by Tom Becker
Darla turned away from the creek and walked slowly back towards the house. Her mind was overcast with shadows – thinking about her mom did that to her. As she passed a house on the other side of the road, she heard wind chimes nudging one another in the warm breeze. Darla glanced over to the verandah and saw an empty glass pitcher on the table. She had been wrong, it seemed – there was at least one other house on the creek road that was occupied.
Then, from somewhere in the house, Darla heard a voice cry out.
It was so faint that at first she thought she had misheard it, but as she froze the voice called out again. Darla looked up and down the empty lane. Perhaps an old lady had fallen and couldn’t get up. She thought about running back to the house and getting Hopper, but he was probably still drunk, and what if this was an emergency?
Darla opened the gate and hurried up the path to the verandah, the wooden boards creaking beneath her feet. She rang the doorbell, heard its shrill ricochet inside the house. No answer. The voice called out for a third time, and this time Darla heard it say: “Echo!”, like some kind of playful children’s game. It was coming from the backyard. Stepping down from the porch, Darla edged around the side of the house.
“Hello?” she called out softly. “Anyone there?”
Silence.
She peered round the corner, and looked out over a yard ringed by trees. In the middle of the lawn there was a small, half-built hut, missing a roof and one of its walls.
“Hello?” Darla called out again.
“Echo!” a girl’s voice replied, from within the hut.
A bird took to the air from the trees with a violent flutter of wings. Darla edged across the grass towards the hut. Pressing herself against the wall, she peered inside.
A host of Darlas peered back at her.
Every surface inside the tiny house had been covered in mirrors, casting a dizzying series of reflections. Light danced across the bright surfaces, illuminating a hundred of her own faces. As she stared in wonder into the empty house a voice cried out “Echo” once more, and Darla realized the sound was coming from tiny speakers mounted in each ceiling corner.
“Excuse me?”
Darla whirled around, her heart thumping in her chest. A woman had appeared on the back porch of the main house. She was in her late thirties, tall, with strong but attractive features, dressed in jeans and an oversize man’s white shirt, her red hair tied up beneath a patterned scarf. She was carrying a large mirror, thick protective gloves covering her hands.
“S-sorry…” Darla stammered. “I heard a voice and I thought… I rang the bell but no one answered, so I came back here and—”
“Hey, it’s all right!” The woman smiled. “I’m sorry I scared you. I was just testing the speakers, and I never hear the doorbell when I’m working. Never hear much of anything, if it comes to that. My house could blow away in a storm and I wouldn’t notice.”
“What do you do?” asked Darla.
“I’m an artist.”
Darla’s eyes widened. “Really?”
The woman nodded.
“That’s so cool!” Darla had never met a real-life artist before.
“Thank you!” laughed the woman. “Though believe me, there’s absolutely nothing cool about me.”
She hauled the heavy-looking mirror across the lawn and laid it carefully down against the side of the hut.
“Annie Taylor,” she said, taking off a glove and offering her hand.
“I’m Darla.”
“Nice to meet you, Darla,” said Annie. “You new in town?”
“Yeah. Me and my daddy just moved in across the street.”
“Well, I guess that makes us neighbours, then, doesn’t it?” Annie said brightly. “I just moved back to Saffron Hills from New York myself, six months ago. I’ve got a little gallery in town, and I teach a couple of classes at the Allan West Academy.”
“Echo!”
“Hold on,” she said, “let me turn this thing off.”
She disappeared inside the building and began fiddling with one of the speakers.
“Did you build this?” Darla asked her.
“With my own bare hands,” Annie called back. “It’s a new piece I’m working on. I call it the House of Narcissus.”
“The House of what?”
Annie reappeared through the doorway. “In ancient Greek mythology there was a nymph called Echo who fell in love with a beautiful boy called Narcissus,” she explained. “When Narcissus rejected her, Echo was so heartbroken she dwindled away until only her voice remained, echoing around the glens. The gods punished Narcissus for his cruelty by making him fall in love with his own reflection.”
In Darla’s mind artists drew pictures and made paintings, they didn’t build small houses in their backyard and fill them with mirrors. Her puzzled expression must have shown, because Annie burst out laughing.
“Don’t worry, hon,” she said dryly. “I get that look a lot.”
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” Darla said quickly, blushing. “I just haven’t seen anything like this before.”
“Perfect! That’s a great compliment. Now how about I put up this mirror, and then maybe we can have a lemonade on the porch? Hauling these mirrors around is thirsty work.”
Darla nodded eagerly. It had been a while since she had talked to anyone apart from Hopper, and she guessed Annie must have some pretty cool stories from New York. She stood back as the artist picked up the mirror.
And saw something in the glass.
The yard and the house of mirrors melted away, and Darla was overwhelmed by the sickly feeling of being in someone else’s skin. She was back in the small windowless room filled with red light, sitting at a desk and turning pages in a photograph album. Hoarse breaths of anticipation rose in her throat. Every time her gloved hands turned the page to reveal a new photograph, Darla heard the click of a camera inside her head.
Click.
A gated mansion at night, windows black rectangles in the dark.
