Satan's Mirror

by Roxanne Smolen

  Her cell rang, and she jumped, staring at the phone as if it had read her thoughts. But it wasn’t a doctor calling, nor the school. It was Ross Devine.

  “Hi, Em. How are you feeling today?”

  Emily turned cold at the sound of his voice. She still believed he wasn’t sharing all he knew about Satan’s Mirror—but there was more to her anger than that. She blamed him for Dan’s disappearance. It could have just as easily been her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Do you have any news?”

  “That’s why I’m calling. I got a court order to have Dan’s personal effects released to us. They’ll be shipped this afternoon.”

  “Personal effects. It sounds so final.”

  “Anything in particular I should look for? Photos? Video?”

  “We interviewed some college students,” Emily said. “I want to see that video. There may also be a spot on a fortuneteller named Vanessa. You know Dan’s custom of setting a running camcorder on a table while he walked around taking snapshots.”

  Ross chuckled. “He was tricky that way.”

  “Yeah.” She pinched the bridge of her nose to stem the flow of tears. “Anyway, I have the photos from that visit, but a video might tell me more.”

  “You have photographs? I thought the police confiscated everything. When can I see them?”

  “Not today.”

  “No pressure,” he said, and she pictured him with his hands up, backing away. “I just thought I’d work on the story in your absence.”

  “What story?” she shouted, ire peaking. “I have lies, innuendo, and myth. Do you see a story in there?”

  “I do, Em. I really do. And if you would relax a bit and let your professional side assess the situation—”

  She closed the phone and tossed it away from her. So he was working on her story, was he? He’d probably love to end it with her leaving the show due to a nervous breakdown.

  “Damn you!” She pressed her palms against her eyes.

  Something moved upstairs. Emily froze, listening. Was someone in the house? There came a clatter and a crash. She leapt to her feet, her heartbeat in overdrive. She stole from the study to the bottom of the stairs.

  “Esmeralda?” she called, and then louder, “Esmeralda!”

  Something heavy settled onto the floor. The sound came from her daughter’s room.

  Emily took a step upward, and then another, her damp hand clutching the rail, ears sharpened. Gooseflesh pricked the back of her neck. She climbed steadily.

  September sunlight streamed into the upstairs hall. Everything seemed normal. Stepping to her daughter’s doorway, she peered inside. A small bookshelf lay upended in the middle of the room. Books littered the floor, and April’s prized porcelain unicorn was smashed.

  Emily picked up the toy baton her daughter used while marching around the house. She held it like a club as she stepped deeper into the room.

  She caught a whiff of smoke, but it was gone almost before she could identify it.

  With the baton held high, she checked behind the door and in the closet. She fluffed the long, frilly, pink curtains. She used the baton to lift a corner of the quilted bedspread, then bolstering her nerve, dropped to her knees and looked beneath the bed.

  No one was there.

  But someone had been there. Books didn’t fall by themselves. The metal shelves of the little white bookcase were bent as if thrown.

  In the bathroom, she yanked open the shower curtain. In her bedroom, she checked the closet and under the bed. Nothing.

  Heart yammering, she rushed downstairs to her office, grabbed her cell phone from where she threw it on the couch, and hurried out the front door. She dialed as she ran.

  “Nine-one-one,” said the operator.

  “I need the police,” she said breathlessly. “Someone has been in my house.”

  After verifying her address, Emily sat on the front steps. She felt violated. Who would break into her home to smash a little girl’s unicorn? They must have been looking for something. What did Emily have that someone else might want?

  Fifteen minutes later, two police cars roared toward her. For a moment, their flashing blue lights took Emily back to the house on Weeden Street. She shuddered and blinked as four police officers approached, and had to force herself to focus.

  “I’m Officer Waltham,” one of the cops said. “You reported a disturbance?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice tremulous. “I was in my study, and something crashed upstairs. I went up, but I didn’t find anybody.”

