The Dickens Mirror

by Ilsa J. Bick

  “Come here,” she said again. “I’d like to see to whom I’m speaking.”

  She read that instant’s hesitation again. “I don’t know what I look like,” he said. “Now, I mean. Last I remember, things were pretty bad. I might be kind of … torn up.”

  What an odd expression. “Do you mean hurt?” This was getting more and more interesting. She’d always imagined that the various pieces spent the whole of their miserable little lives in her father’s books; that what crowded her mind were only afterimages. Unpleasant, of course. Taking inspiration from her meant her father reached inside, and that always left a stain.

  But this is a secret space in Emma’s mind. So … is this boy a subplot? Something fallen between the lines? A chapter in Emma’s life? Or something else altogether? She eyed the blanks. How many more characters in Emma’s little drama were down here anyway?

  The boy gave a humorless grunt. “That’s one way of looking at it, I guess. Before I blacked out, I know it got into me. Really hurt. Started ripping me apart.” He paused. “I don’t think I let go soon enough. I think some … some leaked into Emma.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. “It?”

  “Yeah. This … thing from the Dark Passages. Lizzie called it the whisper-man.” He gave a strangled laugh. “Sounds crazy even to me.”

  Oh, not necessarily. At the mention of Lizzie, her stomach tightened. This shadow knew that piece? While she knew her father fashioned worlds and characters from energy stolen out of the Dark Passages, she’d always imagined them as separate. Now this creature made it sound as if it and Lizzie might have been in league. Can’t fight them all, and certainly not here, where I’m not in charge. She caught movement behind the boy, very slight, as the blanks shifted and one, smaller than the rest, seemed to ooze that much closer. God. If it takes on a shape, definite features … Yet that shadow might not be all bad; she thought about the symbols scarred into her arms. If this new shadow was Lizzie, then she might use the girl to her advantage..

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Long story. Emma got us out and into the Dark Passages, but the whisper-man was in … in my brother, Casey. It had already pretty much torn Rima apart. I let go to save Emma, but …”

  “Casey,” she repeated. “Rima?” She realized her mistake only after. Again, more movement, a kind of milling behind this shadow-boy, as two more silhouettes oozed closer. Naming gives them substance. Telling his story brings them into the light. The thought sent a jitter of alarm through her chest. Can’t let them take over. She sensed it already might be too late. While still mostly shadow, this thing was very detailed, already well formed. It had personality, like Emma.

  He said the whisper-man got into her. That had to be it. Emma carries the stain of the Dark Passages; she’s more powerful than she knows. I probably couldn’t have stopped this even if I wanted to. Did Kramer have an inkling? Given the fact that the man had panops, she thought he might.

  “Yeah, my brother and this girl we met. Casey … he really liked Rima,” the shadow-boy said, and now, behind it (soon to be a him at this rate), she could make out the slope of a head, a froth of hair, the humps of shoulders, as those other shadows—the brother and this Rima—took on substance. “We were in this weird valley. Lizzie called it part of her special forever-Now. Emma and I think it was an energy sink. Lizzie’s idea of a Peculiar, really, designed to contain the whisper-man and …” Another desolate, burring laugh. “Sounds nuts, and I lived through it.”

  “A valley.” Didn’t ring a bell; her father likely hadn’t written that. “And before that?”

  “Wisconsin.”

  Wisconsin? The word felt both odd and somehow familiar. Perhaps a place in Emma’s imaginings? And energy sink? The shadow-boy had called where they’d been a Peculiar. So, not the same as London’s? Sounds like a structure. “Are you hurt now?”

  “I don’t know. Until you showed up, there was no light. But when I feel my arms and legs, my chest … my hands tell me I’m messed up.”

  “Look, I know you don’t understand this”—actually, she wasn’t sure she did either; here she was, an essence, talking to a shadow—“but I think what you’re feeling is the … the memory of where you’ve been.”

  “You mean, like post-traumatic stress? A flashback?”

