by Radclyffe
I’m not dreaming. Dreams are never this vivid. And it’s not a hallucination—I never have the same one twice. This is happening, this is real—or I’ve lost my mind.
But do crazy people question their sanity?
The light began to dim as her mind kept racing, desperate to find any answer that precluded years of therapy and drugs. She turned her head—yes, the mirror’s glow was dimming, but this was because colors were appearing, swirling on the smooth surface, struggling to take shape, assume a form.
She released her breath in a loud gasp and reached for her glass. She took a sip of the tepid water—her mouth now as dry as her throat—and another before putting it back in its place. She slid down the satin sheets, the coverlets bunching around her, her glasses firmly planted on the bridge of her nose.
The colors were still fluid, becoming a little more formed. A lovely aquamarine square in the upper right hand corner of the enormous mirror began to spread, like wet paint slowly dripping and spreading down a slanted wall. Only the aquamarine was bleeding straight across to the other upper corner. The deep emerald green rectangle stretching from corner to corner at the bottom began undulating and running upward.
Her breath caught a bit as she realized the browns and blues in the center were forming the silhouette of a woman—a shape similar to the one she’d seen in the mirror the night of the storm.
It—it can’t be, she insisted to herself, aware that her nipples had become hard against the soft flannel of the nightshirt.
But it was happening.
Curiosity was trumping fear—she was still afraid, she knew that from the gooseflesh on her arms—but she couldn’t look away from the mirror any more than she could stop breathing.
One of the browns elongated, fading to a light tan as its borders became more solid and defined, textured until she knew it was a suede leather boot, well worn and wrinkled around the ankle, fitting closely to a shapely calf just as the other took form a few inches to the left. The aquamarine deepened, a splotch of bright yellow she hadn’t noticed becoming bright and aglow like the sun. The undulating green became long blades of soft, damp grass.
Her figure, her shape was becoming clearer and clearer, and Meg caught her breath again as one of the graceful hands slowly rose to brush several locks of long chestnut-brown hair away from the face.
The woman was beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and slanted green eyes. Her thick lips were parted in a smile that deepened the dimples just below sharply cut cheekbones. The lustrous hair blew about her head as though caught in a breeze that Meg could almost smell and feel. The air in the bedroom felt cleaner, fresher, more pure somehow. Her white blouse was open at the throat, and a vest matching the boots was buttoned closed over a narrow waist just below her breasts.
She licked her lips, still smiling, and stepped back away, growing smaller the further away she moved. She stopped, no longer filling the frame of the glass, and beyond her Meg could see a forest, a stream, and a small bridge over the stream.
The woman raised her right hand and beckoned Meg forward.
Fascinated, Meg pushed the covers aside into a pile, and placed her feet on the carpet, pushing herself to her feet—
—but the moment she felt the carpet on the soles of her feet there was a large crash downstairs—
—and in a blink of her eye the mirror was just a mirror again, reflecting back her darkened bedroom.
She reached up and pulled the chain from the ceiling fan, flooding the room with light.
She knew she had to go see what had made the sound but she stopped for a moment at the mirror, staring at her reflection. She touched the fingertips of her right hand to it, before hearing a moan that sent her out into the hallway and to the stairs. She flipped the switch and hurried—the moaning was followed by loud swearing—in Anne’s voice.
“Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!”
She pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen, where Anne sat on the floor, rubbing her bare ankle with both hands. She looked up ruefully. “I tripped like the stupid bitch I am,” she said, and Meg noticed her eyes were filled with water.
“Does it hurt?” She knelt down beside her sister. The ankle was swelling, and the skin turning a hideous shade of purple.
Anne bit her lower lip and nodded.
Without another word, Meg wrapped some ice in a towel and handed it to her sister. “Should we go to the emergency room?”
Anne shook her head. “No, it’ll be fine.”
“We’ll go tomorrow if the swelling doesn’t go down.” Meg helped Anne to her feet and back to her room.
“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” Anne said as Meg turned off the light switch and headed back to her room.
She stared into the mirror for a good few minutes before climbing back into her bed again.
*
Anne’s ankle wasn’t broken, just a mild sprain that didn’t even require a cast—just crutches and rest for a few days.
Meg didn’t mind taking care of things around the house, or even taking care of her sister. But each night when she went to bed, she found herself watching the mirror, watching and waiting to see if it happened again. As more time passed, first days and finally a week, she became more and more convinced she’d imagined it all.
So you had the same hallucination more than once, there’s no rule that says that can’t happen, she reminded herself as she folded towels in the laundry room one afternoon. Anne was able to walk on her own with just a slight limp, and she could hear her banging around in the kitchen. I think the real problem here is you’ve become obsessed with the woman you saw in the mirror.
Much as she hated to admit it to herself, she did spend a lot of time wondering about the woman she thought she’d seen.
