The Girl in the Mirror

by Steven Ramirez

  “Wow, Rachel moves fast,” Sarah said.

  She went to look for her sister. When she didn’t find her, Sarah walked up to the front to check in with Blanca. The receptionist was in the middle of typing an email.

  “Blanca? Is Pollito okay?”

  “Gracias a Dios.”

  Rachel appeared at the front door, waiting for the locksmith to stand and let her in. She was carrying two large takeout bags from The Cracked Pot. When she saw her sister, she smiled.

  “Just in time. I brought lunch.”

  “Gracias a Dios,” Sarah said and helped her with the bags.

  Sarah, Joe, and Rachel sat in the conference room, eating their lunch.

  “Where’s Blanca?” Joe said, taking a huge bite of his sandwich.

  Rachel shook her head. “I put hers in the fridge. She says she’s too upset to eat.”

  “Poor thing,” Sarah said, taking another bite of her Cobb salad. “Pollito is her baby. Hey, Joe? Is there any way I can talk you into skipping the dating scene for one night and come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “Resurrection Cemetery.”

  “Won’t the TV crew be there?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’re not planning something crazy?”

  “Like what?” Rachel said.

  “Like getting into it with Donnie and Debbie.” Then, to Rachel, “She hates those guys.”

  Sarah pretended to be surprised. “Joe, I am shocked—shocked—that you would suggest such a thing. To think that I, Sarah Greene, the, the…”

  “Beautiful and talented?” her sister said.

  Sarah pointed at Rachel. “Local psychic would think of—”

  “Fine, I’ll come.”

  Joe threw the remains of his lunch into one of the bags and placed his hands on the table, trying to give Sarah a serious look but breaking into a smile.

  I still got it. Sarah grinned and popped a piece of avocado into her mouth. “Mm, great salad, Rache.”

  Harlan Covington stepped out onto State Street and began walking in a northerly direction. The sidewalk was filled with pedestrians, and Harlan had to maneuver carefully. A family of tourists was approaching, struggling with a toddler apparently in the throes of a titanic tantrum. The young parents seemed exasperated.

  The elderly attorney smiled. He didn’t dislike children. On the contrary, perhaps if he had chosen a different path, he might’ve married and raised a family. There was a girl once. Marie Legrande. French Catholic. Her father was a wealthy banker, he remembered, and not opposed to his daughter marrying Harlan. She would’ve made an excellent wife for a young attorney. But as often happens, fate stepped in. And with it the promise of unimaginable power.

  Absently, he fingered the silver ring with the onyx face. He felt his phone vibrate and removed it from his coat pocket. Recognizing the number, he slipped into a nearby alley and walked all the way to the back, where it dead-ended in a brick wall.

  “How did it go? What?”

  He could hear the sound of an approaching siren. He pressed the phone against his ear and covered the other ear with his free hand.

  “So, it wasn’t there? Well, I was sure— What? Yes, I’ll make some inquiries. Don’t worry. We’ll find it. In the meantime, don’t do anything stupid.”

  The voice at the other end must have said something insulting, because Covington pulled the phone away from his ear, stared at it in disgust, and ended the call. When Harlan looked up again, he saw a stranger approaching. He was a man of around fifty, wearing baggy jeans and a windbreaker. But it was his eyes.

  They were completely black.

  Harlan raised his hand, showing the man the ring. The stranger stopped mid-stride. Wearing a snarl, his entire being filled with rage. As he continued toward the old man, he grabbed his head and began moaning, the intense pain blinding him and making him fall onto his knees. He lay on his side, convulsing on the ground as a putrid, yellowish bile poured from his lips.

  When Harlan was certain the man was no longer a threat, he walked out of the alley onto the sidewalk, where once again, he saw the young couple and their other children huddled around the toddler—a boy with beautiful blond locks. He was lying prostrate on the sidewalk, his arms and legs extended, crying inconsolably. The old man strode toward them.

