The Egyptian Mirror

by Michael Bedard

  She bent low and hovered over it, so that her face cast a murky reflection in the polished metal. She said nothing, but I heard a long low intake of breath, as though she was caught in the grip of some overpowering emotion. I felt ill at ease, as if I were intruding on some private tryst, and I retreated to my seat. When I glanced back at the table, she had gone.

  The auction was called to order. As those in attendance took their seats I scanned the crowd for the mysterious woman, but she was nowhere to be seen. It quickly became apparent, once things were underway, that there was money in the room. Bids leapt to alarming heights from the start.

  The Chippendale piece that had brought me to the auction went for twice the top bid my client had been prepared to make. And I was sure the mirror would be caught up in the frenzy and carried far beyond my reach.

  But, once the major items had been sold, the money started to move from the room, and with it the crowd that followed in its wake. So when at last item #182: “an ancient bronze Egyptian mirror” came up, there were no more than two-dozen people left in the room.

  The assistant brought the item up and displayed it to the room while the auctioneer solicited the initial bids. The little mirror did not present well, and the auctioneer was clearly less than enthused by it, and eager to hurry the proceedings along. The bidding started low and stayed there. I topped one or two halfhearted bids, and the auctioneer was about to bring the gavel down, when he noticed a higher bid from the back of the room.

  I glanced back and saw that the woman I had seen earlier had reappeared. It was she who had made the bid. She sat off to the side a couple of rows behind me. For the first time, I had a clear view of her. She was quite striking in profile, with a proud aquiline nose, large dark eyes, and a full mouth. She had but one flaw I could see—a scar set high on one cheek just below the eye. I took her to be about forty, but in truth she was ageless. I wondered what her interest in this little mirror could possibly be.

  Beside her sat a gentleman. He was lean and sinewy, with large questing eyes. They seemed an unlikely couple. There was something feral in the way he fawned upon her, constantly turning to her to see what he should do next.

  It was he who made the bids for her—with a brief bob of his long narrow head. She looked straight ahead, never once deigning to glance in my direction. She might have been the only one in the room.

  I topped her bid, and she bettered mine. I soon surpassed what I’d been prepared to bid for the mirror, and began to dip into the funds my collector had put at my disposal. If I’d had any sense at all, I would simply have let it go. But there was something in the mystery surrounding it, something in the chill allure of this woman, that drew me into danger. I suspected there was much more to her interest in the mirror than anyone in the room realized.

  Before I was fully aware of it, I was drawn out far beyond my depth. When the gavel finally came down, it was like a crash of thunder that wakes one from a dream. And I found myself in possession of the mirror.

  I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to shout out that there had been some mistake. The woman rose with her companion. For the first time, she turned and fixed me in her gaze. Her face was set like stone, and the look in her eyes froze me to the bone.

  I carried the mirror back home with me. I tried in vain to interest my collector in it. I was seriously out of pocket and had to borrow money against the business to repay him. But in the weeks that followed, the business suddenly foundered. I was at my wits’ end with worry.

  Then the phone calls started coming, always late at night, shortly after I had turned out the light. There was never any reply when I picked up the phone, only the sure sense of a presence, utterly silent yet palpably malevolent, on the other end.

  Night after night my sleep was troubled by the same vivid dream. I was walking through a wood and had lost my way. I was carrying the mirror with me. Behind me, I could hear some creature crashing through the undergrowth toward me. I would wake in a cold sweat. The dream began to creep into my waking life. Several times, while walking home at night along the dark streets, I heard the sound of something following me. Once, after racing back to the shop and bolting the door, I caught a glimpse of what looked like a large dog passing, a dog unlike any I had ever seen.

  Soon, I refused to leave the shop for any reason after nightfall. I consulted a doctor. He diagnosed a nervous disorder, prescribed a mild sedative, and advised complete rest. I was convinced that everything that had happened since I came into possession of the mirror could be laid at its door, and I desperately wanted rid of it.