  “Yes,” she said, having absolutely no idea what he was talking about. “It’s like they say about rose-colored glasses? Memories are the same. Strong ones color what you see and feel. I’m sure that here, in this place, you’re right as rain.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “My father. When my mother was sick, he tried explaining that what she’d experienced tainted her feelings and perceptions, what she saw, and where she … she could go.”

  “Where she could go? You mean, in the future? From that time forward?”

  “I’m not sure.” She really wasn’t. Why had she even brought it up? She hated those memories of her mother, lethargic one moment, hysterical

  (Meredith, no, stop)

  the next. What her mother had done to herself with knives and

  (please, put it down, sweetheart, don’t … DON’T)

  broken glass. She wasn’t even sure where she’d been or lived when those memories were formed.

  “Come into the light,” she said. “I want to see you.”

  “Okay. Just …” He inched closer. Darkness peeled from his features. He must’ve heard her gasp, because he stopped short. “What?” His voice was tight with dread. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “No,” she lied. Steady. To her relief, the blanks hadn’t moved with him. Not yet, but now that he’s in the light, they will. “Not at all.”

  2

  HOW TO DESCRIBE this? For better or worse, what her mind jumped to was a person seen through a veil of swirling mist and dense shadow: a cloudy silhouette with blurred margins, whose contours shifted and eddied, came together and then drifted apart. As if what was being drawn here was indefinite and still in the process of becoming and as likely to dissolve under a strong bolt of sun as to cohere into something solid.

  This creature was like that: fog and shadow and incomplete. A suggestion of a boy. What she could see of his shifting, blurred body was tall, lean, and taut. A knife’s edge of shadow cut across his forehead, yet she could see that the face, though muzzy and shimmery, was relatively well defined: high cheekbones, a strong jaw, a careless tumble of very dark hair that she thought must be black.

  But his eyes were what transfixed her. It might have been a trick of this bizarre greenish light, but she didn’t think so.

  In the glimmer and waver of that face, his eyes were gleaming ebony stones. Completely and utterly. As in no whites at all. They were dead eyes, the glittery glass eyes you gave to a doll. These were eyes that stared back at you from the abyss.

  He’s infected, half himself—or what Emma’s spun—and half shadow.

  “You’re not …” She paused and cleared away the wobble. “You’re not torn up at all.” No, you’re a monster from the Dark Passages.

  And what about Emma? If she’d traversed the Dark Passages and the infection spread from this creature’s brother—brother? how many of these things has Emma created?—she had both her innate strength and this boy’s now, and that of any other shadows she’d pulled with her: the boy’s brother, Casey; that girl, Rima. That shadow-Lizzie.

  Even without the stain of the Dark Passages, these must all be very powerful pieces. Her father had always said a name separated a true character from an anonymous blank: Honey, have you noticed that only the important characters get names and descriptions so you know what they look like? Same thing with places. It was the detail. Otherwise, the world between the covers of a book was vague. Tree, house, building: all convenient shorthand. Streets might be teeming, but the people themselves were ciphers.

  “I’m Elizabeth,” she said. “And you …?”

  “Me?” The margins of the boy’s head clenched and
then frayed as he pulled a frown. The effect reminded her of a spider frantically trying to reel in and repair the torn strands of a fragile web. “My name?”

  “Yes.” Come on, you’re so detailed; you’ve got to know who you are. You have a brother. You know where you lived. You care for Emma. “What’s your name?”

  “Name.” Turning it over the way you might look under a rock, and then his tone brightened. “Right. My name’s—” He suddenly broke off, and when his head moved and his face tilted up to stare at a point over her head, his contours lagged behind, pulling apart only to reform once he stilled, like vapor from a block of black ice. “Jesus, what is that place? Who the hell is that?”

  Damn, just give me a name. “I made it.” Turning, she said, “I think of it as my mind’s eye, a kind of window—”

  And then she froze. For a second, she truly didn’t understand what she was seeing. But then, she did.

  “Oh, dear God,” she said, “that’s …”

  EMMA

  Weber

  THE OIL LAMP was what farmers or railroad conductors had in movies: a squat glass globe in a metal basket frame with a reservoir for oil at the bottom and a carry handle at the top. The flame smelled bad, like the goo they used to pave roads in summer.

