burning low and so I got up to put some logs on it; I had
just settled back in my chair when I saw the handle of the
mirror door start to turn very slowly. Then, millimeter
by millimeter, the door was pushed open a foot or so. It
was incredible that the opening of a door should be
charged with such menace, but the slow furtive way it
swung across the carpet was indescribably evil. Then the
hand appeared, again moving very slowly, humping its
way across the carpet until the wrist and part of the
yellowish forearm was in view. It paused for a moment,
lying flaccid on the carpet. Then, in a sickening sort of
way, it started to grope around, as if the creature in
control of the hand was blind. Now, it seemed to me, was
the moment to put my carefully thought out plan into
operation. I had deliberately starved Clair so that she
would be hungry and so now I woke her up and waved
under her nose a piece of meat which I had brought up
from the kitchen for this purpose. Her eyes widened and
she let out a loud mew of excitement. I waved the meat
under her nose until she was frantic to get the morsel and
then I threw it down the room so that it landed on the
carpet near the firmly closed door of the salon. In the
mirror I could see that it had landed near, but not too
near the reflection of the hand which was still groping
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about blindly. Uttering a loud wail of hunger, Clair sped
down the room after it. 1 had hoped that the cat would be
so far away from the door that it would tempt the
creature out into the open. But I realized that I had
thrown the meat too close to the door for, as Clair’s
reflection stopped and the cat bent down to take the
meat in her mouth, the hand ceased its blind groping,
and shooting out with incredible speed, it seized Clair by
the tail and dragged her, struggling and twisting, behind
the door. As before, after a moment, the hand reappeared, curved round the door and slowly drew it shut, leaving bloody fingerprints on the woodwork. I think
what made the whole thing doubly horrible was the
contrast between the speed and ferocity with which the
hand grabbed its prey, and the slow, furtive way it
opened and closed the door. Clair now returned with the
meat in her mouth to eat it in comfort by the fire, and
like Agrippa, she seemed none the worse for now having
no reflection. Although I waited up until after midnight
the hand did not appear again, and so I took the animals
and went to bed, determined that on the morrow I would
work out a plan that would force the thing behind the
door to show itself.
By evening on the following day I had finished my
preliminary sorting and listing of the books on the
ground floor of the house, and so the next step was to
move upstairs to where the bulk of the library was
housed in the Long Gallery. I felt somewhat tired that
day and so, towards five o’clock, I decided to take a turn
outside to get some fresh air in my lungs. Alas for my
hopes! It had been snowing steadily since my arrival and
now the glistening drifts were so high I could not walk
through them. The only way to have got out of the central
courtyard and across the bridge would have been to dig a
path, and this would have been through snow lying in a
great crusty blanket some six feet deep. Some of the
icicles hanging from the guttering, the window ledges
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and the gargoyles were four and five feet long and as
thick as my arm. The animals would not accompany me,
but I tried walking a few steps into this spacious white
world, as silent and as cold as the bottom of a well. The
snow squeaked protestingly, like mice, beneath my
shoes, and I sank in over my knees and soon had to
struggle back to the house. The snow was still falling in
flakes as big as dandelion blooms, thickening the white
pie crusts on the roof ridges and gables. There was that
complete silence that snow brings, no sound, no bird
song, no whine of wind, just an almost tangible silence,
as though the living world had been gagged with a crisp
white scarf. Rubbing my frozen hands, I hastened inside,
closed the front door and hastened down to the kitchen
to prepare my evening meal. While this was cooking, I lit
the fire in the blue salon once more and when the food
was ready carried it up there as had become my habit,
the animals accompanying me. Once again I armed
myself with my stout stick and this gave me a small
measure of comfort. I ate my food and drank my wine,
watching the mirror but the hand did not put in an
appearance. Where was it, I wondered. Did it stalk about
and explore a reflection of the house that lay behind the
door, a reflection I could not see? Or did it exist only
when it became a reflection in the mirror that I looked
at? Musing on this, I dozed, warmed by the fire, and
presently slept deeply, which I had not meant to do. I
must have slept for about an hour when I was suddenly
shocked awake by the sound of a voice, a thin cracked
voice, singing shrilly:
Aupres de ma blonde, aupres de ma blonde,
qu’il fait bon dormir . . .
This was followed by a grating peal of hysterical laughter.
