner wasn't exactly empty. People began to shift their eyes in our direction.

  “I burned down Boone's house,” she said.

  3

  I remembered asking her why it was important that she go through with the initiation. Come Saturday, you'll see, was her response. The look in her eye had me worried then, but I didn't think much of it. If I had to put money on who was responsible for burning the demonic church to the ground, it wouldn't have been her. I assumed she was excited to become inducted into the club, not about turning the place to ash.

  A weird silence wedged between us. Neither of us knew what to say. I was too perplexed by Aurelia's confession to process any thoughts. She waited for me to say something, but no words escaped my mouth. I'd only been caught speechless a handful of times in my life, and this was one of them.

  “You'll probably never talk to me again,” she finally said. “I know you probably went to that place, looking for answers, looking for something to believe in. I've seen it before, Ritchie, written on the faces of people who go to places like that. I see it on your face right now.” She gripped my hands tight. “Cults. They're everywhere. They prey on weak people, Ritchie, and if there is one thing I'm sure of, it's that you're not a weak person. For what it's worth, you never belonged with those people.”