  “Oh.” Surprise in the man’s voice. When he held the lamp a little higher, she saw that the entire left side of his face was visibly swollen and painted with vivid splashes of purple and blue. All except his eyes, that is, which the light turned into yellow sparks. “You’ve come out of it,” Weber said.

  She kept quiet. What was there to say anyway? Yeah, I’m awake. And? She wasn’t stupid either. Weber shouldn’t be here without Graves or some other female chaperone. Which meant he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed. Question now, though: what the hell was she going to do? Scream her lungs out, no one would hear. Weber must know that, too.

  After a brief silence, he unhooked a canvas bundle from his left shoulder. “Brought you some blankets and a good coat. Thought you might be taking a chill.”

  No, you thought I’d be in la-la land and figured you might as well be comfortable. Wasn’t like he could dial up his sleep number on this ratty mattress. “Why am I down here?”

  “What ya talking about?”

  “Exactly what I said, asshole.” Man, she sounded braver than she felt.

  “What ya mean?” Weber actually sounded insulted, like she was criticizing how the asylum was run. “Ya nutter, ya snatched a knife! Ya chucked that damn jar, damn near broke my head.” He touched a splotchy bandage over his nose. “Then you run into that mirror, and we’re expected to hop to whilst they’s some of us hurt just as bad.”

  “I remember what I did. I was scared. But I’m not violent now.”

  “Yeah, well,” Weber drawled, “if’n I had as much laudanum down my gullet as you, I might be a little limber. Surprised you’re awake, actually.” He seemed to remember something, and his eyes snapped around the cell before coming to rest on her again. “You musta been thirsty. Where’s your jug? How much you drink?”

  Well, hello: water had to be drugged. Good thing she hadn’t found it before this. But what he’d said begged another, more interesting question: if Kramer had given her such a large dose, how could she have come out of it so soon?

  Because … I’m not really from here? This felt almost right. I’m like Meg Murry. Unless I buy into IT, nothing quite works the way it should. And why hadn’t Weber said anything about the cave glowing? Or the energy waves? Did he even notice? Maybe he’s seen it before. This might be normal for down here. She wondered what he’d do if she could make those hands appear again. Or … maybe he can’t see the glow?

  “I don’t need to be here anymore,” she said. “I want to go back to my room.”

  “You want, you want.” Weber’s mouth worked. “Doctor wants you here, and here you’ll stay. So shut your trap and don’t make trouble.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  “When he’s good and ready.”

  “What about Mrs. Graves? Can I see her?”

  “Not now. She’s gone to her rooms, I suspect. She’s got better to do than worry about you. You’re stuck with me. Now you mind, or I’ll be happy to make sure you do.”

  She didn’t doubt that. “Fine. You’ve checked; I’m alive. So … go away.”

  “Not so fast. Remember, I’m responsible; I’m to bring you meals, make sure you’ve not perished from thirst. You’d do well to think about what I might want. What might”—his eyes roamed her body—“grease the wheel. Save us all a lot of fuss.”

  She thought he’d probably like it if she fought. The problem with only hurting him was that he’d hurt her more. Although he would have to explain why to Kramer. So maybe he wouldn’t dare. Can’t take that chance. She felt the jug pressed up to the small of her back. The heavy metal might crater his skull, but she’d have to get it right the first time, or at least stun him enough to give her time for another swing.

  “If you touch me, if you d-do anything …” She squelched the stammer. “I’ll tell Kramer, I will.”

  “Oooh.” He injected a mocking quaver. “I’m sooo worried. I’m sooo frightened.” His tone turned hard. “It’s my word against yours, and you’re mad.”

  No. I’m Emma, and Kramer knows it. He’d believe her, but she had to deal with Weber now. “Forget it.” Still crouching, she inched her right hand closer to her hip. “Don’t even try to touch me.”

  “ ’At’s where you’re wrong.” Weber hung the lamp on a short wall hook. “Now move away, so I can see the jug and plate.” Her dismay must’ve shown, because he let out another nasty, nasal bark. “Stand up or crawl, I don’t care which, but move.”

