The Looking Glass

by Jessica Arnold

  I am preparing for a great experiment in this area. I believe that, if I am careful, I can split part of my own soul off and use it to fill a small object, a mirror perhaps. I will have to go near to death, and then return before it is too late. Somehow, I must combine all of the elements into one in my death. Hanging, I think, is the best option, for it suspends the victim between the earth and the air. I will have to include water and fire somehow as well.

  ***

  The pieces fell into place—a puzzle, a picture—finished now. The sensation of complete triumph was something Alice had not felt often and, when it hit her now, she was surprised by how it made her heart burn and her lips tingle with a suppressed smile. She stood up and put the book down; she knew that she was ready.

  When she returned to the library she saw the girl exactly as she had left her—curled up catlike on the chair, her fingernails digging into the velvet cushions. She jumped to her feet when Alice came through the door.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, which struck Alice as a strangely doctor-like thing to be asking given the circumstances.

  “You care a lot, don’t you?” said Alice, walking past the girl to stand in front of the desk. She looked at the portrait and was calm. Elizabeth’s eyes seemed to look just over her shoulder at the witch behind her, and Alice wondered if this then was the solution. The curse needed souls to live, and one soul had been there for longer than all the others. If Alice could get rid of the witch, would the curse crumble? It was plausible, and the thought of being free—it was dizzying.

  “Of course I care,” said the girl. “We’ve been over this.”

  “Then maybe you can explain why you lied to me.” Alice still stared at the portrait, but she could hear the girl’s soft footsteps behind her. She could not hear breathing. Did the girl even need to breathe?

  “I’ve never lied to you. I wouldn’t do that, Alice.”

  “Maybe. But you didn’t tell me everything.” She was angry now and grateful for it. Anger and hope made her stronger than she could have been otherwise.

  Alice sensed more than heard the girl walk forward; she could see her black dress out of the corner of her eye.

  “I showed you as much as you wanted to see,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her. Alice turned to face her then.

  “But you only showed me what you did because you knew that I wouldn’t want to see more. And you changed things—just a little bit. Just enough.” The girl’s eyes glinted and Alice felt fury tingling in every inch of her skin, because the girl had planned the whole thing so carefully, had known exactly which buttons to push, and Alice, in her desperation, had fallen for it.

  “Alice, you’re confused.” The girl stepped forward, flashed that glittering smile, and tried to take Alice’s hand, but Alice had had enough of that. She yanked her arm away and pushed the girl into the desk—hard. The girl did not cry out in pain, as Alice had expected her to. What actually happened was far more alarming. The girl’s brown eyes turned black—so black. The girl blinked furiously, trying and failing to stop the transformation. She placed her hands over her eyes, then grabbed the desk and shook it hard. Bruises appeared—not where she had hit the side of the desk, but everywhere, all over her neck and her face and her arms. Alice, shocked, took a step backwards. The marks suddenly faded away, but the girl’s eyes remained black.

  “Look what you’ve done,” she cried. “Look!” She held out her arms, which turned purple with bruises as if on cue. She was nervous now, and her performance was far from convincing. Alice looked down her nose at the girl’s skinny arms and saw that the bruises were fading in and out, as if the witch couldn’t quite keep up the illusion. It made Alice’s stomach turn, but not from sympathy. It was pathetic and Alice felt only disgust.

  “Enough.” All the witch had done from the beginning was play with her—manipulate her. This attempt to make Alice feel sorry for her was nothing more than a desperate miscalculation. “It’s too late for that.”

  The girl screamed, rushed forward, and Alice dodged to the side. Panting, the girl turned back around. “You wanted to know what he thought. I only did what you asked me to do.”

  “But that’s not all you did,” said Alice, grabbing the back of a chair for support. Her knees shook but she was not afraid. “You changed what I saw—in the mirrors. You made me see things that weren’t there.”

  The girl was breathing hard and the bruises were gone; she must have gained some control over herself, because she was standing quite still now, clutching her dress in her fists. “I was trying to help you.”

