by Carol Weekes
Cole stole a peek at him. “See you later, Cory. Be cool.”
“Yeah.” Cory let his shoulders slump. The front door opened and shut. The house fell quiet.
Cory thought about the conversation he’d had with his father. You and your brothers are not to go into that bedroom or bathroom. The mirror is old; maybe it’s cracked or loose. Daddy will take care of it.
He tried to remember what had happened after he’d seen the lollipops in the mirror and the feeling of curiosity when he’d reached forward to touch the reflection of something that wasn’t in the room with him. His fingers outstretched, he’d felt the cold kiss of glass against his fingertips. Then…the details came back to him, knocking the breath from him and making him sit up.
* * *
His fingers had gone through the mirror. What was hard turned suddenly soft and he was inside a room exactly the shape of the one he’d just left, only on the other side of the looking glass. This room was from a long time ago. It contained a claw foot tub, a wooden stand and washbasin, and several melted candles. His hand grasped the lollipops as he looked back at his parents’ bathroom through the mirror. The air in this room was dusty, stale, like air that had been locked up for a long time. When he pushed his hand against the mirror, it stayed firm this time. That frightened him. He wasn’t sure how to get back now. An idea had come to him; he’d just walk through this other house and find the door to the outside, then he’d run back to his real house, but not before first taking one of the lollipops--a red one--as if holding something as natural as this could act like some kind of a safety net.
He walked through this other bathroom and into the same-shaped guest bedroom as in his parents’ house. This room contained a wooden four-poster bed with a quilted comforter. A highboy with polished drawers and brass handles stood opposite. An intricately carved rocking chair waited in a corner, and a low table and fancy stool in the opposite corner. The table contained many glass bottles of perfumes, the glassware hand blown glass, some looking like sea shells or tiny magic lamps with stoppers; clearly, a woman’s room. The room smelled faintly of the perfumes, talcum powder, and something else. Something almost spicy and not quite nice.
He wondered if the mirror had been some kind of a door that had allowed him entrance into a house built next to theirs, and that by reaching for the lollipops, he’d somehow pushed a small button behind or actually in the glass. He knew that someone was inside this other house. He could feel their presence. He wasn’t sure whether to call for someone to help him, or just try to get out of here on his own.
He stepped into the corridor. The air continued to smell bittersweet. The light that filled the windows was a pale white haze. Cory stepped over to the window and looked outside. He saw clouds or mist moving past the glass. He felt as if he was inside a house that floated somewhere up in the sky.
He headed along the corridor, peeking into what was supposed to be Chris’s and Cole’s rooms. These also contained furniture from another era; the same high four-poster beds, one with a small footstool beside it in order to reach a mattress almost as tall as him. Flowers in vases filled with water almost glowed in this odd, white light.
He reached his own bedroom and stopped to look inside. He saw a baby’s crib, its white bars containing blankets and cushioning. He heard a baby’s cry but couldn’t see the child. The room smelled of powder and sour milk. A mobile with thin filaments holding tiny, colorful butterflies twirled slowly over the crib. Music accompanied the movement of the mobile, notes that sounded like water droplets hitting a firm surface. He heard the baby laugh and wanted to walk into the room to see the child. Even the company of a baby would be better than being alone here. A footstep along the ceiling above let him know that someone was in the attic.
He glanced into the main bedroom and saw another high bed, this one made of brass bars and thick with blankets. More antique furniture, the curtains drawn so that the room was dark. A smell of medicines floated at him: eucalyptus, rubbing alcohol, the miasma of many pills within bottles.
“Jeffery?” an old woman’s voice called from the bed. “I feel so sick. Help me.”
The covers moved and Cory saw the shape of feet, twin points sticking up beneath the material, shift position. He backed away. The squeak of a footstep in the attic, coming down the stairs now.
* * *
Cory rushed down the main stairs, past a parlor with high-backed sofas, polished tables, and oil lamps that gave the air a sooty scent. A fire popped in the fireplace. A player piano began to play by itself, its roll music punching the melody out with gusto.
