The Looking Glass

by Jessica Arnold

  On top of the bed there was a pile of wood—enough to build a bonfire. And, worst of all, a noose hanging from the ceiling.

  I screamed, but it was too late to call for help, and we had so few boarders that likely no one would have heard. Elizabeth was dancing around the room, chanting something that I could not understand. She looked quite wild—her face was white and haggard and her hair tangled. Her clothes were ripped and dirty. I backed into the corner and almost dared to hope that she had forgotten about me, for she seemed to take no notice of me as she leapt back and forth over the edge of the bed. She took out some kind of salve and rubbed it all over her face. I could hardly see her skin under it. It looked very much like mud.

  When she brought out the matchbox, however, I knew that we truly were in trouble. I tried to stop her, but she threw me to the floor again with apparent ease. By the time I crawled back to my feet, she had lit a fire in her bedsheets and it was working its way up the wood. I tried to free Father from his ropes, for if the bed burned, so would he. Elizabeth was too fast for me. She soon forced me onto a stool underneath the noose and had my head inside the loop.

  I will not try to explain how terrified I was, trapped in an attic about to be consumed by flame with a madwoman dancing at my feet and a noose around my neck. Death, I was sure, was imminent.

  I could not move. Elizabeth danced a wild waltz around the room, and I stood, noose around my neck, frozen with fear. I looked frantically around the room and then I saw it. On top of the chest of drawers next to me lay the mirror (covered with what looked like dried blood) and a knife.

  It was hope that freed me from my paralysis. The knife was just barely out of reach. I stretched to reach it, but the noose on my neck tightened and, choking, I had to pull away. I was afraid of what would happen if I lost my balance. I was tempted to lift it off my neck, but I knew that Elizabeth would see and would reach me before I reached the knife. All I could do was hold my breath and reach as far as I dared. The tips of my fingers brushed the handle at last; I could feel the rope digging into my skin.

  Elizabeth was still dancing around the fire, which had now grown to quite a height. She pulled a jar of oil from her desk and poured its contents over the entire bed. The flames blossomed and my father began to scream, as much as he could through the fabric in his mouth. Elizabeth was completely unaffected. She screamed strange words into the fire. Father’s voice rang in my ears, stronger than the pain of the rope on my skin. I reached forward, eyes burning from pain, from smoke, from tears. My hand closed around the knife.

  Father screamed louder than ever and Elizabeth leapt onto the windowsill. I did not think too hard about what I did next, for I had no choice. Gripping the knife, I took aim and threw with what little strength I had left.

  The knife struck Elizabeth right in the chest and her scream blended into Father’s. She fell backward through the open window and I heard the splash of her body hitting the water of the pond. My hands were shaking so terribly that I could barely lift the noose from my neck. I was so shocked at what I had just done that I didn’t notice Father’s screams fading. When I limped off the stool and attempted to free him, he was already lost in the fire.

  I fled from the room and out of the house. That is where I found the police officers. They put out the fire and explained the deaths as well as they could without knowing what had happened. I would not tell them the truth. I will not further besmirch our family name. After the fire was out, I hurried to the attic and found that this diary and the witch’s books had survived. I will not allow them to find their way into a curious reporter’s hands.

  Tomorrow I meet with a man who wishes to buy the hotel. He is offering a pittance, but I will sell it to him anyway. I cannot bear to stay here any longer. I will go as far away as I can—to California, if possible. Tonight I will bury this diary in the garden. No one will ever know what happened. The secret will die with me.

  ***

  Alice stared at the last page of the diary as if it were lying to her. Her fingertips seemed large and clumsy as she fumbled with the page, flipping it over, then back again, staring at the last words Lillian had written as though they were a code that she could crack.

  The secret will die.

  Will die.

  Die. She couldn’t get past that word. It clung to her, clawed at her. She bit her tongue, trying to stay calm.

  Slamming the little diary closed, she walked back over to the desk. There she threw down the book exactly where she had found it in the first place. It hit the desk with dull finality. Immediately, Alice had the urge to pick it back up—it had been her companion for what seemed like ages. Her hands stretched out toward it and she pulled them back, clasping them in front of her. She turned on her heel, but had only gotten one step away when she whipped back around. In one fluid motion, she grabbed the diary and threw it across the room. It hit the side of the fireplace and fell to the floor, cover bent awkwardly backwards like a broken limb.

  Alice breathed hard through gritted teeth. Why should the diary get to rest quietly—peacefully—on the desk when she could not rest at all?

  She paced the room, arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself as she used to do when she was a child and afraid.

  So the way to break the curse was hate. But what had Elizabeth hated? Lillian, William, even the witch … Alice could think of several things and she thought she understood. William had, after all, abandoned Elizabeth. Every ounce of attention Lillian received had irked her. The witch had been a threat, holding power she craved. But, even though Alice had read the whole diary, read through page after page full of hate, the curse was not broken and she was still here. Would she know when she had understood enough? How? Did she need to do something, say something?