  “Maybe you thought you were, but I don’t think so. Because I think I’ve finally figured it out—your plan. I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work.”

  The girl widened her eyes. “My plan? I just want to be your friend.”

  Alice’s nostrils flared. Up until now she hadn’t been angry, but the fact that the witch would keep up this ridiculous charade infuriated her. Did she think that Alice was so needy that she would fall to her knees at the promise of friendship? Did she think Alice was that weak?

  But she had been—this had worked for the witch before. Alice had been needy and entirely pathetic. Her throat tightened as she remembered how she had struggled for air through her tears, sitting on the floor, the witch’s hand on her knee. She gulped down some more stale air. The witch stared at her—pleading eyes—and Alice wanted to slap her.

  “Wrong,” she said. Her voice trembled.

  The girl shrugged and looked away, but Alice darted forward and grabbed her face—held it between her palms—forced the girl to look at her. The girl stiffened and pressed her hands to her throat, her mouth hanging open like a gasping fish, and Alice realized that her thumbs were digging hard into the witch’s neck. She pressed harder, caught up in her own strength, but then she glimpsed Elizabeth’s eyes over the witch’s head—they seemed to glitter in approval—and they jarred Alice to her senses. She forced herself to move her hands down to the witch’s shoulders, which she held tightly.

  “You want me to be stuck here with you,” Alice said roughly. “You don’t want to help me. You want to have me. Because—do you want to know why?”

  The girl tried to pull away now but couldn’t break free.

  “You want me the same way you wanted all the others. You used them up, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  “I mean that Elizabeth was wrong.”

  The girl tried to push Alice away and this time Alice let her. The girl made a mad dash for the library doors and Alice sprinted after her into the foyer, knowing full well that there was nowhere the girl could hide from her. The girl had thrown herself against what was left of the mirror above the couch, her hands pounding against the glass, her head thrown back—a trapped animal.

  “If you don’t want me here, then send me away,” she said, her voice high. Then, seeing the look of disgust on Alice’s face, she put her hands down, took a deep breath, and smiled. “I can see that I’ve made you uncomfortable. Just wish me back to the other side of the mirror—it will be as easy as wishing me in. Remember? I promise if you send me back I won’t trouble you anymore.”

  The girl had a way of speaking that made everything she said sound reasonable and right. She held her head high and threw back her shoulders—the stance of someone who knew she was in charge. But Alice could see past the clever acting now. She saw that the corner of the witch’s smooth smile was trembling, and suddenly the pretense seemed desperate instead of brave.

  “No,” said Alice.

  The girl got off the couch and backed away from Alice until she was only a few inches from the edge of the mist. She stopped short, glanced over her shoulder, and took a step forward—away from the puffy white wall.

  “Go on,” said Alice as the girl’s black eyes scanned the room for any escape. “But wait, you won’t do that. Because that’s exactly what you’re afraid of. Moving on. Going forward. I hav
e to say, it’s a little funny that you’re so willing to encourage me to move on when it’s the one thing you fear most.

  “I imagine,” Alice walked forward, arms crossed over her chest, “that you weren’t always this way. I think that once you were powerful—frightening, even. You got greedy. And I don’t think you meant to kill yourself—no, that was an accident. You wanted to be better and stronger; you wanted power and it all went wrong.”

  The girl was not looking at Alice; she had closed her eyes and clasped her hands behind her back. Alice felt a brief flicker of fear, because she had expected the girl to make a run for it again. She wanted to see the witch’s eyes—see the fear in them. Now Alice could only see that impeccably composed face and she watched it carefully, like someone waiting for the next trick in a magic show.