Half asleep as I was, it was a moment before I realized
that the singing and laughter came from Octavius. But
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the shock of suddenly hearing a human voice like that
was considerable, and my heart was racing. I glanced
down the room and saw that the cages containing the
canaries and Octavius were still as 1 had placed them.
Then 1 glanced in the mirror and sat transfixed in my
chair at the sight I saw. 1 suffered a revulsion and terror
that surpassed anything I had felt before, for my wish
had been granted and the thing from behind the door
had appeared. As I watched it, how fervently I wished to
God that I had left well alone, that I had locked the blue
salon after the first night and never revisited it.
The creature— I must call it that for it seemed scarcely
human— was small and humpbacked and clad in what I
could only believe was a shroud, a yellowish linen
garment spotted with gobbets of dirt and mould, tom in
places where the fabric had worn thin, pulled over the
thing’s head and twisted round, like a scarf. At that
moment, all that was visible of its face was a tattered
fringe of faded orange hair on a heavily lined forehead
and two large pale yellow eyes that glared with the fierce,
impersonal arrogance of a goat, while below them the
shroud was twisted round and held in place by one of the
thing’s pale, black-nailed hands.
It was standing behind the big cage that had contained
the canaries. The cage was now twisted and wrenched
and disembowelled, like a horse in
a bull ring, and
covered with a cloud of yellow feathers that stuck to the
bloodstains on the bars. I noticed that there were a few
yellow feathers between the fingers of the creature’s
hand. As I watched, it moved from the remains of the
canary cage to the next table where the parrot cage had
been placed. It moved slowly and limped heavily, appearing more to drag one foot after the other than anything else. It reached the cage in which the reflection
of Octavius was weaving from side to side on his perch.
The real bird in the room with me was still singing and
cackling with laughter periodically. In the mirror the
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creature studied the parrot in its cage with its ferocious
yellow eyes. Then suddenly, two things happened. The
thing’s hand shot out and the fingers entwined round the
bars of the cage and wrenched and twisted them apart.
While both hands were thus occupied, the piece of
shroud that had been covering the face fell away and
revealed the most disgusting face I have ever seen. Most
of the features below the eyes appeared to have been
eaten away, either by decay or some disease akin to
leprosy. Where the nose should have been, there were
just two black holes with tattered rims. The whole of one
cheek was missing and so the upper and lower jaw, with
mildewed gums and decaying teeth, were displayed, and
trickles of saliva flooded out from the mouth and
dripped down into the folds of the shroud. What was left
of the lips were serrated with fine wrinkles so that they
looked as though they had been stitched together and the
cotton pulled tight. What made the whole thing even
worse, as a macabre spectacle, was that on one of the
creature’s disgusting fingers it wore a large gold ring in
which an opal flashed like flame as its hands moved,
twisting the metal of the cage. This refinement on such a
corpselike apparition only served to enhance its repulsive appearance. Presently it had twisted the wires enough so that there was room for it to put its hands
inside the cage. The parrot was still bobbing and weaving
on his perch, and the real Octavius was still singing and
laughing. The creature grabbed the parrot in the reflection and it flapped and struggled in its hands, while Octavius continued to sing. The creature dragged the
bird from the broken cage and lifted it to its obscene
mouth and cracked the parrot’s skull as it would a nut,
and then with enjoyment started to suck out the brains,
feathers and fragments of brain and skull mixing with
the saliva that fell from the thing’s mouth onto the
shroud. 1 was filled with such revulsion and yet such rage
at the creature’s actions that I grasped my stick and leapt
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to my feet, trembling with anger. I approached the
mirror and as I did so and my reflection appeared, I
realized that (in the mirror) I was approaching the thing
from behind. I moved forward until, in the reflection, I
was close to the thing and then I raised my stick. But
suddenly the creature’s eyes appeared to blaze in its
disintegrating face, and it stopped its revolting feast and
dropped the corpse of the parrot to the ground at the
same time whirling round to face my reflection with such
speed that I was taken aback and stood there, staring at
it, my stick raised. The creature did not hesitate for a
second but dived forward and fastened its lean and
powerful hands round my throat in the reflection. This
sudden attack made my reflection stagger backwards and
it dropped the stick. The creature and my reflection fell
to the floor behind the table and I could see them both
thrashing about together. Horrified, I dropped my stick
and running to the mirror beat futilely against the glass.