  “No forced entry,” said a female officer, looking at the door. “I’ll check the windows.”

  “Was the door unlocked?” asked Waltham.

  “Of course not,” Emily said. “Wait. I’m not sure. My housekeeper had just gone out. She may have left it open.”

  “All right. We’ll secure the house. Stay here.”

  “No! I’m coming with you.” She followed them inside.

  They spread throughout the first floor, announcing, “Clear,” as they searched the rooms.

  “You said the sound came from upstairs?” Waltham asked.

  “My daughter’s bedroom. A bookshelf fell. First door on the right,” she called to the officers climbing the stairs.

  Waltham stayed with her. “When did this happen?”

  “Just before I called. Maybe a half hour ago.”

  “Did anyone else hear the noise?”

  “No. I was alone.”

  The female cop hustled down the stairs. “Superficial damage. We should call in Grentz, have her dust for prints.”

  Waltham nodded. He turned back to Emily. “Anything missing?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But you’re not sure? Do you keep anything of value?”

  “Nothing unusual. A television, computer stuff, a couple of cameras.”

  Her eyes widened. She ran into the study, grabbing her backpack from the door. Dan’s camera was safely tucked inside. What if that was what the intruder wanted? What if he thought she had incriminating evidence?

  “Think of something?” Waltham asked from the doorway.

  She looked at him, her chest so constricted she could barely speak. “I was accosted by a man in Saint Augustine. His name is Joey Mastrianni. He’s tall and has tattoos all over his body.”

  “So do a lot of people around here,” said the woman.

  “Did you make a police report?” asked Waltham.

  Emily nodded. With trembling hands, she held out Officer Harris’ business card. “They spotted him in Florida yesterday, but that would still give him time to fly here. Please help me. He’s dangerous, and I think he may have followed me home.”

  FOURTEEN

  Emily was sitting at the bottom of the stairs with her head in her hands when Esmeralda came in from running her errands. She carried groceries.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked as she breezed by.

  With a groan, Emily got to her feet. She felt as if weights hung from her arms and neck, pulling her down. She leaned against the kitchen doorframe while Esmeralda put away the groceries.

  “Is there a chance you might have left the door unlocked when you went out this morning?” Emily asked.

  “No,” said Esmeralda. “I’m certain I locked up. Why?”

  “Someone was in the house. I think I know who it was.” She told Esmeralda of her encounters with Joey, both in the park and in the warehouse.

  Esmeralda’s expression was one of mounting horror. “So you think this crazy man is after you?”

  “I think he is looking for the photographs Dan took. He was in April’s bedroom, knocked over her bookshelf. Her unicorn smashed.”

  “Oh, no. Not the unicorn. April will be so sad.”

  “The police checked her room for fingerprints, but they didn’t find any that might be from an adult. Not even us.”

  “No, they wouldn’t. I polished her furniture yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, you’ll have to
clean again. The fingerprinting crew left quite a mess. I’ve already swept up the broken glass. I threw out the shelves. They were dented.”

  “I’ll have to hurry to sort things out before April gets home.” Esmeralda rushed up the stairs.

  Emily ran a hand over her face. She walked to the sink and got a glass of water. Then she sat at the kitchen table and took out her cell phone. After sifting through the numbers of received calls, she hit redial.

  “Harris,” a man said at the other end.

  “Officer Harris, this is Emily Goodman. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve had a break-in and—”

  “Yes, Ms. Goodman. Your precinct contacted me.”

  “Do you think it could be Joey?”

  “I can’t say. His name didn’t show at our area airports, but that’s not conclusive.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Be alert, but don’t panic.”

  “But what if he’s looking for something? Something specific.”

  Harris hesitated. “Is there anything you left out of your report?”

  Emily wanted to tell him about the photographs, but he might think she tricked him into giving the microdrives back to her. “No.”

  “Then leave the investigation to the police. I assure you, both our departments are working to keep you safe.”

