Looking Glass

by Christina Henry

  She slammed the door shut and felt the creature crash into the other side, heard its claws scraping the wood as it scrabbled for the handle. Alice ran her hands all along the seam of the door because it was pitch dark in the room she’d entered, so dark she couldn’t see the door that she faced, and she knew there had to be a lock somewhere, in her parents’ house every door had a lock

  (so they could keep their secrets if they wanted to and they did seem to want to because she’d found so many doors closed to her and they’d never given her a key)

  and then she felt it, the cold metal of a bolt and she grasped it and shot it through while the creature screamed and she swallowed her own blood, the taste of fear burning on her tongue.

  And somehow, despite the screaming creature and the roaring of her own blood in her ears she could hear Hatcher calling her, “Alice? Alice? Are you there? Open the door, Alice.”

  She remembered the time that she stayed in an abandoned cottage in some woods when they first left the City, and all night long a creature knocked on the doors and windows and called out to her in the voice of her friend Dor, her friend who had died

  (a friend who was not really a friend at all in the end but the creature didn’t know that, it only plucked out the memory of little Dor from my memory like it was choosing the best berry from a fruit bowl)

  and because of that Alice couldn’t help being suspicious about hearing Hatcher’s voice in this house. It seemed far too likely that it wasn’t Hatcher at all.

  She pressed her hands against the door and felt the monster’s fury pulsing through the wood, the repeated attempts to destroy the obstacle in its way, but the door held firm. It didn’t even rattle in its hinges. Whatever it was made from was proof against even the residents of the house.

  Alice turned around then, opening her eyes wide in a vain attempt to try to see more clearly into the room she’d entered. There were no windows that she could see, or else they were covered so thoroughly that the sun was blacked out.

  (Not that there’s so much sun right now with the storm, but at least there’s a little light outside or maybe there isn’t because I don’t know how long I’ve been inside here and the sun goes down earlier in the winter.)

  She should make some light. Sometimes she could do that, if she concentrated hard enough, though the magic place inside her often seemed to shift around, like it was trying to hide from her.

  Alice held out her palm flat and tried not to feel foolish. Whenever she’d done magic in the past it had seemed to spring out of her without conscious thought, the product of the need that she had in the moment. Whenever she tried to make something happen otherwise she always felt very silly, a performer fumbling about onstage while the audience grew restless.

  I need some light, she thought.

  For a second there was a little flare over her palm, like the brief flash of a firefly, and then it was gone.

  “That won’t do,” she said.

  Her voice echoed all around the space and came back to her—That won’t do That won’t do That won’t do. Wherever she was the space was very large, and she thought of a ballroom or perhaps an oversized dining room with high ceilings.

  She thought she also heard more of that papery rustling and she stilled, because the only thing worse than the creature outside screaming for her was the thought of facing one just like it in the dark.

  The echo of her voice faded away. (Where do those voices go when they disappear? Do they leave the room through cracks in the floor and live on elsewhere, or are they always seeking other lost voices, a place where they all speak and harmonize together?) Alice listened hard, felt the muscles tighten around her spine, tasted the stickiness of her blood in her mouth.

  There was no other noise, no sense of something breathing or moving. She must have imagined the rustling, her fear making her conjure lurking enemies.

  It’s not just your fear, though. You know this house is full of enemies. You knew when you followed that impossible boy through the storm, but you had no choice, because it was either come here or die in the snow.

  “Light, I need a light,” she muttered, and even though she spoke only loud enough to be heard by herself her words echoed back at her again.

  Light I need a light I need a light a light

  Something rustled, and Alice was certain she’d heard it that time. It wasn’t her imagination.

  One of those creatures is in here with me.

  She needed the light more than ever, and wished she could just have a candle and a match like a regular person and that she didn’t have to somehow reach inside herself and pull out a ball of light using a power she didn’t fully understand.

  Life is never what you want it to be, Alice, only what it is. And you need to see what’s in here with you so MAKE A LIGHT.

  And just like that there was a light hovering over her palm, a light that seemed to wax and wane like the moon but a light nonetheless. She pushed away all her fears and worries and focused only on that little glowing ball. She held her hand aloft so she could see around the room.

  If there was a creature in the room with her it wasn’t attacking like the one outside. Still, she wanted to know precisely where it was in relation to her in the event it changed its mind.

  Her sense that she was in a large empty room had been good. The room was perhaps fifty or so feet across, a long rectangle, and she stood at the farthest side from the other end.

  There were three doors lined up on that side and the moment she saw them she couldn’t help thinking, More doors more choices more chances to encounter something I don’t want to encounter or fall into a pit or get eaten up by a monster. Why must every place I go be a mystery that I have no interest in solving?

  As she sent the light around she saw only a marble floor coated in a thick layer of dust. There were no windows, no furniture and more importantly, no occupants. Yet the papery rustling continued and the vast and echoing nature of the room made it impossible to determine where it was coming from. Was she simply hearing the monster outside, the one that had stopped screaming? Was it now standing at the door, breathing and rustling, calculating the best way to reach her?