“Mommy,” Cory ran for the front door. He tugged and it opened. He rushed onto the porch and saw only white mist, thick as smoke, everywhere. He grabbed the handrail and took a step downward, tentative, his foot feeling for the ground. He reached out and felt nothing.
Nothing but air.
He dipped down so that his leg swung far lower than he knew where the ground should be and still felt nothing but air within this mist. He didn’t know what was out there. He realized that, if he stepped off the end of the step, he might fall into nothingness—he wouldn’t know where his real house might be, if it was out there at all. He had to go back to where he’d come in; to try and return through the mirror.
He hurried back up the stairs. The player piano continued its jovial song, something fervent and in a minor key, the ivories pressing then rising, pressing then rising like rippling teeth. Upstairs, the baby began to cry. He was halfway along the hallway when he felt watched. He turned. It was an old man, thin, palsied scalp, the skin under his eyes bagged and almost purple, clad in a burgundy smoking jacket and proper trousers, the chain of a hand-watch swaying as he walked, stepping into the landing.
“I didn’t mean—” Cory began, but the man walked right through him. Cory felt a moment of damp, as if he’d been hit with a gust of rain-filled wind, and the man reached the doorway to the main bedroom.
“Jeffrey?” the aged female voice called out again. “Help me.”
“I’m here, Isabelle,” the man said. Then he turned and looked directly at Cory. “I put the lollipops there for you,” he told him. “You can help yourself anytime. Feel free to visit. It’s a nice place here. I’m going to get my wife some water now. Come back again.”
“How did you do that?” Cory asked.
The old man, his skin so transparent that Cory swore he could see the man’s teeth and gums shining through his cheeks, smiled and held a thin finger up to his lips. “That’s our secret,” he said. Then he shut the bedroom door. Cory listened to the woman in the bed begin to cry; then what sounded like rough, coughing sounds issued from the room. Then all went quiet.
Cory hurried back to the man’s bathroom. The other lollipops still waited on the counter where he’d left them, and now three balloons floated in here too; red, yellow, and blue, what he recognized as the primary colors from his school art class. The red balloon said ‘Hello’, the yellow one said ‘Little’ and the blue one said ‘Friend.’
Cory smiled, but he wanted to go home. It had been interesting and the old man had seemed nice enough, although odd (and that trick he’d done!), but he wanted to get back to his parents’ house. This bathroom contained no light, only that strange white glow. Its window was old, chipped wood, its sill thick with heavy dark paint, its glass crawling with flies. The sound of the baby crying drifted to him from down the hall, followed by the maddening whirl of its mobile. He recognized the song now from his own childhood. It was Mary had a Little Lamb. Someone walked into the baby’s room, shushing to comfort it.
He ate the red lollipop, then approached the mirror. This mirror was exactly like the one in his parents’ guest bathroom. He touched the glass. It was hard, cold, unrelenting. He wasn’t sure which part he needed to touch in order to go through again. He heard his name being called from somewhere in his real house. He pressed with both hands, panicking.
* * *
“Daddy!” he called out
. “I’m here!” His father’s voice faded for a minute.
Cory started to cry. He slapped his hands against the mirror, wanting only to go home. Okay, the mirror was strange and this other house next to his was very odd, even if the old man had seemed nice enough and they left balloons and candy. Maybe they were lonely. But he wanted out. Everywhere he slapped along the glass, the glass refused to give. He could see the bathroom in his real house through the glass; he was separated by a thin, yet resistant medium.
Minutes passed. He wept, frightened now. His stomach growled. Desperate, but not knowing what to do, he leaned against this side of the mirror, his face wet with tears, knowing that his real home was just on the other side. He heard the old man’s voice in the guest room behind him.
“You don’t have to go. You’re welcome to stay here. We have lots of room for company. You can visit your family as much as you want from here. I can show you how, if you’d like to stay.”