  “Thank you. Please call if you learn anything more.”

  “Of course.”

  She closed the phone and tapped it against her chin. Don’t panic. Easy for him to say; he didn’t have a six-year-old little girl to protect—or maybe he did. What did she know?

  Esmeralda bustled into the kitchen. “Everything is clean. What time is it?”

  Before Emily could respond, the door opened.

  April came in looking exhausted and bad-tempered. She dropped her book bag on the table and plopped in a seat. “I’m hungry.”

  “I’ll get you some cookies and milk,” Esmeralda said. “How would that be?”

  Emily took April’s hand. “We’ve had a problem. Someone broke into our house. They were looking for something, I don’t know. They broke your unicorn.”

  April stared at her, her face expressionless. After a moment, she said, “It was the monster.”

  “It wasn’t a monster. This is real.”

  She pulled her hand away. “The monster is real. He makes things move.”

  “Have you seen that?”

  “You never believe me.”

  “April, have you seen things move?”

  “I hate you!” April burst into tears and ran into the living room.

  Emily sagged. “I don’t know if I’m losing my mind or if she is.”

  “In my country, there is always talk of monsters and spirits,” Esmeralda said. “My mother was firm with us children, and would not hear of such foolishness.”

  “That doesn’t make the fear go away.”

  Emily walked out to find her daughter on the couch. She expected her to be sobbing, but although her face was wet, she appeared calm. Sitting beside her, Emily sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” April said. “I don’t really hate you.”

  “I know.” Emily pulled her onto her lap. “Maybe we both need a vacation. How about we spend the weekend with Grandpa?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll book a flight right after dinner. We’ll leave in the morning.”

  April nestled against her. Her breathing slowed. “Can I sleep with you tonight?”

  Emily almost said yes—but she remembered Esmeralda telling her to be firm and not allow such foolishness. “I think you should sleep in your own room tonight. Like a big girl.”

  * * * *

  Emily bolted out of bed, half asleep, her daughter’s screams ringing in her ears. She rounded the corner, sprinting toward April’s room, and stopped dead.

  April sat in the middle of her bed, clutching the sheets as the bed rose into the air, rocking madly. She jolted back and forth, her mouth stretched in a soundless wail.

  Above her head, her chrome carousel lamp flickered and crackled, trailing a severed power cord. Other things soared with it—her clock, framed pictures of the two of them, the metal filigree music box that had once belonged to Emily’s grandmother. They circled overhead as if caught in a magnetic whirlwind.

  “Oh, my God.” Emily stared. She heard an evasive buzzing sound, like the wings of a giant locust.

  “Mommy! Help me!” April cried, her voice jarring with the force of the bucking bed.

  Emily rushed into the room. Arms outstretched, she attempted to snatch her daughter to safety. The bed evaded her, tilting and thrashing as if it knew she was there. As if it were being controlled.

  The flying clock shot at her head, forcing her to duck. At the same time, the heavy carousel lamp crashed into her chest. Emily gasped, dropping to her knees.

  “Mommy!” April cried, scooting to the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t move, baby. I’m coming for you.”

  She staggered up in time to see a metal picture frame spin toward her. Its corner glanced off her forehead. Her vision flashed. She reeled back. Blood streamed into her eyes.

  Her legs wobbled then gave out. She plopped upon the floor. As sense returned to her, she was aware of a sulfurous odor. Brimstone. And she knew. She knew what was doing this.

  April screamed. She struggled to get down. The bed was a good fifteen inches off the floor. Its headboard banged the wall. The girl stretched her bare feet downward, her pink flannel nightgown balled around her knees. But as she touched the floor, something grabbed her foot.

  As if in slow motion, April twisted about, her long hair flying, her little face crazed with terror. She fell onto her stomach, screaming, clawing the floor.

  Something was pulling her under the bed.

