Talk to Icy Sedgwick on the Fictionville blog
The mirror arrived when Sara was ten years old. Six feet tall and two feet wide, it stood in the corner like a disapproving matriarch. Fat feet carved to look like lion's paws sank into the rich carpet under the weight of the heavy frame. Sara's mother said it improved the energy flow around the room, particularly on those days when it reflected the glittering sunlight that sprayed through the crystals hung at the window. Sara spent hours sat before the impassive glass, staring at something that only she could see.
"Mummy, there are people in the mirror," she would tell her mother.
"No darling, that's your reflection."
"No, mummy. There are other people. They're not me."
"Don't be silly. There's no one else in the mirror."
"There is!"
"People can't live in mirrors."
Sara sulked for hours after these exchanges, sitting with her back to the mirror. On one occasion, Wendy decided to forego a good energy flow in the room and draped a black cloth over the frame. Sara threw a tantrum, tearing the cloth from the glass. She screamed at her mother never to cover the mirror again.
"They don't like it when you do that!"
Wendy visited her brother. He dealt in antiques, and she considered him to be a wise advisor. She also felt he should know the trouble the mirror caused since it was he who sold it to her in the first place.
"Where did you get that mirror?"
"A young man sold it to me. His aunt died and they were clearing the house. They found the mirror in the loft and thought it looked valuable. It's a nice piece, genuine Victorian. It's worth a lot more than you paid for it."
"Why did she keep it in the loft?"
"I don't know. The fellow didn't even know it existed until they emptied the loft. He guessed she must have put it away as she started to get older, didn't want to be reminded and so on. Why do you ask?"
Wendy told him about her daughter's strange behaviour around the mirror. She explained how Sara wasted hours watching some unseen drama unfold behind the glass. Tom raised his eyebrows when he heard how Sara would fly into a rage if her mother covered the mirror.
“That’s not at all normal. Children often have a fascination with mirrors when they’re very young and they first discover their reflection, but I would have thought Sara to be too old for that,” he said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “But saying there are people in it? That’s very peculiar. Is she getting on alright at school?”
“As far as I can tell. None of her teachers have said anything different,” she replied.
“Does she do it with any other mirrors in the house?”
“No, that’s the funny thing. She treats all the other mirrors as mirrors. You know, for when she’s brushing her teeth or playing dress up. But this mirror...she treats it more like a window.”
“I see. Well, leave it with me, I’ll find out what I can. If you can try and find any sort of markings on the mirror that might help identify where it was made, and when, that would be a great help.”
Sara’s mother thanked her brother, and left.
Wendy waited until Sara was at school before examining the mirror. She ran her hands over the bulky frame, dusting the crevices and polishing the glass. She stared into the depth of the reflection, straining to see what exactly it was that so held her daughter’s attention. All she saw was a middle-aged woman with short black hair staring back at her, surrounded by a room decorated in a vaguely Victorian fashion.
Finding nothing even remotely helpful on the front, Sara’s mother turned her attention to the back. Nothing seemed overly out of the ordinary, until she spotted a small wooden panel that had been screwed to the back near the base of the mirror. A simple piece of plywood, it caught her eye for the remarkably modern looking screws that held it in place. Fetching a screwdriver from the kitchen, she carefully undid the screws and lifted off the panel.
A piece of yellowed paper was glued to the wood, its edges starting to lift away as they curled with age. Faded handwriting looped and curled across the antique label. Wendy squinted to read it.
‘Stage property of Emascula the Great. 1905’
She copied down the inscription before replacing the panel. The last thing she needed was Sara seeing it; it would only further fan the flames of her imagination.
She found herself wondering who this ‘Emascula’ character could be as she dialled her brother’s number. If the mirror was ‘stage property’, it implied some kind of previous theatrical use. Emascula the Great sounded like a magician of some kind. Maybe Tom was right – maybe the mirror was worth some money after all. She decided that she would sell it. She could buy something more modern. She could overhaul the entire room and go for a more minimalist look.
Tom answered the phone, disrupting her interior design daydreams.
“I found something on the mirror,” she said.
“You did?”
She told him about the panel, and the label underneath.
“Hm. The name rings a very dim bell. I’ll do some digging and let you know what I find out.”
“Thanks. I’d better go now, I have to go and collect Sara from school.”
They said their goodbyes, and Sara’s mother hung up. She felt better having spoken to her brother. They were closer to finding out the mirror’s origins, and hopefully they could soon work out exactly why it fascinated Sara so much. She also recognised that she enjoyed this minor detective work. Vague excitement pulsed at the back of her mind as she picked up her car keys and left the house.
Sara continued to stare into the mirror. Wendy grew impatient at the lack of contact from Tom. The impatience turned to alarm when she walked into the living room one sunny Saturday afternoon to find Sara whispering to an unseen presence in the mirror. She broke off suddenly, her expression a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance at being disturbed.
“Who are you talking to, sweetie?”
“No one.”
“Were you talking to the people in the mirror?”
“There aren’t any people in the mirror. You said so.” A touch of smugness hovered around the corners of Sara’s mouth. Her mother frowned.
“Why don’t you go and play outside?”
To her complete astonishment, Sara nodded meekly. She left the living room, skipping down the corridor to the kitchen. Her mother could hear her clattering about before she saw her appear in the back garden.