  It was then I happened upon a notice of your upcoming talk at the Archaeological Society conference. I knew of your interest in mirrors, and I decided to approach you, in the hope that you might somehow be induced to buy it. I cared little what I got for it; I only wanted it gone.

  I attended the conference and introduced myself to your wife. I told her of the mirror, and arranged for the two of you to come and inspect it. I could sense that you were skeptical, but I lowered the price enough that you were willing to buy it.

  By the following morning you were away with it on a plane—and there was an ocean of oblivion between us. The nightmares that had plagued my sleep stopped. The presence that dogged my steps in the dark vanished like a mist, and my nervous condition with it. I was as one reborn. My business soon recovered, and all was well with the world.

  I confess, to my shame, that I spared not a thought for the two of you. You belonged to a period of dark on which I had turned the page, shadows from a past I had put behind me. A while back, I learned from a colleague in the mirror world that your wife had died, and I was filled with remorse for any part I may have played in it. I am an ill man now. While once I was able to shut away the past, I am swept up in the tide of it now, and spirits are my constant companions. I relive those days repeatedly. I stand again in that auction room with the mirror lying on the table before me, and I watch that strange woman reach her lean hand down and run her fingers along it.

  I have sold off my mirror collection. I can no longer bear to look at my reflection in the glass for fear of what gaunt creature I may glimpse lurking just behind me there.

  Now it is done. I have said what I should have said long ago. Perhaps you will read this and wonder what madness has come upon this poor man. Perhaps the ocean between us was broad enough that this darkness could not leap it, and you have lived your lives in peace. I pray it be so.

  But if darkness has somehow found its way to your door, know that it did to mine as well. Beware a woman with a scar upon her cheek, and a beast that prowls by night. I don’t know why she seeks the mirror, but seek it she will—with all her passion and to your ill.

  Henry Winstanley

  Simon sat at the window with the letter on his lap. Waves of unreality washed over him as, outside, the torrential rain washed over all. The trees flailed to and fro. Rainwater sluiced down the street, overflowing the storm drains, pooling at the foot of the hill. It swallowed the sidewalks whole, lapped against the grass.

  The Hawkins house was obscured in the downpour, cocooned with its feeble light amidst the raging storm. Simon’s eyes grew heavy from squinting through the curtains of rain at it, as if watching would somehow keep it safe. Then the light in the downstairs room winked out, and there was only the wind and the rain and the all-encompassing night. He fell asleep where he sat, bundled in blankets, the rain drumming with ghost fingers against the glass.

  10

  He woke to the sound of Babs crying in her crib. He was lying on the floor by the window, wound in his sheet like a mummy. His feet were cold and wet. He looked down and found them resting in a puddle, where the rain had found a way in. The letter was pinned under them. Untangling himself from the sheet, he snatched it out and carefully separated the pages, draping them over the headboard of his bed.

  As he sopped up the puddle wit
h his wet pajamas he looked out the window. He half-expected to find the world submerged, the water lapping lazily against the sill, the Hawkins house up and floated away.

  But there it stood, whole and still in the sunlight. The road was strewn with leaves and puddles. The trees, stripped of their leaves, stood skeletal and bare. Down the street, a large tree limb had come down in the storm and lay across the road. A car bumped up onto the sidewalk to get by.

  Having failed to attract attention, Babs amped up her crying a little. Simon padded down the hall to her room and found her standing in the crib, one leg hoisted up onto the rail. It was her latest trick. She knew she wasn’t supposed to do it, and she gave him an impish grin as he came into the room.

  “No, Babs,” he said. “Put your leg down.”

  It was a short step from hoisting her leg up onto the rail to launching herself right over the top. Dad had lowered the mattress as far as it would go and banished the large stuffed bear she’d boosted herself up on to the closet. But she was still managing to get that leg up.