Click.
A lone light on the second floor of the building.
Click .
A flash of blond hair in the window, a drape half-closing.
Click.
An empty page.
The album slammed shut, and at that moment Darla knew with icy certainty that she was going to kill someone. She opened her mouth to try to scream, but the dark room vanished and suddenly Darla was standing back in Annie’s yard, staring at her own reflection as she crumpled to the floor, her world lurching violently into black.
Chapter Five
Darla opened her eyes to find her daddy’s face looming over her. Hopper’s cheeks were rough with stubble and his hair was sticking up – he had obviously got dressed in a hurry. Annie hovered behind him, her arms folded and her expression creased with concern. Darla was lying on a couch in what she guessed was Annie’s front room. Paintings daubed with violent slashes of colour hung on the walls; weird, shapeless sculptures perched on shelves and surfaces. A fan turned silent circles on the ceiling.
Hopper smiled. “Welcome back, darlin’,” he said. “You had us worried for a moment there.”
Darla sat up with a groan, rubbing a hand across her face.
“Is she OK?” asked Annie.
“She’ll be fine in a moment or two,” Hopper replied breezily. “She musta just fainted, nothin’ to worry about.” He patted Darla’s hand. “Ain’t that right?”
She nodded quickly. What else was she going to tell them? That she’d had two disturbing visions in twenty-four hours, and she was worried she was going crazy?
“You see – right as rain,” said Hopper, flashing Annie his salesman’s smile. “I’ll take her back to the house where she can rest. Please accept my apologies for giving you such a dreadful fright.”
“It’s fine,” said Annie. “I’m just glad that Darla’s all right. Are you sure she shouldn’t rest here for a while?”
“That’s mighty kind of you but I’ll ta
ke her home – we’re just across the street.”
Hopper helped Darla to her feet, and led her gently out on to the front porch.
“You take care now, honey!” Annie called after her.
“I will,” Darla said weakly. “Thanks.”
She could feel the artist watching them from the doorway as she and Hopper walked slowly down the creek road back to the house.
“Darla, darlin’?” muttered Hopper, out of the corner of his mouth. “By all means introduce yourselves to the neighbours, but try not to faint on their lawns. It makes them kinda nervous.”
“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Darla hissed.
“Lord knows what that woman makes of us,” he said, glancing back towards the verandah. “Prob’ly thinks we’re crazies.”
“Annie.”
“What?”
“Her name is Annie.”
“Oh, OK.”
“She’s an artist,” Darla told him.
“That so?”
“She’s nice. I like her.”
“Well maybe we’ll invite her round for dinner sometime,” said Hopper. “Only you gotta promise not to pass out at the table.”
“Hey!” protested Darla, giving him a push. “That’s not funny!”
“I wasn’t joking,” he replied. “Word gets around fast in this kind of town.”
Darla didn’t think that Annie was the type of person who went around gossiping, but she knew that Hopper wouldn’t be taking any chances. He was paranoid about teachers or care workers or the police poking around in their business and asking questions. Darla knew she could get her own back on him by bringing up Shooters and the quart of whiskey, but she had a headache and didn’t want another argument. When they got back to the house she lay on the couch watching TV re-runs while Hopper showered and shaved. He emerged from the bathroom looking clean and refreshed, the smell of cheap liquor replaced by the smell of cheap aftershave.
“You feeling up to a trip into town?” he said. “I figured we should take a look around.”
Darla shrugged, her eyes glued to the screen.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hopper said. “Come on, darlin’, let’s go.”
On the way into Saffron Hills they drove past a group of riders on horseback, who stared down disapprovingly from their saddles at the Buick and its coughing engine. When they reached the town mall they parked in the underground lot, leaving their car skulking in the shadows away from the rows of soft-top convertibles. Hopper fooled around, making a big show of checking that the car was locked – as though anyone was going to steal the rusty Buick.
They took the elevator up from the underground lot, blinking as they emerged into the light. The mall was several storeys high, each walkway connected by a network of escalators and elevators. Sunshine poured in through the glass ceiling, drenching shoppers as they bustled along the main arcade. On the rare occasions Hopper took Darla shopping it was usually to the thrift store, and she was used to rummaging through jumbled racks in search of cheap clothes. But the stores here were all expensive boutiques: hollow spaces with whitewashed walls and only a handful of items for sale. There were jewellers and sleek electronic goods stores, a movie theatre and a gym. Darla stared through the window at the rows of blank-eyed people jogging on running machines, their faces red and bathed in sweat.
“Look at this place!” Hopper laughed. “This must be where shops go when they die.”
As they wandered through the mall, Darla looked up and saw a huge banner stretched across the roof, advertising the upcoming ‘Miss Saffron Beauty Pageant’. A group of teenagers had gathered underneath it by the escalator on the first floor. There were five of them, a line-up from a clothing catalogue, the three girls in skinny jeans and crop tops revealing their toned midriffs, each strand of hair hanging perfectly in place around golden hooped earrings; the two boys in casual shirts and low-riding jeans. Either they were models hired to promote the pageant, or the most beautiful group of friends Darla had ever seen.