  “You were right about one thing,” said Alice, raising her voice. “You have no power over me. You’re so weak now that even I can make you obey. You may have killed your body, but a part of you lived on inside of the mirror. But it started to use you up—not all of you, just most of you—left you a shadow of yourself, just like you knew it would. And you realized that eventually it would consume you entirely, unless it had something else to eat while you looked for a way out. That’s where Elizabeth came in. You realized that this was your opportunity and you told her how to bind another soul to this house—you knew it would buy you time. But you didn’t tell Elizabeth the whole story. You told her no soul could survive in a curse and she believed you, but she was wrong. It is possible. You have survived. And when she died, you got what you thought you needed—a little extra energy to sustain the curse while you looked for a way out.”

  The girl still didn’t say a word. Her chest, level with Alice’s, went up and down with long, even breaths. This made Alice even angrier. She wanted the witch to tremble—to be afraid. She felt as if she were talking to a statue and it made this whole speech seem pointless, even foolish. But Alice carried on, because now she had to. She had too much momentum to stop.

  “And then Elizabeth got used up, too. But now you had more options. Elizabeth did something you couldn’t do—she extended the curse. It wasn’t just the mirror now. It was the whole house. It fed on victims when it got hungry and as long as it kept on eating away at human lives, you were safe.”

  Still no reaction. The girl was perfectly still. Alice clasped her hands behind her and squeezed her fingers hard.

  “And so whenever the curse claimed a new victim, you were there to greet her. You were there to help. How many did you convince to give up? You can be quite persuasive when you want to be. But you’ve never met me before. And I’m not giving up. I’m done with you.”

  And then—movement. The witch’s eyes opened slowly, like curtains, and her eyes were no longer black. They were brown and warm and large. Alice’s heart skipped a beat.

  “You’re right,” said the witch, voice thick as honey. “You win.”

  “I … what?” Her fingers hurt, she was gripping them so tightly.

  “I mean you’ve beaten me. You’ve bested me. You’ve figured out the riddle—all my secrets.”

  Alice didn’t know what to say. Her brain seemed empty; her mouth hung open. She felt partly let down, partly relieved—as if she’d been preparing to battle with a lion, but had been thrown into a pit with a kitten.

  “I used Elizabeth, just like I tried to use you. And now, because you’ve figured it out, I have to do as you say—think of me as your own personal genie. I can grant you whatever you wish. And I know what you wish. You wish to escape this place. Don’t you?”

  Alice felt herself nodding.

  The witch nodded as well and said solemnly, “Then that’s what I’ll help you do. But you’ll have to trust me, just a little bit.”

  At the word trust, alarms started going off in Alice’s brain, but they were muted and slow. She wanted to hear what the witch would say—escape hung before her, gleaming, and she wanted it badly. Jeremy’s face flashed before her eyes and she realized that she was hungry to see him, ravenous even.

  “I know you don’t want to believe anything I say, but think back—not everything I showed you was a lie.”

  The girl had a point—she had shown Alice a genuine snapshot from her own life. But even as Alice leaned in, waiting eagerly for the girl to reveal the secret of escape to her, a dull but relentless voice at the back of her mind pointed out that something was wrong here. It only served to confuse Alice, because hadn’t she won? The witch had said she had nothing to fear from her.

  “Get to the point,” Alice demanded, trying not to let her voice show how much she wanted to hear.

  “Of course. I’m sorry. What I mean is that what I told you before about the mist is still true. It’s the way out. It really is.”

  She’s still trying to kill me.

  The realization hit Alice like a punch to the gut. The girl didn’t seem to notice that Alice had stiffened; her gaze was level and calm and … conniving, lying … Alice could think of so many words. After everything she had been through, that she could still eat up the girl’s lies …

  “Will you come with me?” Alice asked. She heard her voice, was relieved that it was steady. “Into the mist, I mean.”

  The girl smiled, surprised at her luck. “Of course. You go through first—I’ll be right behind you.”

  “No.” Alice held out a hand. “Together.”

  Her smile wavered, but held. “Oh … yes, if that’s what you want.” Her fingers wrapped delicately around Alice’s, and Alice, blood pounding drumlike in her ears, stepped toward the mist. She stood face-to-face with it, nose only inches from it, and thought it looked pillowy but not soft—just suffocating.