  No, it’s in here, Alice thought, and then she realized the only possible place the noise could be coming from. As soon as she realized this the light floating above her hand flickered madly, the physical manifestation of her terror.

  Just look, she told herself. It’s better to be certain.

  She sent the light drifting upward, slowly, almost lazily, like a floating balloon detached from the string that kept it in a child’s hand.

  Alice expected to see one of the creatures perched on a ledge like a bird of prey, or else hanging upside down from its long feet like a bat.

  She did not expect to see the eggs.

  “Eggs” was the word she used, not because they looked like eggs but because it was the only thing that helped her make sense of them at first glance.

  There were dozens of them, all attached to the ceiling by a long cord, except the cord wasn’t a cord but something living, something pink and pulsing, and the ceiling wasn’t a ceiling either but a vast field of flesh shot through with channels that ran with blood.

  The eggs swung gently below, many horrible cradles, and the exterior of each was translucent and coated with thick mucus. Beneath this Alice could see strange pale shapes shifting, and whenever one of them shifted the rustling-paper noise drifted down to her.

  They’re not really like eggs at all, more like a butterfly’s chrysalis, she thought, knowing that the proper name for them wasn’t in the least important, but this was the thing her brain had latched on so that she wouldn’t start screaming and screaming because that monster out there in the hall wasn’t the only one, there was a whole generation of them growing here and somehow the house was feeding them.

  I have to get out of this ho
use. Storm or no storm, I have to get away.

  But the only exit she knew of was behind her and it was blocked by the creature.

  And maybe Hatcher was somewhere in the house, too (though she wasn’t certain of this, not certain at all, but it seemed a thing she’d have to confirm) and if he was then she had to find him because she couldn’t leave him in this house of monsters.

  Whatever you’re going to do you need to come up with a better weapon than wishing, because your magic isn’t anything to write home about. If Cheshire saw you now he’d laugh and laugh.

  She didn’t know why she suddenly thought of Cheshire, whom she hadn’t considered in any way since last she heard his irritating voice—and that had been some time ago. Perhaps it was something to do with the dream she’d had that morning (a dream that now seemed so long ago that it might not have happened at all). Or perhaps it was because whenever she’d been in peril he somehow always knew and was there to offer advice, though whether that advice was actually helpful was an open question.

  So I have no Cheshire and no Hatcher and no Red Queen’s crown to help me. I have only myself and I am not going to die here.

  Thinking it made her calmer, freed her to consider how she ought to proceed. She was in no immediate danger from the egg-swings and the monster was on the other side of the door, seemingly unable to break it down.

  Alice needed to get out of this place and try working back to the room with Hatcher’s voice in it (she only thought of it as Hatcher’s voice because she wasn’t sure it was actually Hatcher, though the voice was attached to something or someone making it, it surely wasn’t floating without a body).

  She started across the room, stirring up the dust with her boots. It was so thick that her bootheels didn’t ring, and Alice thought it was a good thing because she wasn’t entirely certain the creatures above wouldn’t wake up at any moment and burst out of the sacs that held them.

  Of course, when she reached the other side she would have the Problem of the Doors, and that was no small problem because it was very clear that choosing the wrong door in this house would absolutely lead to certain death.

  They might all lead to certain death, you know, and you’ve escaped from certain death before, so your odds are probably better than the average person’s.

  This was a very comforting thought, one that made her feel more sturdy than she had a moment before. She’d survived before. She’d survive again.

  Halfway to the doors she sneezed.

  There was just too much dust swirling in the room. Her nose had been twitching side to side like a nervous rabbit’s as she tried to hold it in, but at a certain point she couldn’t do it any longer.

  The sneeze burst out of her, an insanely loud and comic thing that forced her to bend over and AAAAHH-CHOOOO like a clown sniffing a flower in a sideshow. If she’d been watching from the audience she would have laughed and clapped along with everyone else, but she wasn’t in the audience, she was part of the entertainment and she knew that her sneeze was the worst thing that could happen at that moment.

  Alice stilled, hunched over her knees, unwilling to even breathe loudly. She lowered the brightness of her light and covered it with her other palm, so that all she could see was the faint glow leaking out from between her fingers.

  The rustling above increased as all of the creatures inside their eggs twisted and shifted. The noise was like the flapping of many tiny wings, a ripple that went across the entire ceiling and quickly reached a crescendo.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, the noise stopped.

  Alice waited, because it might be a trick, a trap to lull her into a sense of complacency. But the rustling had mostly gone away, limited to only the occasional noise that made Alice think of a sleeper turning over in her bed.

  She slid one foot forward, so very carefully, wincing at the slight scrape of her boots. It was barely noticeable, really, but to her it sounded like an explosion.