  She gave Simon a long, steady look, then slid her leg off the rail and plopped down in the crib. Her diaper and sleeper were soaked. Fragments of dream flashed into his mind as he lifted her out and laid her on the change table. He changed her diaper and dressed her and they headed downstairs.

  Mom was in the kitchen, listening to the post-storm report on the radio as she prepared that night’s dinner. She was working the afternoon shift at the Busy Bee, and would reheat it when she got home.

  “Did the storm keep you awake last night?” she said as she grated lemon rind and knocked it into a bowl of batter.

  “A little. Some water got in through the window. I wiped it up.” He plopped Babs down on her chair.

  “Appa do,” she said. He filled her sippy cup with apple juice and handed it to her. “Cor fay,” she said. He poured corn flakes into her bowl and set it down in front of her.

  “They say a tornado touched down north of the city,” said Mom. “A lot of damage done, but, thankfully, no one was hurt. Wilma across the street phoned to see if we had power. She doesn’t. I wondered if Mr. Hawkins’ power was out. I tried calling, but his phone doesn’t seem to be working. If I don’t get through before I leave, maybe you could try in a while—just to make sure everything’s all right. I’m making lemon pudding cake for dessert. It’s his favorite.”

  Soon the house was full of the delicious aroma of lemon pudding cake baking. Lemma puddy cay, Babs called it—and kept calling it now until it was out of the oven and cool enough for Mom to give her a small bowlful.

  “Oh, look at the time,” she said and tore off to change into her uniform. Normally now, on the days she was working the afternoon shift, Mom would take Babs across to Mrs. Pimentel’s. But since it was a Saturday, Simon had been enlisted for the job of giving her lunch and putting her down for her afternoon nap.

  As she put on her coat Mom reminded Simon to give Mr. Hawkins a call. She gave them both a quick kiss and hurried out the door.

  Babs was down to one nap a day now. She took it right after her lunch. It was as much for Mom’s sake as for Babs’. This was the time she sat down with a quiet cup of tea, put her feet up on the stool, and watched her soaps. She’d usually snooze a little herself. If it was up to her, Babs would never drop that afternoon nap.

  As it was now, Babs usually didn’t need much persuading to go down. Today, after making short work of the grilled cheese sandwich Simon had made for her and cut into triangles—if it wasn’t cut into triangles, she wouldn’t touch it—she started getting drowsy over her second bowl of lemma puddy cay.

  Babs was a creature of extremes: one minute so full of energy you swore she’d never stop, and the next, nodding off. She sat there now with her spoon clutched in her fist, staring at him glassy-eyed. Her eyelids fluttered closed and her head bobbed. At the bottom of the bob she jerked and woke herself up, and the cycle started all over again.

  Simon grabbed a damp cloth and quickly cleaned her up. Speed was essential at this point. If you missed the narrow window when sleep came over her, she’d get overtired and refuse to go down. He undid her bib and carried her up to her room, laid her down and covered her up. She tucked her thumb in her mouth and was out like a light.

  Ten minutes later, as if on cue, a crew of city workers came rumbling down the street in an open truck with a chipper hitched to the back, and started in with their chainsaws, cutting up the large branch blocking the road. Simon watched from the window in his room as they cut it into logs and hoisted them onto the truck. They fed the smaller stuff into the chipper, which gobbled it up noisily and spewed chips into the back of the truck.

  The floor under the window was damp, and the knees of Simon’s pants were wet from kneeling there now. He kept looking over at the Hawkins house for some sign of life. But there was nothing. The weekend paper flapped in the breeze on the porch. The wind chime chattered to itself. The dahlias hung their heads in the long grass, looking as if they’d never get up.

  Something was wrong. He tried phoning, but the line was still dead. He watched as the work crew finished up and loaded their gear into the back of the truck. They drove off down the street, leaving scattered bits of branch and leaf on the road to tell the tale.

  A knot of dread had settled in the pit of his stomach. He tried the number again. This time he got a ring, but his relief faded as the phone rang on and on. He was about to hang up when it clicked over to the answering machine. He pictured it perched by the phone in the front room.