  “What’s all this?” His voice was filled with concern.

  The frantic mother’s eyes pleaded with him. Smiling, he patted her hand and crouched down on his haunches—not an easy feat at his age.

  “So, you’ve decided to take a nap, have you? Out here in the street?”

  The boy had stopped bawling and was looking at the old man in fascination. He noticed the unusual ring and silently pointed at it.

  “This? Want to see?”

  The boy nodded, having forgotten all about whatever it was that was bothering him. Covington looked up at the parents for permission; they smiled gratefully. He reached out his hand and allowed the little one to touch the ring. As if by magic, the boy smiled and sat up. Babbled something to his mother and reached out his arms to her. She picked him up and held him, kissing his ear.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “He gets this way sometimes.”

  “Probably tired,” Covington said. “I’m sure he’ll be fine once he’s had a nap.”

  The family watched as the stranger with the unusual ring moved into the flow of foot traffic. As he got farther away, Harlan thought of what lay ahead. Sometimes, he felt he was that boy, fighting and screaming against everything he was meant to do. Perhaps one day, he could rest. In the meantime, he had work to do, especially now that the mirror had been discovered.

  A shadow in the sky passed over him, accompanied by the faint sound of beating wings. Looking up, the old man shielded his eyes as a flock of crows passed overhead, cawing. Crows, not ravens. But he knew the ravens weren’t far off. They were waiting in Dos Santos.

  “Soon,” he said to no one. Soon.

  Twelve

  If was after eight when Sarah and Joe arrived in her car. Heavy, rain-filled clouds obscured the moon, and the only illumination came from the lighting equipment the television crew had set up, all powered by a huge white portable generator sitting on a trailer parked outside the gates on the street. As Sarah approached it, careful to step over the heavy black cables, she was surprised at how quietly it ran.

  Fans had gathered there, hoping for a glimpse of the show’s stars. Sarah noticed Carter, the server from The Cracked Pot, standing off to one side with a small group of other twenty-somethings.

  “Is that her band?” Sarah said.

  Joe glanced over. “I think so.”

  As Sarah continued watching Carter, she noticed a dark, viscous form moving rapidly toward the group. Her pulse quickened as she realized it was something malevolent. Concerned, she started toward the girl to warn her. The others standing with her were oblivious. Sarah stopped when she saw Carter turn and appear to react to the entity. She can see it? The girl said something to her friends and walked away as the thing vanished. Touching her chest, Sarah let out a sigh. She decided she would need to speak to the girl first chance she got.

  “Hey, look,” Joe said.

  Sarah turned to where he was pointing. A black Escalade had pulled up, and the fans began cheering and shouting.

  She shook her head. “Here we go.”

  The two minor celebrities exited the vehicle to the cheers of “Welcome to the real world, boys and girls!” Before the fans could mob Donnie and Debbie, several security guards wearing Dubious windbreakers intervened. Each of those guys could have easily weighed three hundred pounds, Sarah guessed.

  After the stars had entered the cemetery, Sarah nudged Joe and began walking toward the gates.

  “You’re not trying to get backstage?” he said.

  “Watch and learn, my friend.”

  She removed her wallet from her purse and, getting out her driver’s license, approached one of the security guards, who
was holding a clipboard.

  “I’m Sarah Greene,” she said.

  He glanced at the ID, referred to his clipboard, and waved her through. As Sarah walked in, he put a hand up to Joe’s face.

  “Who are you?”

  Sarah turned casually. “It’s okay. He’s with me.”

  The cemetery looked eerie in the white glow coming from the bright lights that had been set up around several of the gravestones. To play it safe, Sarah had said a Rosary earlier. Though she was secretly terrified, she wanted to prove to herself she could handle being in such a haunted place. As she made her way over slowly, she took in as much of the atmosphere as she could handle.

  “Okay, are you going to explain how you did that?” Joe said.

  “Did what?”

  “Get us past Andre the Giant.”