“What ARE you?” hissed Sara’s mother, glaring at the mirror. Her heart leapt into her mouth as a shadow briefly passed before the glass, seemingly on the inside.
She jumped when the phone rang in the hall, its shrill announcement jangling her frayed nerves. She snatched the received from its cradle, barking a greeting into the mouthpiece.
“Wendy? It’s me, Tom.” Sara’s mother breathed a sigh of relief to hear the familiar voice of her brother. “Are you okay?”
“Not really. I caught her talking to someone in the mirror a few minutes ago. I asked her who it was and she wouldn’t tell me. She’s gone outside to play...but I feel like she’s up to something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, and that’s what worries me.”
“Well at least I managed to find something out about that mirror.”
“What?”
“Well I checked my records and I bought it from a Simon Matheson, nephew of Tilly Jacobs. That didn’t really tell me much, so I checked the archives at the local church. It turns out that her mother was Effie Jacobs, favourite and final assistant of Robert Wyatt, a stage magician otherwise known as Emascula the Great.”
“So it was his mirror?”
“It seems he used the mirror during one of his vanishing acts. Rumour was rife at the time that he dabbled in the occult, and sometime in 1906, he himself disappeared during his show. No one knows what happened to him but his equipment was sold off to other magicians who then incorporated aspects of his act into their own performances. The whole affair was hushed up by his family and he faded into obscurity.”
“What happened to the mirror?”
“Effie kept it. She refused to let anyone else have it. I have no idea what happened to it after that, but it somehow ended up in Tilly’s attic, which is where Simon found it. Then you bought it and now we know where it is.”
“I see. Do you think it would be worth me selling it?”
“I wouldn’t say that’s a bad idea. After what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine Sara will be too pleased, but it sounds like she really needs to be separated from it. I don’t think the mirror is inherently bad, but she’s far too attached to it.”
“Will you sell it for me?”
“Of course I will. I’m come and collect it in the morning.”
Wendy hung up. She walked down the hall to the kitchen. She stuck her head out into the back garden. A ribbon of panic fluttered across her mind when she realised it was empty. She stepped out onto the patio, calling Sara’s name. She tried shaking the back gate but the bolt was still drawn. She swept her gaze across the garden in case Sara was hiding, but the bushes stood empty and silent.
A flicker of movement in the kitchen caught her attention. Further inspection revealed an empty room with no trace of her daughter.
“Sara? Where are you?”
She stood stock still in the hallway, listening intently for any kind of sound that may reveal Sara’s whereabouts. Sara’s interest in hide-and-seek waned years ago, and her mother kept seeing that smug expression float before her eyes.
She padded to the living room as quietly as possible. The room appeared empty, yet one of Sara’s shoes lay in front of the mirror. She gasped when she realised that the mirror reflected the room – yet it reflected an empty room. She was missing from the reflection. The realisation twinned with the sight of the discarded sandal drew a sudden cry of despair from Wendy. She snatched it up, and threw it at the mirror with every ounce of annoyance that she could muster.
Her jaw dropped open as the sandal failed to make contact. Instead, it shimmered as it passed through the glass, sailing into the depths of the room reflected in the mirror. It bounced across the floor, stopping when it struck the wall opposite. Wendy gasped, feeling somehow divorced from the room around her. A shadow passed across the mirror again, as if lurking on the far side of the glass.
Without thinking, Wendy launched herself at the mirror. She fell heavily against the glass, hitting her forehead on its cold, impassive surface. Her reflection reappeared, and to an observer, it looked like she had head butted herself.
“You bastard! Give me back my daughter!” She hammered on the mirror with her fists, screaming at her reflection.
The surface of the glass shimmered, and her reflection disappeared once more. Two skeletal arms shot out of the mirror. They caught hold of her wrists, pulling her toward the glass. She gave a cry as she disappeared through the molten surface of the mirror.
A cracking sound filled the room as the glass hardened. Two shadows passed beneath the surface before the reflection of the living room settled.
Tom stood at the front door, attempting to ward off the rain with a damp newspaper. His two loyal removal men stood at the front gate, ready to be sent forth to collect the mirror. They stood like burly statues, completely unmoved by the drizzle that slowly soaked them through.
The front door swung open, and Tom found himself looking at an empty hallway. A small cough directed his gaze downwards, and he realised Sara had opened the door.
“Good morning, young Sara. Where’s your mum?”
“I don’t know, Uncle Tom. She told me to go out and play yesterday afternoon, and when I came back in she was gone.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I looked all over for her but I can’t find her.” On cue, Sara started to cry. Tom knelt down to hug her, wondering what on earth had happened to his sister after they agreed to sell the mirror.
“Well I’m here to collect that ugly old mirror of yours. Your mum wants a new one,” said Tom.
He looked down at Sara, expecting some kind of reaction. When she gave none, he waved to his removal men. Suddenly animated, they strode up the path and into the house, pausing to wipe their feet.
Tom followed them into the living room. The mirror stood in the corner, right where it always stood. He couldn’t understand Wendy’s sudden disappearance, but he figured that the sooner the mirror was out of the house, the better. At his signal, Danny and Will lifted the mirror, leaving behind nothing but deep dents in the carpet.
“I can’t leave you here by yourself...you can come to work with me. I’ll leave a note for your mum in case she comes back. Would you like that?” asked Tom.
“Yes, Uncle Tom,” replied Sara.
Tom never even noticed that Sara wore only one sandal.