As the teenagers looked down over the mall, a blond girl nudged the dark-skinned, shaven-headed boy next to her and nodded at Darla. He raised an eyebrow, and she burst out laughing. Great, thought Darla – she had barely stepped foot inside Saffron Hills, and already people were sniggering at her. Resisting the urge to flip them the bird, she looked round for Hopper and saw that he was making for a store on the other side of the restaurant forecourt. With its gloomy interior and faded posters plastered across the windows, it looked as though it had been teleported into the mall from some other, darker dimension. The sign above the door read ‘Criminal Records’, in bright pink graffiti.
“Come on, Darla!” Hopper said excitedly, ducking inside the record store.
Heading after him, she pushed through the door and found herself in a long, dingy room filled with stacks of vinyl records. Ripped posters of snarling singers and guitar players clung to the wall. Loud music was crashing out from the speakers behind the counter at the far end of the store, where a dark-haired girl sat with her feet up and her eyes closed.
Immediately Hopper dived into the nearest stack of records and began flicking through them. Darla wandered hesitantly around the store, her sandals sticking to the dirty floor. She liked music, but she didn’t love it like her daddy did; she never knew what the cool band was, or the next big thing. Without a computer or an iPod, the only time she heard music was on the crackling radio in the Buick. As she stared at the unfamiliar record sleeves, it felt to Darla like she was being set some kind of test – and failing miserably.
“Can I help you?”
The girl had emerged from behind the counter and was leaning over the other side of the rack, eyeing Darla with amusement. Her hair was dyed black and cropped in a rough, boyish cut with a long fringe and a shaved undercut. A silver stud gleamed in her nose and her lip was pierced, her eyes ringed with black eye shadow. She straightened up as Darla stared at her, revealing herself to be a full head taller – and skinny with it, dressed in ripped jeans and a white sleeveless T-shirt with a band name Darla hadn’t heard of. She was strikingly beautiful.
Jesus, thought Darla. Even the punks in this town look like models.
“Um, no, I’m fine,” she said, painfully aware how lame she sounded. “Thanks.”
“But are you fine, though?” the girl replied. “That is the question.”
Darla stared at her, at a loss. The girl nodded, as though her worst suspicions had been confirmed.
“This place is incredible!” Hopper’s voice echoed around the store as he hurried over to Darla. “I swear I’m in hog’s heaven.”
The girl gave him a look of barely disguised contempt.
“I wasn’t sure anyone even listened to vinyl anymore,” continued Hopper. “I thought all you kids did these days was watch videos on YouTube.”
“Congratulations,” the girl said. “You’re officially on speaking terms with the twenty-first century.”
If Hopper had noticed the icy tone in her voice, he chose to ignore it. “Takes me back to my own playing days,” he said. “One of these records might have me strumming away somewhere in the background.”
She shrugged, unimpressed.
“I took my guitar on a few tours across the South, in backing bands and the like,” Hopper continued. “No stadiums, but a coupla names you might have heard of.”
“How about Elvis?” the girl said sardonically. “I’ve heard of Elvis.”
Hopper laughed and shook his head. “The King was a little before my time,” he said. “I ain’t that old, darlin’.”
“I’m no one’s darling,” she shot back. “Especially not yours.”
Hopper smiled ruefully, scratching his stubbled cheek. The song blaring out around the shop came to a sudden end, replaced by a pointed silence.
“Can we go now, please?” Darla asked Hopper.
He nodded slowly, pausing as they walked out of the shop to give the dark-haired girl an exaggerated farewell bow. She ignored h
im and returned to the counter, the music erupting back to life as the shop door closed behind them.
“Brr!” said Hopper, pretending to shiver. “Don’t know about you, Darla, but I feel awful cold all of a sudden.”
“You are so embarrassing,” Darla groaned. “I wish I was dead.”
“Don’t say that,” Hopper told her. “You might end up like the Zombie Bride back there.”
“I don’t think she liked me very much.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I doubt she likes anyone very much.”
“Did you really play in backing bands across the South?”
Hopper looked wounded.
“Darla! There are some things in this world that a man just does not lie about. Music is one of them.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing springs to mind,” Hopper admitted.
He glanced at Darla and laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. For once she didn’t try to shrug him off. Hopper took her to a sandwich shop where they bought subs and sodas, eating them at a table by the window. As they watched the stream of people wash past them, giggling at the rich housewives with their giant bags of designer clothes and tiny designer dogs, Darla felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease.
Hopper slurped loudly on his soda as he drained it, and went over the counter to settle up the bill. As Darla waited for him outside, she had the uneasy sensation that someone was watching her. She turned around. It was the hot shaven-headed boy she had seen standing beneath the pageant banner. He was alone now, sat on the backrest of a bench and nodding his head in time with the music coming through his headphones, staring at Darla with an unreadable expression on his face. As their eyes met her mouth went dry, and she could feel her cheeks burning.
The boy slipped his headphones down around his neck and jumped off the bench, walking slowly and deliberately towards her. The hum of the mall melted away into the background. He pulled out his phone as he neared, and put his arm around an astonished Darla.