  “I’m not completely helpless, you know.” Joe said nothing. “Okay, fine. Lou arranged it.”

  “You could’ve waited till tomorrow.”

  “And have you miss meeting your two favorite celebs? I hope you brought a Sharpie for the autographs. Hey, maybe they can sign your butt.”

  Up ahead, Sarah could see Donnie and Debbie conversing with the woman she’d met that morning. Apparently, they were going over the script. They use scripts for reality TV?

  “Joe, can you wait here a sec?” she said.

  Sarah walked confidently up to Donnie and Debbie and waited politely for them to finish their conversation. She’d learned the crew member’s name was Gillian. Recognizing Sarah, she smiled.

  “Hey, Gillian.”

  “Guys? This is Sarah Greene.”

  The husband and wife team turned to Sarah. She introduced Joe, and everyone shook hands.

  Donnie and Debbie appeared older in person, and Sarah realized they were probably her age. She also noticed neither was naturally blond. And Donnie wore thick glasses when he wasn’t on camera.

  “We were able to locate Peter Moody’s grave,” Gillian said.

  Sarah smiled. “Great. I appreciate this.”

  Holding Joe’s hand, Sarah approached a gravestone that had been lit. A camera sat on a tripod nearby, pointed toward it. Donnie, Debbie, and Gillian had accompanied them while the rest of the crew was off somewhere else setting things up for the actual shoot.

  “You really think you’ll see something?” Debbie said.

  Sarah was staring at the gravestone, which filled her with dread, and didn’t appear to have heard. Joe nudged her, and she turned.

  “Not sure. But if there is anything, maybe your equipment will pick it up?”

  “You never know,” Donnie said. “It’d be a first on our show. Well, let’s do this.”

  Gillian walked over to the camera and focused on Sarah as she drifted slowly between the gravestones of Peter Moody and his parents. Another crew member with a boom mic had appeared next to the camera, and someone else wearing headphones—a sound man?—took a seat near a cart with expensive-looking electronic equipment.

  A kid who looked as if he could have been in high school stepped in front of the camera, holding a clapperboard, and someone shouted for everyone to be quiet. Gillian started recording and the kid created a slate. Joe hung back behind the camera with the show’s hosts.

  Attempting to shut out all distractions, Sarah closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, expelling air to make room for the supernatural. Nothing. She concentrated on Gerald and Vivian, then on Peter. She tried picturing Peter as he might have looked in 1993. A little taller maybe, with the downy beginnings of a young man’s beard. Still nothing.

  A memory of seeing him in his room on top of Hannah flashed across her mind; she dismissed it. She opened her eyes and began moving slowly toward Peter’s gravestone. This was the part that terrified her most—touching the cold granite—not knowing what to expect. But when she did, she felt nothing but the rough, wet stone. Not even a glimmer of the paranormal.

  Sighing, she turned around and faced everyone as Gillian said, “Cut!”

  The kid returned and created another slate.

  “So, nothing?” Donnie said. “What a surprise.” He turned to the sound man. “You get anything?”

  “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah.”

  “Oh,” Debbie said, her voice dripping with fake sincerity. “Maybe next time, huh?”

  Donnie touched Sarah’s arm, smiling disingenuously. “We’ll review the video and sound later and let Chief Fiore know if we uncover anything, ’kay?”

  “Thanks,” she said, avoiding eye contact.

  Joe came around and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He expected her to be disappointed. But when he saw her face, he noticed she was wearing a huge grin.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  She looked over again at the two hosts, who were discussing the scene they were about to shoot. Next to them floated three rotting, mutilated corpses dressed in WWI army uniforms, practically breathing down the necks of the two clueless unbelievers. One of them tried touching Donnie’s ear, and he absently brushed it away.

  “Nothing at all,” she said.

  “I don’t understand,” Lou said, chewing furiously on a toothpick. “You got nothing?”