  She had read the diary hoping for answers and now all she was left with were more questions.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to find something in herself—a deeper understanding, more feeling. She searched for a memory of powerful hate, but the only emotions that surfaced were anger and frustration. Maybe this was the problem: she had never hated something strongly enough to understand. Surely she could hate more. It ought to be easy. She would find what Elizabeth had hated and she would hate it, too.

  She was already so angry, it couldn’t be too hard.

  Lillian, William, the witch. Alice opened her eyes.

  She looked around the library and her gaze came to rest on the portrait of Elizabeth. She tried not to think about what had happened to her. And yet she could imagine all too clearly that woman with the madness in her eyes, dancing around the dark attic room, face painted black, lighting a fire that would burn her own father to death.

  Hate. I hate her. The more she thought about it, the angrier she became, and she let it boil up inside of her. It was all-consuming and she did not fight it. She let it burn.

  She marched over to the closet and opened the door; reaching inside, she pulled out the cloth-wrapped mirror and carried it over to the couch. She unwrapped it; she could see no blood on the glass. Perhaps Lillian had cleaned it up so that the police wouldn’t become suspicious. Now that Alice looked closely, though, she could see scratches that looked quite a lot like claw marks. She reached out to brush the surface with her hand and, to her shock, realized that it was warm. Not cool like glass should be—warm like human skin. She pulled her hand away.

  Alice looked at her distorted reflection in the glass and was surprised to see the anger there, magnified somehow by the imperfections in the glass. Her eyes were overlarge—her mouth small and lopsided. Deep shadowed hollows made her cheeks look skeletal. In the mirror, the ceiling caved, rippling down so that it seemed about to crush her beneath it.

  She moved and the reflection changed. Her eyes shrank to mere pimples of brown. Her face was piggish and pink. She saw nothing worthwhile, nothing worth fighting for—only helplessness, emptiness. Her heart sank and some of the anger fizzled into despair. She couldn’t blame her parents for giving up on this
girl. Moving again, she became a witch—right there. There were her long nose and her pointed chin—perhaps even a wart or two dotting her face. Her eyes were brilliant and a little bloodshot and they looked positively evil the way the glass reflected them back.

  Jumping to her feet, she fled the glass. She didn’t make it to the armchair, but simply fell to the rug and curled up, pulling her knees to her chest, burying her head. It made her feel small. Alice wished she could cry. The despair was too heavy and though she could feel the weight of it against her chest, she was too tired, too empty. The tears would not come.

  She ached to talk it over with Tony, with anybody, really. She just needed another voice besides her own to tear her out of her head—new eyes to help her see clearly. “I don’t know,” she said, thinking that perhaps just hearing a voice (even her own) would help. It didn’t. She thought she could hear her voice echoing in her chest and it made her feel hollow.

  Tony’s voice was strong—warm. Her own seemed thin and pale in comparison, like a pastel swatch in a room of bright colors.

  She imagined what he would say to her if he were here now. (Don’t worry, Alice. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay without you. No. No, he wouldn’t say that.) She could recreate his voice so clearly in her mind—every nuance. I was worried about you, Alice—so worried, I—

  Gong. The clock was sounding. She jumped; she had completely lost track of time in her rush to finish reading the diary. Had it really taken her that long? Then, just as she was sitting back, just as her heart was starting to slow, she realized that the ceiling was getting higher—she was sinking into the rug.

  Panicking, Alice tried to grab hold of the couch, but her arms went right through the cushions. This wasn’t—couldn’t be right. There was another full day before she would come alive again. She had more time than this! Unless …

  The mist. Her breath stopped short. It hadn’t been thirteen hours. It had been a day plus … twenty-four plus thirteen.

  No.

  Lost. Was she lost?

  And though she was worried that she was, her last thought as she sank through the floor was not of herself, but of Tony. He would be able to help her, to see something that she had missed. Buried in her fear, she found a stubborn, throbbing hope, so sweet that she could taste it—smell it—rich and scented and strong.

  She was in to her neck now, and then she was submerged in water.

  Again, Tony was ready for her. No sooner had she fully materialized on the bottom of the pool than she felt his arms loop around her and rush her to the surface. He was so fast that she didn’t even have a chance to swallow any water before she reached the air.

  “Thanks,” she said to him. He didn’t answer; he actually looked a bit nervous.

  “Tony,” Alice said, “is something wrong?”

  “The witch?” he asked instead of answering her question. He helped her out of the pool, then pulled himself out.

  “Gone.”

  “Bring her over here, Tony,” shouted a voice from the side of the pool. George. He sounded excited beyond all reason.

  “Oh.” Alice had forgotten that she and Tony would not be alone tonight. She quickly realized, though, that what she needed most was advice and the more people who could help her, the better off she would be. George—who studied hauntings, who probably knew all about curses—might be just the person she needed.

  But still she had a vision of just her and Tony, whispering urgently, his hand on her back. She couldn’t shake it—it was like a movie she had seen ages ago but couldn’t quite forget.

  “I thought he’d be able to help you,” said Tony, who sounded as though he regretted it.

  Alice looked up at George. She was about to launch into her story and tell them both everything she had learned, when she realized that George’s eyes were wet. His mouth was ajar and his face was aglow with something Alice had rarely seen on adults—awe. George gulped and took a half step forward. He reached out a finger and touched her hair, then jerked his hand away.

