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Authors: Graham Masterton
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bedroom, but the bedroom in the mirror
.
He shivered. The sitting room felt unnaturally cold. And the strained, high pitiable voice of that crying child was enough to make anyone shiver. He thought,
What the hell am I going to do? How the hell can I stop this sobbing?
He remembered what Mr Capelli had told him about his grandmother, how she smashed every mirror in the house when somebody died, because mirrors took a little piece of your soul every time you looked into them. Maybe if he broke this mirror, the real boy’s soul would be released, and he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. On the other hand, supposing this mirror was his only contact with the real world, and with anybody who could help him? Supposing he was crying out to be saved? Yet from what, or from whom? And if life in the mirror was that desperate, why hadn’t he cried out before, during all those years when the mirror had been hanging up in Mrs Harper’s cellar?
Or maybe he had, and Mrs Harper had chosen to ignore him.
The weeping went on,
oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Martin slapped the flat of his hand against the mirror. ‘Listen!’ he shouted. ‘Can you hear me? Whoever’s in there – can you hear me?’
He waited, but there was no reply. He felt an extraordinary mixture of rage and helplessness, pinned against this mirror, and because he was hyperventilating, he felt that he was floating, too, like a fly pressed against a window, and for one moment he didn’t know whether he was up or down. It was a split-second insight into life without gravity, life without an understanding of glass. A fly can beat against a window until it dies, and never realize that the world outside can easily be reached by flying round a different way.
‘Can you hear me?’ Martin shouted. ‘I’m here! I’m right here! I can help you!’
Then suddenly he thought:
What the hell am I doing? If the boy’s in my bedroom, I can take the mirror down from the wall and drag it into the bedroom and then I can see for myself
.
He went to his desk, opened up two or three drawers, and at last found his ratchet screwdriver. Fumbling, overexcited, he took out the screws that held the mirror to the wall, one by one; and then hefted the mirror as gently as he could manage onto the floor. When he had done so, the mocking carving of Pan or Bacchus was grinning directly into his face: ancient carnality staring with gilded eyeballs at modern fright.
Martin lifted his jacket off the back of his chair, folded it up, and wedged it under the bottom of the frame so that it wouldn’t be damaged when he dragged it across the floor. Then, a little at a time, he pulled it toward the open door, pausing every now and then to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm and to catch his breath.
‘Jesus, why am I doing this?’ he asked himself. But the child’s weeping went on; and that was why.
He dragged the mirror across the room until it faced the open door which led to the hallway. Then he leaned over the glass and peered inside. The real hallway was empty, and so was the hallway in the mirror. Everything was identical. Identical door, identical carpet, identical wallpaper, brightly illuminated by the light that fell across the corridor from Martin’s bedroom.
But the light appeared only in the mirror
. When Martin glanced back toward the real corridor, his bedroom was in darkness, just the way he had left it. He had gone looking for the real boy without switching on his bedside lamp. Quite apart from which, the light that shone out of his mirror-bedroom was bright and clinical, like the lights in a hospital or an institution, while his real bedside lamp was muted by an orangey shade.
The boy’s whimpering suddenly turned to high-pitched, terrified gasps. Martin rested the huge mirror against the corner of his desk and hurried clumsily toward his bedroom.
He hadn’t yet reached the door, however, when the light in the mirror-bedroom was hurriedly switched off, and the child’s gasps
.
He shivered. The sitting room felt unnaturally cold. And the strained, high pitiable voice of that crying child was enough to make anyone shiver. He thought,
What the hell am I going to do? How the hell can I stop this sobbing?
He remembered what Mr Capelli had told him about his grandmother, how she smashed every mirror in the house when somebody died, because mirrors took a little piece of your soul every time you looked into them. Maybe if he broke this mirror, the real boy’s soul would be released, and he wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. On the other hand, supposing this mirror was his only contact with the real world, and with anybody who could help him? Supposing he was crying out to be saved? Yet from what, or from whom? And if life in the mirror was that desperate, why hadn’t he cried out before, during all those years when the mirror had been hanging up in Mrs Harper’s cellar?
Or maybe he had, and Mrs Harper had chosen to ignore him.
The weeping went on,
oh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Martin slapped the flat of his hand against the mirror. ‘Listen!’ he shouted. ‘Can you hear me? Whoever’s in there – can you hear me?’
He waited, but there was no reply. He felt an extraordinary mixture of rage and helplessness, pinned against this mirror, and because he was hyperventilating, he felt that he was floating, too, like a fly pressed against a window, and for one moment he didn’t know whether he was up or down. It was a split-second insight into life without gravity, life without an understanding of glass. A fly can beat against a window until it dies, and never realize that the world outside can easily be reached by flying round a different way.
‘Can you hear me?’ Martin shouted. ‘I’m here! I’m right here! I can help you!’
Then suddenly he thought:
What the hell am I doing? If the boy’s in my bedroom, I can take the mirror down from the wall and drag it into the bedroom and then I can see for myself
.
He went to his desk, opened up two or three drawers, and at last found his ratchet screwdriver. Fumbling, overexcited, he took out the screws that held the mirror to the wall, one by one; and then hefted the mirror as gently as he could manage onto the floor. When he had done so, the mocking carving of Pan or Bacchus was grinning directly into his face: ancient carnality staring with gilded eyeballs at modern fright.
Martin lifted his jacket off the back of his chair, folded it up, and wedged it under the bottom of the frame so that it wouldn’t be damaged when he dragged it across the floor. Then, a little at a time, he pulled it toward the open door, pausing every now and then to wipe his forehead with the back of his arm and to catch his breath.
‘Jesus, why am I doing this?’ he asked himself. But the child’s weeping went on; and that was why.
He dragged the mirror across the room until it faced the open door which led to the hallway. Then he leaned over the glass and peered inside. The real hallway was empty, and so was the hallway in the mirror. Everything was identical. Identical door, identical carpet, identical wallpaper, brightly illuminated by the light that fell across the corridor from Martin’s bedroom.
But the light appeared only in the mirror
. When Martin glanced back toward the real corridor, his bedroom was in darkness, just the way he had left it. He had gone looking for the real boy without switching on his bedside lamp. Quite apart from which, the light that shone out of his mirror-bedroom was bright and clinical, like the lights in a hospital or an institution, while his real bedside lamp was muted by an orangey shade.
The boy’s whimpering suddenly turned to high-pitched, terrified gasps. Martin rested the huge mirror against the corner of his desk and hurried clumsily toward his bedroom.
He hadn’t yet reached the door, however, when the light in the mirror-bedroom was hurriedly switched off, and the child’s gasps
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