Maybe I am losing my mind, she thought as she loaded the pile of towels into her laundry basket. She hefted it onto her hip and backed through the swinging door into the kitchen. Anne was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and working the crossword puzzle in the Times-Picayune. Anne didn’t even look up as she walked across to the back stairs. She couldn’t stop thinking about the woman in the mirror—the way the pants fit her muscular legs, the deep hollow at the base of her tanned throat, the hint of deep cleavage inside the blouse. She licked her lips as she stored the towels in the master bathroom, and caught sight of the photograph of Julia on her nightstand.
Julia.
A wave of sadness forced her to sit down on the side of the bed heavily, and she buried her face in her hands. She took several deep breaths, the way her therapist had taught her, and fought to get the grief under control. The pills were in the top drawer of the nightstand, but she resisted the panicked urge to shake one out and make everything, the sadness and the grief, go away for a few hours.
Will this ever stop hurting? Will it ever stop blindsiding me?
She glanced over at the mirror. Maybe I am focusing on the mirror—my fantasy—so I don’t have to deal with reality.
She wiped at her eyes. Now you sound like your therapist.
The pain aching inside, she walked over to the mirror and pressed the fingertips of both hands to the smooth glass. She traced the carved angels and flowers entwined on the green metal frame. What is this mirror? Where did it come from?
She closed her eyes. Julia had loved the mirror—the first time Julia had brought her to the house on the north shore of the lake, Meg had been so enraptured by the house she really hadn’t paid any attention as Julia showed her around and explained the provenance of some of the pieces.
She concentrated. What had Julia said about the mirror? Oh, yes, it may have belonged to Catherine de Medici—who was reputed to have dabbled in black magic and communed with demons, perhaps even the devil himself.
In her mind’s eye, she could see Julia walking in front of her into the bedroom. Her graying long red hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a Tulane sweatshirt over her favorite worn pair of jeans. Julia had walked directly to the curtains a
nd pulled them open, revealing the sun shining on the lake and the small balcony with some plastic patio furniture pushed over to one side. The view of the lake had taken her breath away, and she’d crossed the room and thrown her arms around Julia, kissing her on the tip of her nose. She was so excited to be there, couldn’t believe someone like Dr. Julia Shelby would be interested in her, a nobody—but she was. And they were going to have a future together—
She swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in her throat.
“Meg?” Anne called from downstairs. “Is everything all right?”
Meg bit her lower lip and walked to the door. “Fine,” she shouted back. “I’ll be right down.” She glanced back at the mirror, and for just a moment she thought she saw the figure of the woman on the glass again.
But she dismissed it with a slight shake of her head. Just her imagination.
It was nearly three in the morning when she woke up. The curtains were open, moonlight casting shadows to the other side of the room. As always, she reached for her glasses as she sat up in the bed, the alarm clock glowing 2:47 in green. She looked over to the mirror, but nothing—it was reflecting the room back. She sighed and took a deep breath. She took off her glasses again and was just about to put them down on the nightstand when she saw a pinpoint of light in the center of the mirror out of the corner of her eye.
Her hands shaking, she placed her glasses back on the bridge of her nose and waited.
The light grew, spreading across the surface of the glass until the entire thing was glowing. It wasn’t particularly bright, and she thought for a brief moment if perhaps the moonlight was affecting it—and then the colors began swirling and trying to take shape.
But this time—this time she wasn’t afraid.
She threw the covers back and stood up, walking over to the mirror.
She watched in wonder as the colors continued running and swirling, shapes forming and then breaking up, and nervously she placed the fingertips of her right hand on the glass.
And they went through it.
She pulled her hand back as though burned, taking a step backward.
She held the hand to her face and could smell sweet flowers—lilacs, maybe—as her mind tried to process what had just happened.
And almost against her will, she put her hand against the glass again.
This time her hand did not pass through (that had to be my imagination, it just had to, my hand couldn’t have passed through solid glass) but rather rested lightly on the surface. It wasn’t cool, though, as she would have thought, given how close it was to the vent on the upper wall blowing cold air at her. The mirror was warm to the touch, and seemed as though it were actually getting warmer.
Yet strangely she felt no fear.
The shapes and colors began to form the outline of a woman again, a woman standing on grass with a stream behind her, mountains in the far distance.
And she was smiling at Meg as she continued to take form.
She raised her right hand—
—and it came through the glass.
Come with me and be my love. The woman’s mouth moved behind the glass, yet Meg could somehow understand what she was saying.
She swallowed as their eyes met.
The woman’s eyes—there was something about them.
They looked—they looked like Julia’s eyes.
This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy—
She reached out her own hand, and touched the woman’s hand. It was solid, and warm, and as their hands came together there was a sighing sound, as though the mirror was somehow now content.
Join me. The woman’s mouth formed the words. All you have to do is step forward.
Meg bit her lower lip, and pressed her foot against the mirror—
—and it went through.
She stood on the other side of the mirror, in the cool damp grass.
The air was fresh, pure, scented with lilacs.
“Who—who are you?” Meg managed to stammer out. It was almost too much for her, but she had to know.
