Chained

Six

The candle almost slips from my hand at the cracking sound. A black line appears in the reflective surface, further distorting the distorted image.

Light flickers erratically as my hand shakes the candle. The skull man stays still for a minute and then strikes the surface again.

Another crack appears. The sound is like a knife into my sanity.

It hits the mirror again and again. I stay spellbound as more cracks appear. A worm wiggles out between the gaps, falling upon the vanity. My daze break as a shard flies off.

The shard lands by my feet. I look down and, in the broken mirror piece, the skull stares back at me.

I react before properly thinking it over. The fear is too much and I stomp my heavy shoe down on the shard, again and again. Crushing the image of hell beneath my feet.

Soon it is only bits beneath my feet and I let out a sigh of relief. I raise my head.

Only to see the skull man staring back at me in the remnants of the mirror. The face of bone gives no proper expression except deathly serenity. But the sensation of acute displeasure radiates from the rotten reflection. It starts striking wildly at the mirror and more pieces fly off. Between the missing pieces, something starts to slip through.

Bony fingers grasp at the gaps.

My bravery breaks faster than the mirror. I fly outside of the bedroom and slam the door shut.

I set the candle down and lean my head against the door. That couldn't have just happened. There's no way that it could happen. My sleep deprived mind is just summoning strange shit.

Nothing more.

But cracks and shatters continue to echo from my room. Each sharp sound stings me. I grip the doorknob, determined to prove to myself that nothing is happening.

A dull thud echoes on the floor. The noise sounds very much like a body falling from the vanity.

I scoop up the candle and run downstairs. Losing my footing on the last three steps, it's all I can do not to fall. I want to run outside—Michael is nothing compared to the nightmare upstairs.

But Freddie is still in the bathroom.

Indecision is smothering me. And I can hear the steady plod of footsteps and the house creaking. A rattling echoes, as if someone is walking over broken glass.

"Fuck," I hiss.

BANG.

Anger temporarily overrides fear—overrides everything. I fling the door open and my candlelight illuminates the face of Michael.

He doesn't look too old. Late thirties, dark hair and a bit of scruff, indicating he hasn't shaved in a bit. He is dressed all in black, but nothing about him is too unusual.

"You!" I spit.

My hand moves of its own accord, the instinct to punch this son of bitch stronger than common sense.

He doesn't move. But even though my hand is coming right for him, I miss. My hand just curves away, as if some force propels it. Pain erupts through my hand as my fist makes contact with the side of the door.

"You are a violent man, Jason Hill."

His calmness infuriates me. But before I can say anything else, little thuds echo from the second floor.

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Do you have company, Jason Hill?"

"No...I..."

I couldn't put it into words and I wasn't sure that I wanted to tell him about the ghastly impossibility upstairs.