  He and Sarah were sitting in his office, fingers of soft morning light pushing stealthily through the blinds. Sarah had returned home after her little adventure, had a whiskey, and gone to bed. She’d hoped Joe would ask to stay over. But lately, he was being “proper.” After he kissed her on the cheek and left, she grudgingly told herself it was probably for the best.

  Having been in the place she feared most, Sarah thought her night would have been filled with the sights and sounds of decaying bodies and wailing voices of the damned. But not even those WWI dudes had made an appearance, and she’d slept like a rock. She couldn’t remember a single dream when she awoke the next morning and found Gary on her stomach, kneading his paws and purring like a toy motorboat.

  She was dreading giving Lou the bad news and dawdled at the office until right before nine. It was Saturday, and she had decided to dress down, wearing a gray cashmere pullover, jeans, and her Frye black leather riding boots, which played havoc with the clutch whenever they got wet in the rain. She forced herself to get into her car and head over, hoping the police chief was in a good mood. Another failure, Sarah.

  Lou was looking at the case file and, for a brief time, acted as though Sarah was not in the room. She noticed the more focused he got, the harder he chewed on his toothpick. Was she the toothpick? Sighing, he closed the file and looked at her with irritation she hoped wasn’t directed at her.

  “The parents are murdered,” he said, “and a couple years later, their kid commits suicide. I mean, come on. This has got Stephen King written all over it.”

  “I know, Lou. But I didn’t touch the parents’ gravestones. And, strange as it sounds, I got absolutely nothing from Peter’s. Did you speak to the aunt and uncle?”

  “No luck there either. Morris Moody passed away two years ago and his wife, Colleen, is in some retirement facility.”

  “So, did you speak with her?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did. Unfortunately, she wasn’t much help. I think she might be a little, you know, forgetful. When I asked about Peter, she told me he and his family were living out in California.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  Lou tossed his toothpick and grabbed a fresh one. “Sarah, I’m beginning to think you’re right about visiting the aunt in person.”

  “Makes sense. And you might dig up more relatives to interview.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  Leaning back, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. When he looked at her again, she noticed it wasn’t with stars in his eyes. Maybe his little crush was over? Thank goodness.

  Tim Whatley poked his head in. “I’ve got those traffic reports you requested. Oh, hey, Sarah.”

  “Hi, Tim.”

  He entered and handed a manila folder to Lou, who set it on top o
f a pile of folders. Sarah noticed that, as he did, he was surreptitiously scanning Lou’s desk.

  “Thanks for the file, Tim. Could you close the door on your way out?”

  “Oh. Um, sure.”

  When they were alone again, Sarah said, “Is it my imagination, or is Tim a little—”

  “Nosey? Now that you mention it. You know, it bugs me that you didn’t sense anything at the cemetery. I mean, how is that possible, what with your other experiences?”

  “Seriously. The whole area around the Moody gravesite was like one big dead zone—no pun intended. Wait a second…”

  “What?”

  “Whenever I’m around the dead—especially in places that are haunted—I always get something. I saw the ghosts of three WWI veterans without breaking a sweat. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that I…”

  Lou leaned forward, a concerned look on his face. “Sarah?”

  Chewing her lip, she looked at him intently. “Unless someone—or something—was blocking me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, somebody might have prevented me from experiencing anything. But whoever it was clearly couldn’t control the whole damn cemetery, which would explain why I was able to see those other dead guys.”

  “Is that possible?” he said.

  “Sure. If they performed a spell.”

  “Whoa.” Lou got to his feet and began pacing. “Okay, I was willing to accept that you have these powers to see…weird shit. And now, you’re telling me witches are real?”

  “They don’t have to be witches, Lou. Just someone who knows how to cast spells.”

  “So, who do you suspect?”

  She scratched her head and thought for a moment. “Well, let me see. I was with Donnie and Debbie the whole time. Those two idiots couldn’t have done it. And why would they? They don’t believe in any of that stuff.”

  “What about the crew?”