  Alice, fingers against the girl’s wrist, could feel her pulse racing. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to do what she knew she had to: she lifted her foot and began the long step forward into the mist.

  The minute she did, the witch jerked her hand away. It happened in a split second, just as Alice had known it would. And Alice herself whipped around—her toes just grazing the mist—and grabbed the girl by the shoulders. Saw the shock in her eyes.

  The girl did not even have time to open her mouth. She had no time to react. Without a word, with one push, Alice sent her careening silently into the mist. It parted to absorb the witch and (Alice couldn’t decide if she imagined it or not) she thought she saw white hands reach out to envelop her. The witch, realizing finally what had just happened, tried to pull away. She struggled, flailed, screamed. But, in an instant, the hands were drawn back into the mist and the witch was gone without a trace.

  Not without a trace.

  Alice sat at the top of the stairs, staring at the triangle mirror. It lay facedown on the carpeting, the wooden back scratched in places, burned in others. Gingerly, Alice reached down and flipped it over with the very tips of her fingers, barely touching it. She dropped it gently onto the carpet, then stepped back, wiping her hand in Elizabeth’s dress.

  The witch’s scream was still ringing in her head as she leaned forward ever so slowly and stared down into the mirror. She saw a self she barely recognized blinking up at her. And, leaning down, she saw around her neck the faintest shadow, like a string … like a rope …

  Alice jumped forward and grabbed the mirror and the books and ran with them down to the library. Throwing the books onto the couch, she pulled a blanket from a nearby chair, wrapped it around the mirror, and shoved the entire bundle in the closet. Then she closed the door and stood panting for a moment, her spine still tingling. She looked at the diary and considered throwing that into the closet as well, just to get away from it. But she needed it, whether she liked it or not, and so she grabbed the thing and hurried out into the lobby, where she curled up on the padded bench by the mirror.

  She sat, waiting. Her breath was rhythmic and she listened to the familiar sound of it, eyes darting around the room, ready to notice the slightest change.

  It all felt so wrong. Sh
e held the book open in her hands, not even pretending to read. Alice hadn’t ever been sure that defeating the witch would free her. But she had expected … well, she had expected something.

  What? Expected what?

  Not this, she answered herself. A change, some sign of progress. Not more of the same in this lonely, silent place. So much lonelier now. She hadn’t expected that—that she would almost find herself missing the girl’s company. It had been easier to forget that she had no idea what she was doing here when she’d had the girl to fight against. Now the lack of a visible opponent left her directionless.

  Nor were her doubts any less persistent. The girl had given them a voice, said them aloud, hit Alice over the head with them. But even without her they pounded at Alice from the inside, fists against her skull. Her head ached. The longer she sat, the louder they became, shouting at her in the girl’s voice. We are you. I am you. I will always be you.

  She closed her eyes.

  For seven hours, Alice sat in the lobby. She knew she should be doing something—reading the diary, maybe. But as much as she tried, she couldn’t get herself to focus; her thoughts darted from thing to thing. Her heart pounded and would not slow. So she sat there, alternately closing her eyes and staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting for Tony and his dad to come in. The mist covered half of the room now, and it was still creeping across the only remaining mirror. If they didn’t come soon, Alice was worried that she wouldn’t be able to see or hear them at all, and she needed to know if Tony had told his dad the truth. She needed to be prepared for what would greet her the next and final time that she came alive.

  George came down by himself at eight thirty a.m.; he was carrying a book titled Raising Teenage Boys: How to Be a Father to Your Son, and he sat down in the sitting room off the lobby with a cup of coffee. Alice wondered at first why he had bothered to come down if he was only planning to do some reading, but she soon noticed that he kept glancing at what appeared to be an incredibly old pager on his belt. It had some strange wiring and what looked like a cell phone screen hanging oddly from the side. Even now, he was taking readings—the picture of persistence. Her dad was the same way—not with ghosts, of course, but with business deals, with work. He fought until the very end. He never gave up on anything.