  You’re almost making more noise trying to be quiet. Just walk the way you did before.

  Alice forced herself to stand up straight, to stride forward (strong and forthright but still careful, yes, I am being very careful). The doors drew closer, or she drew closer to the doors. Sometimes it was difficult to determine these things, and Alice had learned that not everything was as it seemed. She might not be walking forward at all, but marching in place while the room shrank.

  No, it’s you moving and not the doors, don’t let your mind play tricks.

  She was nearly there. Perhaps thirty steps would do it.

  Her heart was beating so hard it hurt and she wanted to gasp but was afraid of the noise it would make so she pressed her lips tight together so as not to make a sound.

  Don’t make a noise, little mouse, don’t let the cat hear you see you smell you or it will pounce.

  Hatcher had told her once not to be a mouse, not to let anyone make her one, but it was hard to be the courageous and fierce Alice all the time. Sometimes the curled-up part of her that had been hurt wanted to hide instead of fight.

  It wasn’t easy to be brave all the time, and it was also, Alice reflected, perfectly all right not to be. The important thing was to keep doing her best.

  It was hard not to think of the creatures swaying above in their cradles, hard not to imagine one of them tearing through its prison and leaping to the floor just in time to stop her from exiting the room.

  Maybe twenty steps now. That’s hardly anything at all. You’ll be out of here safely before you know it.

  She thought she heard a wet ripping noise, the sound of something with teeth tearing through flesh, and she hesitated.

  There’s nothing, it’s all in your mind, just get out of this room because if a monster is about to fall from the ceiling then it’s better for you to be out than in.

  She opened her stride, heedless of any sounds she might make, any attention she might attract. There might or might not be a screeching creature about to fall, newly born, but whatever the case she didn’t want to know about it. It wasn’t any concern of Alice’s because she wasn’t going to be here when it happened.

  Less than ten steps now. You’ll have to just choose a door at random, no time for listening and being cautious.

  A wet splotch fell to the floor directly before her and she halted. She thought about looking more closely at it, putting the light up to it, and then decided not. That glob of whatever it was

  (birthing fluid, it was birthing fluid, something is emerging just above it, about to mewl its first cry into the world)

  could only mean Bad Things and so Alice must leave, she shouldn’t stop or look up or do anything other than keep moving forward.

  Five steps now, you’re nearly there.

  She went directly for the middle door, her hand outstretched.

  More drops of fluid fell behind her, making thick wet sounds that were nothing like water, but Alice was leaving. She was going to be out of the room before the creature was born.

  Her right hand grasped the handle, her left hand held the light aloft and she knew that it would make her easier to find, but she didn’t care. She didn’t want to be left alone in the dark with a monster.

  The door wouldn’t open.

  She tugged at the handle twice, lifted it up and down.

  A high thin cry came from above, and more tearing.

  Don’t panic. Just try another door.

  Fluid poured from above now. It sounded like a deluge, like the worst rainstorm Alice had ever heard and she still didn’t want to look, didn’t want to direct the light toward the monster being born and so she hoped that there was only one emerging and not all of them.

  She moved toward the right-hand-side door, knowing before she reached it that it wouldn’t be open either, knowing that this room was a trap closing around her, but she had to try. She had to be certain.

&
nbsp; The thin cry filled out, became something like a howl of triumph and Alice wasn’t sure because her blood was filling her ears, but she thought that there was an answering howl from all of the other creatures, like the first one was waking the rest.

  I’m going to be trapped in this room with all the monsters, she thought as she darted to the left-hand-side door, the one that was also locked because she had done exactly the wrong thing, she’d done the wrong thing from the time she’d seen that pale boy with the strange eyes in the snow. She should have just stayed there and froze. Freezing was probably better than getting torn to shreds by a freshly minted flock of hungry monsters.

  She turned around then and flattened her back against the wall, because at least then they could come at her from only three sides instead of four. The little ball of light rose up closer to the ceiling, because it seemed a wise thing to know exactly what she was in for.

  Only one of the creatures had actually broken its chrysalis. This was the one that was pouring globs of thick mucus onto the dust-coated floor. The others were roiling inside the egg-swings, their forms indistinct but clearly moving.

  The one that had broken through screeched when Alice’s light approached the ceiling. One of its wings was partially free of the membrane, and its head was entirely out, but the remainder of its body seemed to be still trapped in the fluid.

  I still have time, she thought. It can’t get out that easily. I still have time to figure out how to break through this door.

  It would be a very useful time to suddenly manifest real power, to make the doors fly off their hinges or to produce waves of flame to burn all the creatures before they emerged.

  It would be very useful, but Alice didn’t have the least idea how to do such things, and she certainly couldn’t do them when she was scared, and she would happily have used any kind of weapon available but there was nothing that she could see, not even a broken stick of furniture. She was in a big empty room and the only way out was back through the hall where the first creature lurked.