Presently all movement ceased behind the table. I could
not see what was happening but, convinced the creature
was dealing with my reflection as it had done with the
dog and the cat, I continued to beat upon the mirror’s
surface. Presently, from behind the table, the creature
rose up unsteadily, panting. It had its back to me. It
remained like that for a moment or two and then it bent
down and seizing my reflection body it dragged it slowly
through the door. As it did so, I could see that the body
had had its throat torn out. The creature then reappeared
licking its lips in an anticipatory sort of way. It picked up
the ebony stick and once more disappeared. It was gone
some ten minutes and when it came back it was—to my
horror and anger— feasting upon a severed hand, as a
man might eat the wing of a chicken. Forgetting all fear, I
beat on the mirror again. Slowly, as if trying to decide
where the noise was coming from, the beast turned
round, its eyes flashing terribly, its face covered with
blood that could only be mine. Then it saw me and its
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eyes widened with a ferocious, knowing expression that
turned me cold. Slowly it started to approach the mirror,
and as it did so I stopped my futile hammering on the
glass and backed away, appalled by the menace in the
thing’s goatlike eyes. Slowly it moved forward, its fierce
eyes fixed on me as if stalking me. When it was close to
the mirror, it put out its hands and touched the glass,
leaving bloody fingerprints and yellow and grey feathers
stuck to the glass. It felt the surface of the mirror
delicately, as one would test the fragility of ice on a pond,
and then it bunched its appalling hands into knobbly
fists and beat a sudden furious tattoo on the glass,
emitting a sudden, startling rattle of drums in the silent
room. Then it unbunched its hands and felt the glass
again. It stood for a moment watching me, as if it were
musing. It was quite obvious that it could see me and I
could only conclude that, although I possessed no reflection in my mirror, I must be visible as a reflection in the mirror that formed part of the looking-glass world which
this creature inhabited. Suddenly, as if coming to a
decision, it turned and limped off across the room and
then, to my alarm, it disappeared through the door only
to reappear a moment later carrying in its hands the
ebony stick that my reflection had been carrying. Terrified, I realized that if I could hear the creature beating on the glass with its hands it must be in some way solid, and
this meant that if it attacked the mirror with the stick the
chances were the glass would shatter and that the creature could then, in some way, get through to me. As it limped down the room I made up my mind. I was
determined that neither I nor the animals would stay in
the blue salon any longer. I ran to where the cat and the
dog lay asleep in front of the fire and gathered them up in
my arms. I ran down the room and threw them unceremoniously into the hall. As I turned and hurried towards the bird cages, the creature reached the mirror, whirled
the stick around i
ts head and brought it crashing down. I
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saw that part of the mirror whiten and star in the way
that ice on a pond does when struck with a stone. I did
not wait. I seized the two cages and fled down the room
with them and threw them into the hall and followed. As
I grabbed the door to pull it shut, there was another crash
and I saw a large portion of the mirror shower onto the
floor and, sticking through the void, protruding into the
blue salon, the emaciated, twisted arm of the creature
brandishing the ebony cane. I did not wait to see more,
but slammed the door and turned the key in the lock and
leaned against the solid wood, the sweat running down
my face, my heart hammering.
I collected my wits after a moment and made my way
down to the kitchen where I poured myself a stiff brandy.
My hand was trembling so much that I could hardly hold
the glass. Desperately, I marshalled my wits and tried to
think. It seemed to me that the mirror, when broken,
acted as an entrance for the creature into my world. I did
not know whether it was just this particular mirror or all
mirrors. Furthermore, I did not know— if I broke any
mirror that might act as an entrance for the thing—
whether I would be preventing it or aiding it. I was
shaking with fear but I knew that I would have to do
something, for it was obvious that the creature would
hunt me through the house. I went into the cellar and
found myself a short, broad-bladed axe and then, picking
up the candelabra, I made my way upstairs. The door to
the blue salon was securely locked. I steeled myself and
went into the study next door where there was, I knew, a
medium-sized mirror hanging on the wall. I approached
it, the candelabra held high, my axe ready. It was a
curious sensation to stand in front of a mirror and not
see yourself. I stood thus for a moment and then started
with fright, for there appeared in the mirror suddenly,
where my reflection should have been, the ghastly face of
the creature glaring at me with a mad, lustful look in its
eyes. I knew this was the moment that I would have to
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test my theory, but even so, I hesitated for a second
before I smashed the axe head against the glass and saw it
Visions of Fear - Foundations of Fear III (1992) Page 42