  “No,” she said, “I wo—”

  Without warning, Weber came at her, fast, crossing the room in two giant strides.

  Still, she almost got him.

  EMMA

  I’m Not Elizabeth

  ELIZABETH WAS A much smaller girl, and weaker. Used to her own body, with its longer reach and greater strength, Emma miscalculated by only a second or two, but it was enough. Too much, in fact. She might still have made it, if only Weber had been just a little slower or stumbled on the uneven mattress, but he wasn’t and didn’t.

  The jug was also heavier than she’d thought, and her swing was awkward, the jug’s weight actually pulling her off-balance. Gasping, she tried to correct but staggered on that damned lumpy mattress as Weber loomed.

  “Oh no, dear, none of that.” Trapping her wrist in his left hand, he brought his right around in an openhanded slap.

  The pain was enormous, an explosion in her head and something she actually saw as a white flash. A cry jumped off her tongue as she felt Elizabeth’s body—her body now—crumple. No! Bucking, she aimed a kick for his groin, but her legs tangled in that stupidly long skirt. In the next moment, Weber had straddled her chest, tacking her shoulders to the mattress with his knees.

  “Got any fight left in you, huh?” Weber slapped her again, hard enough that her head whipped to one side. He leaned down, his face only inches from hers. “I can do this all night. You ready to mind?”

  “Kr-Kramer …” That last slap had driven her teeth into her cheek. She sucked a ball of blood. “Dr. Kr-Kramer will be-believe me.” Breathing hurt. Her ribs felt ready to snap under Weber’s weight. “He w-will. You keep hitting me, there’ll be bruises.”

  “Oh, but he won’t.” Weber ground his knees into the balls of her shoulders and laughed when she groaned. “You may be his pet of the moment, but you’re also a nutter, and look what you done to yourself, slapping yourself silly.”

  “You’re wr-wrong.” Panting now, she tried staying with it, but it was hard. Weber was so damned heavy. Bright red spangles burst over her vision. If she didn’t get air, she thought she was probably only seconds from passing out. “He’ll b-believe me b-because”—she pulled in a cawing breath—“because h-he knows … I … I’m n-not …”

  “What
’s that, dear?” Cocking his head, he cupped his left ear with a hand and leaned in closer. Mimicking her: “H-he knows y-you’re n-not …”

  She pulled in as large a breath as she could. “I’m not Elizabeth”—and then she struck, fast as a snake.

  Weber let out a shrill, high shriek. He reared, screaming, and she went with him, jaws clamped tight, teeth digging into his cheek, sawing, grinding. She felt stiff stubble on her tongue and oily grime, and then something wet—Weber’s blood, strangely tasteless—burst into her mouth.

  “Let go, let go!” Bawling, Weber swatted with his right. The angle was awkward, and only the heel of his hand connected, bouncing off the back of her skull. Still, the hit was hard enough that stars exploded before her eyes, and her jaws slackened for no more than a nanosecond—just long enough for Weber to pull free.

  “You … you …” Cursing, Weber loomed. A flap of skin hung from his cheek, and blood streamed from his jaw to drip into her face. His huge hands clamped around her throat. When she bucked, he tightened his grip. “You’ve done it now, ya blower!” he roared. “You’ve done it now!”

  She couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted. Her lungs were on fire. Her fingers tried hooking over his hands, and she could feel her nails as they tore and scratched, but his grip only tightened, the pressure, the pressure, the pressure crushing, her throat collapsing as the pain in her chest came alive as something with hands and claws that dug and scratched and tried to rip her open from the inside. When he shook her, her head flopped and bounced, limp as a rag doll’s. He was still shouting something, but she only knew that because spit and blood sprayed her cheeks. Every sound—his shouts, the dull thump of her feet against canvas—faded in the louder, frantic throb of her pulse. In another moment, even that was gone, as an insidious, remorseless blackness leaked into her ears and over her vision the way an overturned jar of ink spreads over white paper.