Whispers In The Dark

The Reflecting Glass (by Lady Eckland)

"Mirrors show us only the surface. It's in the unseen spaces behind the reflection that our monsters, and perhaps our salvation, lie."

Based on a idea by Horror73

Marcel Dubois never liked returning to New Orleans, least of all under these circumstances. An oppressive haze of heat and humidity cloaked the city, pressing down as heavy as the grief and guilt simmering inside him. Beside him, his sister, Vivienne, dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. Though it wasn't unusual for New Orleans to lose a soul, this one hit differently.

"She only meant well," Vivienne said, breaking the thick silence that had shrouded them since they left the airport.

Marcel clenched his jaw, glancing away from his sister's crocodile tears. "Don't try that, Vivienne. We both know that mirror in your apartment cost more than Grandmére spent on my entire education."

Growing up, they'd always been opposites. While he was buried in books, Vivienne perfected the art of manipulation, coaxing expensive baubles and lavish trips from their doting grandmother. He was grateful for his grandmother's sacrifices, even though it came at Vivienne’s expense. Or so he'd thought.

The reading of the will proved him wrong. Grandmére had seen Vivienne for who she truly was. Marcel inherited the grand Victorian house on Esplanade Avenue, its balconies wreathed in iron lace. While Vivienne received… a mirror. Not even a particularly pretty one. It was a towering thing, dark wood gleaming dully, the reflective surface mottled with age. Her outrage when the lawyer read the directive had been the most genuine emotion he'd seen from her in years.

He found the house just as Grandmére had left it – heavy velvet drapes swathed in protective coverings, antique clocks ticked away under shrouded figures, and every mirror concealed beneath linen cloths. Even in her passing, Grandmére clung to the superstitions whispered down through generations – that when a spirit departs this world, a carelessly uncovered mirror might become a trap, a prison.

Every mirror but one.

An errant breeze lifted the edge of the cloth obscuring the ornate mirror above the living room fireplace. In its surface, dust motes caught the afternoon sunlight and danced like fireflies. He pulled the cloth away fully, the old tales rising within him like swamp mist. In its reflection, the room's dim decay felt a shade more oppressive. Something within that mirrored space shivered – a trick of the light or an unease within himself?

The funeral itself was a blur of mourners. Their Dubois name carried old weight; faces filled the somber house in sympathy, some genuine, many merely curious. When it finally ended, and the last well-wishing aunt sailed out the door, exhaustion wrapped around Marcel like a lead cloak.

"Do you really think we need to deliver that ghastly thing tonight?" Vivienne asked, eyeing the hulking mirror wrapped in moving blankets. It leaned against the back of the moving truck a hired driver stood beside.