Cory turned. The old man smiled. His odd pale eyes glowed a little. He smelled of the medicines from the bedroom. “My name’s Jeffrey. The baby might like a big brother like you. You could learn how to play the piano together. We’re happiest when new people stay. It’s nicer for us all.”
“I don’t want to,” Cory said and ran at the glass. Something gave, the feel of damp elastic, and he felt himself pulled through a tight, warm tunnel as Jeffrey rushed up behind him, his old man fingers cold and grasping at his ankles. Cory landed with a thud on a floor. He sat, disoriented, sunlight far too bright in his eyes and stared around himself. He saw his father rush into the room a moment later.
“There you are! What are you doing in here? I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour.”
The taste of the stale red lollipop in his mouth, the sugar old with time. The feel of the old man’s hands on his ankles. Had the man been pulling him, or pushing him out? Cory wasn’t certain.
Hello, Little, Friend.
Chapter 11
He tossed the comic book away as the details came back to him. He didn’t mind the idea of visiting as long as he could always come back here at the end of each visit.
Strange old man.
He hadn’t liked the old furniture or the stale smell of unmoving air. Yet, he was curious to know more about this other house and he had been invited to visit. How that house was there, and the weirdness with the mirror was the most frightening part to him. It was sunny out and he decided that he’d find his football and go kick it around the driveway. He didn’t want to go back to visit today. He felt it better not to tell his parents about Jeffrey. If he wanted to visit them, he’d have to be quiet and the best time would be at night, when his parents and brothers slept. Something about Jeffrey and his family felt sad, lonely, and needy. He almost felt sorry for them. Almost. For now, the day beckoned. He grabbed his football and carried it downstairs.
* * *
His father was on the front porch, securing a loose floorboard with a screwdriver. He glanced up at Cory.
“Football.” His father smiled. “Good choice. I can get a goal post set up this afternoon, if you’d like.”
Cory grinned. “Sure.” He looked up at the house and beyond it, wondering where Jeffrey’s house might be and why he couldn’t see it from out here. He reasoned that the other house must be built inside his parents’ house somehow. He thought of the mist outside its windows and how, when he’d stepped out onto Jeffrey’s front steps and had felt for the ground, there hadn’t been any solidity; just opaque vacuous space.
“Whatcha’ going to do with the ball for now?” Robbie stopped working with the screwdriver. He stood up and tested the board with one foot, satisfying himself that it was secure.
“I dunno. Kick it around.” Cory shrugged. He kicked the ball high into the air before grasping it again.
“We’ll look into a team at school, if you’d like,” Robbie told him. “It could be a good way to make some new friends.”
“I guess.”
“You seem a little bummed,” Robbie said. “What’s up?”
Cory fiddled with the ball, not really interested in kicking it around anymore. “I’m never old enough to go out with them.”
“Oh…I hear you. I was the youngest kid at home too. I know how you feel.”
“Did Uncle Tim always leave you behind?”
Robbie grinned and sat down on the top step. “Most of the time. A fifteen-year-old didn’t want a ten-year-old tagging along when he hung out with his buddies or wanted to keep an eye on a pretty girl. But he did make some times special just for me, like your brothers do on occasion.”
Cory squinted into the sun. “Was I an accident?”
Robbie’s grin faded. “No! Of course not.”
“How come I came so much later than them then?”
Robbie rolled the screwdriver back and forth in his palm. “You were a gift that came later so that, as our first two were growing up so fast, we could still have all the joys of a little one around. No one is ever an accident, sweetheart. We couldn’t imagine life without you.”
Father and son looked at each other.
“I’m sure you’ll make at least one good friend within the next week or two,” Robbie continued. “Take a walk up the road and see if you can spot any kids playing. Boy, girl, it doesn’t matter. Ride your bike around a little bit.”