  Alice was silent, because it hit her that this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life. It was strange to be at the center of it—to have someone look at her like that.

  Tony went to grab a towel from the pool deck. George came closer and Alice couldn’t stop herself from leaning away. Shivering from the cold water dripping down her back, she hesitantly allowed George to kneel down next to her and grab her arms, examining them in the light of his flashlight.

  “Look at this,” he said in an excited, high-pitched voice. “They seem so real! It’s unbelievable. Look at the transparency of the skin. I could almost see straight through this hand!”

  Uncomfortable, Alice got to her feet, hoping to put some distance between them. But George stood up as well and continued to stare at her, hands clasped together in front of him.

  “Dad!”

  Tony handed Alice a towel and George asked, “Are my video cameras on? You checked the batteries, right? I need to make absolutely sure this is documented.”

  “I checked them three times, Dad.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” He looked at Alice again—a shiver ran through him. Clearing his throat, he turned to face a nearby tripod. “As you can see,” he said, his voice a little hoarse, “we have here a living, partially corporeal ghost.” He sounded unable to believe it himself. Stopping, he glanced back at her, rubbed his hands together. Then he turned back to the camera. “I will now begin to question the spirit.”

  “Dad! This is to help Alice, remember?”

  “Yes, yes, Tony. I know. So, what is your name?”

  “I told you her name!” said Tony, indignant.

  “My name is Alice.”

  George, glowing, hissed at Tony, “Did you see that? It talked! It talked! I don’t believe this is happening.”

  “IT?”

  “Sorry, sorry—so sorry.”

  “How long is this going to take, Dad?”

  George shrugged the question away, gesturing to Tony to get out of the camera’s range. Tony gave his dad a grudging look but went to stand behind the camera as well.

  “So, Alice,” said George, now in the casual, conversational tone of a journalist doing an interview, “tell us a little bit about how you came to be in your … um … current state.”

  Alice frowned and looked at Tony for support. Tony dug his hands farther into his pockets and shrugged, as if to tell her that it couldn’t hurt to indulge his dad for a little while.

  “Well, I’m not dead,” she said.

  “No—of course not. But you aren’t quite alive, either?”

  “Please,” she blurted out—partly to him, mostly to Tony. “I don’t have much time and—”

  “Don’t have much time?” George asked eagerly. “What exactly is it that is keeping you from staying here for long? What does it feel like?” He turned to Tony and whispered, “Feeling—that’s the key. People are dying to know what death feels like. No pun intended.” He laughed at his own joke; Alice saw that his hands were shaking.

  “It’s the curse. There’s a curse,” she looked directly at Tony now, “and a riddle to solve.”

  Tony’s eyebrows went up and she nodded.

  “‘If you would escape my fate, you must understand my hate.’ Elizabeth wrote that in her diary.”

  “Elizabeth Blackwell had a diary?” George cried, nearly hyperventilating now. “What … how … Where can I read it? What did it say?”

  “But what did she hate? Did she mention that?” Tony asked.

  Alice pulled the towel more tightly around her. It was hard to tell if the pressure against her fingers was the towel stretching or the sensation of her hands going through the fabric. Either way, it seemed to help with her nearly uncontrollable nerves. “It’s not that simple. She hated lots of people.”

  “But someone in particular. She must have mentioned … she must have left more clues.”

  “She didn’t—”

  The camera beeped and Alice jumped,
startled. A bird cried in response to the noise and the sound set her teeth on edge.

  George nearly leapt to the camera’s side. He squinted at the screen.

  “Tony! The battery’s low. I thought you said you checked.”

  Tony shrugged, but he didn’t look sorry. He caught Alice’s eye.

  “Better finish the interview off soon.”

  “Tony, I don’t believe—” The camera beeped again and George cut off. He looked at the screen, then at Alice. Taking a deep breath, he collected himself. “We’ll have to circle back to the curse if we have time. For now, let’s get to the important stuff. Tell me, would you call yourself a ghost? And please remember to be honest—many people are anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  To the side of the camera, Tony pressed his palm into his forehead and whispered to his dad, “How many times do I have to tell you? Alice is not dead. Ghosts have to be dead.”

  George shushed him, pointing to the camera screen.

  Alice was temporarily stunned by the question—all thoughts of the curse fled her mind. She wasn’t a ghost. She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t going to die. And yet there were some moments when she felt that she understood what it was to be unseen and uncared for.

  “I feel like a ghost,” she said at last, heart pounding as the confession slipped unbidden from her lips. “I feel … torn—broken. When I first realized that I was trapped, I started yelling at the people in the mirrors, trying to get someone to pay attention to me. And no one could hear. I was afraid.” There she was, being open again—and not just to Tony. George was almost a complete stranger. And there was a camera, an open window for other, nameless people to watch through. A week before she would have been embarrassed to share so much; now she felt invigorated, alive. “I think I understand ghosts. At least, I would, if I believed in them.”

  George’s mouth dropped open and he stammered, “Surely you believe in ghosts? After all you’ve been through?”