The woman smiled. “My name is Melusine.” Her voice was soft, with an almost musical lilt to it. She raised Meg’s hand to her lips and kissed it. “You knew me in your time as Julia.”
A tear ran down Meg’s cheek, and her breath caught in her throat.
“Hush, no, my dearest,” Melusine whispered as she brushed the tear away. “You will never suffer or be lonely again.”
Hand in hand, they walked down the path to where a horse stood, his head down as he fed on the emerald grass.
“What is this place?” Meg asked, looking around, breathing in the soft, fresh air.
“A place where nothing can ever hurt you again,” Melusine replied.
Meg looked back over her shoulder at the mirror.
“You don’t ever have to go back,” Melusine whispered. “Do you want to stay here with me?”
Meg turned back to her, and nodded. “Yes,” she replied in a soft voice.
The mirror shattered.
“Welcome home,” Melusine said, taking Meg into her arms.
Home, Meg thought as she gave herself to the embrace, I am finally home.
Skin Walkers
D. Jackson Leigh
Eden Thayer was a myth-buster.
She’d traveled the world, either disproving rumors or exposing the ordinary science behind a variety of so-called miracles and local legends.
After her book hit the New York Times bestsellers list, research money rolled in at the university where she taught. The school’s administration swooned at her feet. But that was three years ago and the pressure to produce a second book was mounting.
The problem was that requests to investigate ghosts and pseudo-miracles were all sounding the same. She needed new material, something different, something powerful.
That’s how she ended up on the Wyoming prairie, watching helicopter jockeys herd wild horses toward a life of captivity. The U.S. Bureau of Land Management’s Wild Horse and Burro Roundup always attracted the usual animal rights protesters. The protesters were always irritating to the feds, but usually harmless. Until this year.
The key to herding with helicopters was the release of a domesticated horse into the wild herd before the chase. When the wild herd hesitated at the mouth of the holding pen, this “Judas” horse would lead them inside.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to happen.
This year, a mysterious black horse kept showing up and turning the herds west onto private land instead. Spooked wranglers began to babble over their evening beers about a “Jesus” horse with unnatural blue eyes. Local Shoshone whispered stories about “skin walkers.”
It didn’t take long for the rumors to leak out and turn the town that was the roundup’s base into a three-ring circus. Television crews and tourists filled the hotels. Enterprising Shoshone donned tribal clothing and set up a camp outside of town, where they offered trinkets and ancient tales to eager tourists.
Desperate to defuse the situation, BLM agent Bill Sanders promised Eden free access and publishing rights if she could punch holes in the growing mystery so the tourists would go home and leave the feds to deal with the bothersome Jesus horse.
That’s why she was curled in a sleeping bag on a mountain ledge overlooking a Wyoming prairie and getting ready to ride a black mustang to her next bestseller.
The beginnings of first light woke the high prairie gently, softly illuminating the flat plain of waving grass and scrubby trees. Huge mountains stood sentry at its edges and the morning’s breath carried their delicious scent of evergreen forest and water. She wasn’t thirsty, but instinct told her she should drink now while nourishment was near.
She took a few steps toward the water smell and was startled at the clop of her feet against the hard ground. She looked down and froze. Hooves.
This hadn’t happened since she was a child, these vivid dreamscapes in which she transformed into a horse. Not since, on the advice of a therap
ist, her parents sold her beloved pony, then gave away the pictures, books, and plastic models of horses that covered every surface in her bedroom. Not since they moved from their house that was a bike ride to the stables to an urban neighborhood where there were no horses.
She trembled, rooted by fear that her childhood malady had returned.
But as the wind whipped through her mane and tail, her fear evaporated with the morning’s dew. She forgot her parents’ disapproval and her therapist’s cautions. She remembered only the primal joy.
She started out slow, adjusting to her unfamiliar binocular vision. Then she ran. Opening her nostrils wide and filling her great lungs, she relished the feel of her muscles sliding smoothly, her legs eating up the ground in long strides. She ran for the sheer pleasure of it, for the soul-deep elation that filled her. Her ecstatic whinny rang out and echoed back from the mountains.
The answering call brought her sliding to a halt. She stood, blowing and scenting, her breath a cloud in the chill air. Black as midnight, racing across the flat with her tail raised like a flag in the wind, the newcomer circled several times, then came to a halt in front of her.
They eyed each other. She could feel the dark mare’s dominance, see it in her posture. She breached etiquette by extending her nose first and the dark mare jerked her head to the side, her ears pulled tightly back in warning. Then she stepped forward to offer her nose, too.
They shared breath, learning of each other. Then the newcomer squealed and struck the ground with a sharp hoof, issuing an invitation as she wheeled and galloped away.
They ran, side by side, matching stride for stride as they weaved and circled in the tall grass, testing and measuring each other.
The pounding of hooves began to fade and the whup-whup of helicopter blades jolted Eden from her dreamscape. She rubbed her eyes and groaned. The sun had already cleared the mountain peaks and the day’s roundup was under way.
“Damn it. Get your ass up, Thayer.”