“I suppose.” Cory sat down on the step. He wanted to ask his father how another family could be living inside their house, but he thought back to this morning’s breakfast conversation and knew that he couldn’t mention a word of it. Maybe, if he got to know Jeffrey better, he would invite Jeffrey over to visit. His father always held a respect around older people, and Cory felt that his father would probably like Jeffrey once they got to know each other. Jeffrey could bring his wife, and the baby. His mother would like the baby, Cory reasoned. She always went gushy over them in stores.
“You need air in the tires?” Robbie asked, breaking Cory’s thoughts. “Let’s go get your bike out of the barn. I’ll pump up the tires. I saw a corner store just two blocks up the road. I’m sure it sells treats and comic books. You worked hard setting up your room yesterday. That’s worth a few dollars for treats. Deal?”
“Deal,” Cory said. He put Jeffrey out of his mind. The old man would be busy taking care of his sick wife and doing whatever he did in there. He accompanied his father to the barn and watched as his father added air to his front tire.
“We can turn this barn into a play area too, up in the loft,” Robbie told him. “We might even get a few chickens so we can have our own eggs.”
“Really? Can I have one as a pet?”
Robbie laughed. “I suppose.”
He handed the bike to Cory, then dug into his pocket and extracted a five-dollar bill. “There you go, bud. All yours. Have fun. Just keep us updated so we know where you are.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Cory rode along their driveway. He glanced at the house and saw Jeffrey’s form standing in the attic window, watching him. Jeffrey waved. Cory, on instinct, waved back. When he looked back at the attic window a few seconds later, Jeffrey was gone, the window a dull square slate against the frame.
* * *
Tanya walked through the bedrooms as Robbie fiddled with porch repairs. She made their bed, then went into each of the boys’ rooms to straighten bedcovers and start unpacking boxes. Cory had left his covers tossed back, an open comic book face up on the bed. She’d seen him step outside with his football and heard his and Robbie’s voices drifting up through the open windows. Her poor wee one. She wondered whether they should have had another baby shortly after Cory had been born so that he could have had a sibling closer in age to himself, but that was a moot point. You don’t have a baby when your youngest is almost ten, and besides, she didn’t think she’d have the energy to mother an infant at this point in her life. She was thirty-eight years old. As soon as they got settled, she’d get back into her web design work. She thought she might like to take the smalles
t room on the main floor as her office where she could set up her desk, her computer, all of her books and manuals.
She began hanging up his clothes in his closet. She paused, remembering how they’d found him yesterday—dazed and coated in plaster dust and cobwebs—and took a moment to inspect the inside of his closet. She ran her fingers along the thick plaster walls, glancing up at the ceiling. She saw nothing out of place; no tiny door, no entrance into a crawl space. She shrugged. He could have fallen asleep in here, heard his name being called, and stumbled from room to room looking for them. A kid half-asleep could be pretty darned disoriented. She put the thought from her mind, loving the brilliant sun streaming through his window.
She finished hanging up his clothes. A watery melody came to her along the breeze. It lasted seconds, a muted wind chime sound, only familiar. She sought to identify the tune. It had been from “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She wondered if the former family had left a set of chimes outside somewhere, although she’d never seen a set that could elicit a melody like that. The sound stopped as quickly as it had begun.
She continued with her tasks. It was starting to look like a room. She placed his lamp on the desk and bent to plug it into a nearby socket when she heard a baby cry. Her maternal instinct made her straighten up. She would have sworn the cry had come from inside the room. Tanya walked over to Cory’s window and glanced into the yard. She saw nothing. She knew she’d heard a baby cry.
“I’m not going crazy,” she mumbled. “I heard a baby.”
She checked the other bedroom windows, thinking a neighbor with a baby might be close outside. She saw no one. She stood in front of the spare bedroom, and on impulse, stepped into it.
This room had an odd, almost held-breath feel about it that she attributed to its not having any furniture. Flies buzzing in the warming sun drew her attention to the bathroom. Tanya saw two new flies moving up and down the panes in an attempt to reach the outdoors. She opened the window, drew the screen back, and let them out.