  Oh my God, oh my God. Emily stared, electric fear pinning her arms. Then she dove forward. Their hands met. Emily felt April’s fingers beneath hers. They slipped away.

  “No!” Emily scrabbled to reach her.

  She missed. For a frozen moment, their eyes met. April sobbed, fingers splayed, moving inexorably backward.

  The darkness beneath the bed swallowed her.

  The flying objects dropped.

  Emily blinked, unable to breathe, unable to think. With a strength borne of panic, she picked up the bed and threw it aside. She stared at the bare floor. There was no sign of her daughter.

  Footsteps pelted up the stairs. Esmeralda burst into the room. “What happened?”

  Emily fell to her knees, trembling, running her hands over the floor. “She’s gone. She’s gone.”

  “Where is April?” Esmeralda shouted. She grabbed Emily’s shoulders, shaking her.

  Emily stared, blood dripping down her face. She felt numb. “Call the police.”

  Without a word, Esmeralda ran downstairs.

  Emily buried her fists in her hair. She saw the scene again—her daughter screaming, clinging to the bed, bare feet reaching down, and then—

  She covered her face. It was a dream. This isn’t happening.

  An odd feeling came over her, a pulling sensation, drawing her to her feet. She stared in horror as the wall dissolved into a shimmering mirror. A face coalesced from a swath of red. Yellow eyes glinted. The devil smiled, showing needle-like teeth.

  “Dear God,” Emily whispered.

  The devil pulled back. Behind him, Emily saw a wall of stone and torches. Then she saw April, naked and weeping, held by the scruff of her neck.

  Emily gasped.

  “Do you believe in me now?” the devil said.

  FIFTEEN

  The cold, unyielding stretcher chilled Emily’s back. Lights pulsed in the night. She squeezed her eyes tight. Behind her lids, she saw her daughter’s face—April laughing as she ran through fields of wildflowers at the farm, April clawing the floor as the devil pulled her beneath the bed.

  Why hadn’t she listened when her daughter said she was afraid? Why had she insisted she sleep in tha
t room?

  “Emily? Can you hear me?” called a woman’s voice next to her ear. “Don’t fall asleep now, honey. We’re on our way to the hospital.”

  “No,” Emily groaned. She couldn’t go to the hospital. She had to save April. She tried to move. A strap bound her thighs, and sharp pain bound her chest. Jingling, rattling sounds jangled her nerves. She was in an ambulance, she realized, looking around. “Please let me go. My daughter.”

  “Try to relax. We’re going to take good care of you.”

  “Please,” she said. The world darkened.

  Brisk air shocked her awake. The stretcher moved smoothly over concrete, wheels clicking, and pushed through double doors. Light blazed, searing her eyes. People converged upon her, touching her, prodding her.

  “Don’t,” she moaned. “Leave me alone.”

  Miraculously, they did. She found herself in a bed surrounded by curtains. Her head ached. She rolled onto her side, and the bed seemed to roll with her.

  A man pushed back the drape. He wore glasses and a stethoscope. “Hello Emily. I’m Doctor Gordon. How are you feeling?” He shone light in her eyes—it felt like knives. “You have a moderate concussion. X-rays show your ribs are bruised, but not broken. Can you sit up for me?”

  She pushed onto her elbows. The room swam. “I have to throw up.”

  He handed her a plastic container.

  She vomited what felt like everything she’d eaten for the past week. When she finished, the doctor handed her a warm towel to wipe her face.

  “Thank you.”

  He raised her headrest with the bed controls. “I need you sitting in an upright position.”

  “I have to go home.”

  “Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see how you’re doing.” He patted her arm. “The police would like to speak with you.”

  “Fine,” she said, panting. Even the act of sitting was strenuous. She noticed she had gotten sick all over the front of her, and wiped the mess weakly with the towel.

  Emily wore a hospital nightgown. She didn’t have clothes, or shoes, or credit cards. How was she going to get out of here?