From the Typewriter: Evil Reflections

Okay, so the typeface is unreadable like this. Fine! I’ll type it out like a modern man living in 2019. the-mirror.jpg


(With a few odd corrections here and there, the story above is presented legibly below.)

I sat dreamily before the ancient mirror, sat in my chair overtaken by a restive muse. Understand that in deep and forgotten memory the mirror had become to me a symbol of—it was irrevocably connected to the death of my beloved daughter. How be this fancy of mine? A wonderful and twisted mind, when no real—no substantial—connection can be made, threads impossible needles. I madly understood, though I could not explain, that had I not bought this foul mirror my only child should still within the halls of this house play her games. The mirror had enchanted, no, it had bedeviled me into buying it. I should have never gone to that dreaded fair.

There was only one true connection to be made, only one thing no sane man could deny: she expired the day it was delivered, breathed finally and completely as the doorbell rang. They rang and rang the bell, those deliverymen, as I wept.

Such was my madness, if it was no more than shear madness. I hated the thing. So I sat before the mirror considering my revenge. I sat dreaming when I saw, saw behind, saw through, saw in that hateful thing the reflection of the glass. There I saw again the fair. It was peopled by despondent crowds. At first I did not see, gazing deeply into the mirror, what now haunts me. Those people wandering from tent to tent, none of them were whole.  All were maimed in some hideous manner. The entire festival was a freakshow. I was myself reflected there within the crowds of abhorrent flesh. Soon I began to hear and not just see; the nightmare had me.

I wandered among the throng of dismembered and contorted bodies. I walked in more than spirit through that reflection of the fair. Something real, something material of me was there. I touched and smelled in that place. Were it a dream, as I am time and time again assured, this was a dream as real a world as the waking.

There was one tent the denizens of my nightmare avoided, perhaps from fear, but it seems to me that they would be beyond its power—I must explain. This was the tent, the tent that had housed the antique show, had hawked old bobbles and chairs, had sold me the mirror. So it had been. Now I saw it for what I knew it to be: A tent of horrors.

The freaks of the place were not interested in seeing their own, I assume, but I, as in life, was drawn to this damnable tent.

Inside was nothing, nothing but the mirror, and in the mirror the reflection of myself. I saw my drowsing form slouching in my chair. I shouted to the man behind the mirror: “Wake up.” He did not stir. I began pounding and pounding against the mirror, pleading with my reflection to rise from slumber. I pounded until the tingling sound of breaking glass woke me, and with a start I bounded from my chair.

I thought it was just a dream, but soon my eyes fell upon the shattered remains of the mirror, and I saw my evil reflection, broken and misshapen like the denizens of the fair. I had not touched it except from that other side, and now it showed me the shattered reality of myself.

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