The Great Mall Mirage

Glittering Night

You can't help but rush towards his silhouette, relieved to finally see a familiar figure. His back is to the lamp post, so you can't see his face, but you imagine his cocky grin and the flash in his brown eyes. But though you thought he was only a few steps away, you count dozens of paces before you're even halfway to him. He's taller than you thought -- and farther — and as you approach him, his form shimmers and shifts. The bomber jacket becomes a bat-like cape, his hair falls down his shoulders in limp strands.

You try to stop yourself, but something draws you forward like a rope around your waist, until you're face to face with whoever called your name. They're two feet taller than you, and this close, you understand why you couldn't make out the face — what semblance of humanity there might be is hidden behind two silver-ringed goggles and a long, hooked beak. With one hand, it swings a silver-topped staff into the small of your back, knocking the air out of you and forcing you closer. With the other, it slams a beaked mask into your face.

All you see is blue. A violent, electric blue that tints the world, before it engulfs it in its vibrance. You feel your consciousness slipping away, and with each breath you tell yourself to stay awake, but your hands are pinned to your side and the staff is pressing your chin upwards so that just before you feel yourself slip into eternity, you look behind the scratched glass lenses and see two copper eyes.

The thing whispers, "Find me," and then it lowers you to the ground as your eyes flicker shut.

The world's still tinted blue, and the light seems like silver paint when you open your eyes. You see neon lights and flashing displays and the glint of crystal chandeliers that makes you think for a second that you've stepped into New York's Jazz Age. The blare of the saxophone does nothing to help your pounding headache, and the velvet couch arm's jaunty angle has left a crick in your neck. You roll to your feet and try to stretch, before being knocked backward by a woman in a sequined silver evening gown and feathers in her hair.

Someone on the other side of the couch calls your name, and you see none other than your biology teacher, Ms. Warner. Maybe it's the light, or maybe it's the lingering effect of the tranquilizer, but her eyes seem to be an especially electric blue today, peering at you from behind a curtain of dyed blonde hair.

"Don't bother talking to them," she says. "They can't seem to see us."

You nod and rub your eyes, taking her in. Her normally neat clothes are unkempt, and the hair that is usually straightened into a perfectly symmetrical bomb has gone haywire. Her face is smudged by the same ashes that you guess adorn yours.

"Did you see the..." your voice trails off. "Plague doctor?"

"Yes. I had almost found the way out."

You give a quick glance at your surroundings. The place is built like a Las Vegas casino: a loop designed to disorient, with no windows to tell the time of day. Everywhere is the chatter of people, the slender bodies of women clad in slinky gowns and men in tuxedos carrying champagnes set against an electric blue backdrop. Cards are played, bets are made, drinks are ordered, and no one seems to care about any of it.

You check your phone. No texts, no calls, but the leaderboard has been updated, and you're there, on Level 20: The Jazz Age, New York.

That explains.

"Have you seen Jack?" you ask.

Ms. Warner wordlessly gestures around the corner. There he is, behind the glittering shelves of drinks in neon blues and lily pinks. You rush towards him, ignoring the women in shimmering, tassely gas blue and moss green that you push past, ignoring the delicate chalices of champagne and soda that are spilled with your passing.

He's there. Jack's there.

You grin, reach out to grab his shoulder.

And all you feel is the cold slickness of a mirror. His reflection vanishes.

You curse, clench your hand into a fist, and turn around, determined to find Jack, wherever he may have gone. Then you scream.

Your reflection, cast in a ghastly blood-red light, screams back at you, the piercing yelp echoing through unseen bends and dead-ends until you're not sure if the scream's from you, or from some other nameless thing hidden deep inside the labyrinth.

You're trapped in a maze of mirrors.

You close your eyes, stretch out a hand, and feel the firmness of glass beneath your fingertips. One step forward. Another. You feel the edge of a turn, spin on your heel, and keep going. Never letting your fingers escape the cool of the mirror. You feel yourself wind through dead ends, twisting and turning until you've lost all sense of direction. You don't know why, but you don't dare to open your eyes. Maybe reality is harder to face than not knowing.

It might've been minutes later, maybe hours, when you hear the voices. Your mother, calling your name, her voice like a flute. You almost, almost want to turn, want to run to her like a child. You hear Mr. Aspen, telling you to come, that the exit was just to the left, but you know it can't be him. You know he's gone. He wouldn't lead you astray.

You hear Jack. First the footsteps. Then his soft breath. Then him whispering your name, over and over. You peel your eyes open, glancing around — but all you see is your reflection, horribly distorted so that you're all bleeding eyes and a ghastly gaping shark-toothed scream that brings out a scream in you that goes reverberating into the glassy emptiness.

You shut your eyes again. Better to not know. Better to not see.

You must've counted a hundred steps somewhere in the back of your mind when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You turn, inhaling, heart racing, holding back another scream. Peel open one eye. Then the other.

Jack whispers your name. You whisper his. But it can't be him, can it? It must be another trap.

"When we were in kindergarten," you say, "what did we pretend we were the rulers of?"

"A castle in the sky," Jack whispers. "We were kings."

You press your lips together, trying not to cry. You wrap your arms around him, fiercely, feeling every bone and sinew, marveling at the miracle that is life.

He's here. He's alive. It's him. Really him.