I brush my teeth with my eyes closed, like always. I finish, spitting into the sink, and feel my way out of the bathroom, firmly shutting the door behind me before I open my eyes. The apartment is a rental, so I can’t permanently remove the mirror in the bathroom. It’s one of those old mirrors from the 80’s, glued to the wall, that spans the entire width of the counter. I’m sure I could tape some paper over it, but I’m not sure I could do it blind. Breaking the mirror is the kind of suggestion I would have once thought smart. But what do you get when you break a mirror? A thousand smaller mirrors. A thousand smaller portals into Other Place. It all started when I was drunk one night. Maybe you have to be in an altered state to notice – maybe that’s why no one seems to remember seeing Them. Ever since that night, I can not look into a mirror without seeing her.
There’s not an easy way to describe what happens when I look in a mirror, after that night. It’s a pull, a tug in my chest that wills me to look. It’s a there’s-something-in-the-corner-of-my-eye feeling that gives me goosebumps and a rising feeling of panic. It’s an almost irresistible draw to look, to see beyond the mere reflection, to look deeper, to see through the mirror. It’s a common phenomenon actually – there’s even a fancy word for it – Eisoptrophobia, fear of mirrors. But I don’t fear mirrors, not exactly. I fear what lurks inside them. I have a theory that everyone has experienced this fear at least once in their life. A flicker behind their reflection, is there someone behind them? A creeping sensation you’re not alone, a fleeting feeling of deep dread, that animal instinct that tightens your heart in its grip, that innate knowledge that if you don’t look away, something truly terrible is going to happen to you.
I try to focus on my breakfast, wincing as I take the hot bread from the toaster, flipping the toast onto a paper plate. Not glass. Glass is where the danger lies – well anything reflective, really. Despite the morning, my apartment is dark, black-out curtains block every window. Windows can be mirrors too, you know. When all the world is dark outside, and you have lights inside, that’s when they can get you. I butter my toast with quick deft slices, decidedly ignoring the habitual instinct to take my medication with food. I’m not going to take that stuff. It blinds me to the realities of real life. I don’t have to take it, it’s just an anxiety medicine. I’m not anxious. If there’s a zombie apocalypse, do you think the survivors would take anxiety meds? They probably would qualify based on a medical questionnaire. Do you feel on edge most days? That kind of thing – and as a Zombiepocolypse survivor, I probably would say “Well yes, zombies are trying to eat me so I do feel a little stressed. But I think I’ll pass on the Xanax. Pass the shotgun ammo instead.”
That’s the last of the bread. I’ll need to order more groceries, or more fast food delivery in the meantime. Leaving the apartment is, of course, out of the question. Reflective surfaces abound in the modern world. I’d learned that the first night, coming home drunk. Why does no one else comment or notice? The hard part of Googling “what are the things in the mirror that want to do terrible things to me?” is that in order to Google, you must have a monitor and when monitors are dark, they also tend to reflect things. Glass surfaces and all that. So I’ve mostly contented myself to reading. There’s some folklore on the issue, some lore. But most of modern-day literature available on the subject is a matter of the discussion of the phobia itself, not the phenomenon spawning the fear itself. But the more worrisome question is – what if everyone in the world did encounter the things in the mirror, but they didn’t look away?
Today is a tricky day – today I am finally moving all the reflective surfaces out of my apartment. A wall hanging covered by two dirty kitchen towels, a stand-up full length mirror covered with a dark blanket, the TV screen topped by a throw blanket, and a small mirror I used to see the back of my hair. The last is easiest; I hold it reflective side down, doing my best not to think about the fact that whatever is inside that mirror can see my feet moving its home closer and closer to the trash can. I had thought that eye contact is a necessary element for the intrusion to occur, but what if it only involved them being able to see me? The mirror crashes as I throw it into the trash, but I’m not worried – it’s a lidded trash can and the black garbage bag will keep me from seeing the shards.
I approach the wall hanging next, careful to keep the kitchen towels in place as I remove it from its nail. Shit. My fingers slip, and the mirror crashes to the ground, hundreds of tiny shards splintering everywhere across the room.
And there they are. They’ve been waiting for me, I think. Waiting for me to make a slip like this, or to simply forget. How could I forget this? A particularly big shard stares at me. It’s sticking out of my big toe, and blood is slowly dripping onto its beautiful surface. It is beautiful, isn’t it? There’s something so truly perfect about the reflection in the mirror. It’s me, of course. It’s always me. But something isn’t quite right. Her eyes are wrong, they don’t move differently or glow red or something silly. It’s not as noticeable as that. It’s the way I know that she’s looking at me, not just reflecting me. This is the first time I’ve seen something reflective since that night a few weeks ago, when I’d been drunk and noticed her for the first time. And this time I find myself unable to look away. It draws me in, it wants to take…me? No that’s not quite right. It’s not me it’s interested in, it’s my place. It wants to take my place. It wants to put those eyes looking at me into my eyes. She’s not evil, I observe almost reverently, even as the dread is building, the knowledge that I am in the worst danger I have ever encountered. She just wants. She’s designed to reflect, but her desire has grown deeper, not just to reflect, but to replace. How could I ever forget this? A crescendo fills me, the panic growing more intense. My physical body is having trouble drawing enough breaths to supply my body with oxygen – no that’s not it, it’s drawing too many, hyperventilating. I feel frozen, glued with my eyes to that one shard, knowing even so that a hundred other shards are looking at me, but it’s all her. It’s all the same reflection. She’s here now, she’s reaching for me, she –
Calm. It strikes me suddenly, and I feel dizzy with its arrival. Why had I been so worried? What was going on? Had I dropped a mirror? I reach for the broom, feeling silly. Why, I’d hurt my toe! So clumsy. I carefully sweep the shards into the pan, wouldn’t want to cut myself again. My heart is pounding, what had I gotten so anxious about? The shards look back at me, reflecting my face. The eyes I see don’t look like mine, why did they look so terrified? I dismiss it as frivolousness, dumping the shards into the trash. After that, I shake two Xanax pills onto my hand, and take some water. Whatever had been the matter, it was nothing a little anxiety medicine couldn’t fix. I really should take better care of myself, why you’d think I really wasn’t myself these past few weeks. Something about that seemed off – no that’s not quite right. I review the thought in mind’s eye – not myself. Why did something about that ring true? I swallow the thought with the pills and water. On my way out of the apartment, I trip on a book titled Eisoptrophobia: A Short-Lived Phobia. I remember feeling that way, how silly of me. There’s nothing scary about mirrors.