  Mr. Hawkins had told him that after Eleanor died, he somehow couldn’t bring himself to erase her greeting from the machine. He said there were times he would sit and play it over and over, just to hear the sound of her voice again.

  Her voice came on the line now, hauntingly strange, like someone speaking from beyond the grave. “Hello,” she said. “You have reached the Hawkins residence. I’m afraid we aren’t able to take your call right now. Please leave your name and number and a brief message, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” There was a brief pause, followed by a long beep.

  “Hello, Mr. Hawkins,” he said. “This is Simon calling. We were wondering if you have power in your house after the storm, and if you’re all right. If you can hear me, please pick up. My mom’s a little worried about—” But the time was up, and the machine clicked off.

  He could hear Babs talking through the wall. He hung up the phone and went to get her. She was sitting in the crib, deep in conversation with her stuffed animals. She was telling them all about the lemma puddy cay. As he lifted her out she grabbed her blue bunny by the ear and brought him along.

  He settled the two of them at the kitchen table and gave Babs the bowl she’d left unfinished at lunch. She tried to give the bunny a taste, but he refused to open his stitched-on mouth to try it.

  Simon wandered into the front room and looked out the window at the Hawkins house again. There was a light on now in the living room.

  He felt a great weight fall from his chest. Hurrying to the kitchen, he filled a small bowl with lemon pudding cake and plucked Babs from her chair. In moments, they were out the door.

  The air was fresh and pure, as though the world had been reborn. But as he crossed the street with Babs on his hip and the bowl of lemon pudding cake in his hand, the puddles in the road were dark pools into which he dared not look.

  The newspaper gibbered in the wind as they came up the stairs. He set the bowl down on the wicker table and rang the bell. While he waited for Mr. Hawkins to answer the door, he glanced up at the fanlight and saw that the hall light was on as well. He cranked the bell again.

  “Puddy cay,” said Babs, taking his chin in her hand and turning his head till he was looking at her. He noticed that the next-door neighbor’s porch light was on.

  He turned and looked the other way. Two doors down, another porch light was on. His
heart sank as the truth dawned on him. The power had been out and had just come back on. That was why the porch lights were all suddenly on. They’d been on when the power went off last night, and now when it came back on, so did they.

  “Dow,” said Babs, squirming in his arms till he put her down. She made a beeline for the bowl of lemon pudding cake and plopped down on the porch floor with it. She dipped her fingers in the bowl and looked up guiltily as he approached.

  But Simon didn’t notice her. He leaned over the table and squinted through the sheers into the front room. The floor lamp was on. Mr. Hawkins was sitting in his chair. All Simon could see of him was an elbow resting on the arm, a foot extending beyond the skirt of the chair. He rapped on the glass, but the old man didn’t stir.

  Then he noticed a faint trail of dirty footprints leading from the doorway of the room to the chair. Dried mud clung to the side of the old man’s shoe. He knocked till his knuckles ached, but nothing moved. It was like a tableau of the room, a carefully constructed display shielded behind a barrier of glass. Only one thing was missing. The Egyptian mirror had vanished from the wall.

  Babs was busy licking the inside of the empty bowl by the time he turned from the window. He scooped her up and carried her back across the street in a daze. His haunted face peered up from every puddle they passed.

  They were sitting in the living room with the TV on when Mom got home. Babs was a sticky mess from the lemon pudding cake. An hour had passed, but part of him was still beating on the window of the Hawkins house.

  Mom picked up Babs, then reached down and switched off the TV. She stood over him, her face full of concern.

  “What’s wrong, Simon?” she said.

  He kept staring at the dark screen. She dropped down on her haunches in front of him and stared him straight in the face.

  “What happened, Simon? Why are you like this?”

  “It’s Mr. Hawkins,” he said, but he couldn’t bring himself to say more.