“She is close, Josh … and angry, I can taste it,” a voice
whispers to an empty room, rolling its tongue over its lips, “how very
d.e.l.i.c.i.o.u.s.”
…
Libby grasped the handle on her front door as the wind tried
ripping it from her icy fingers. The two bags slung over her shoulder decide
that now was the perfect time to wrap themselves around her arm. Surely getting
in your own front door shouldn’t be this much effort, she ruminates. Grabbing
both bags, she flings them back over her shoulder and yanks the door open; home
at last.
Dropping everything on the floor, she eyes the hall rug. I see
you are still here.
The Transylvanian prayer rug had found its way
into their home courtesy of her boyfriend Josh. He had come home with it
wrapped in brown paper and string several months back. Packages like this were
a common occurrence where Josh was concerned, as was the phrase, "wait
until you see it, I got it for a real bargain." The thing was, every time
Libby saw it, the word ‘creepy’ popped into her head. It wasn’t like one of
those paintings where the eyes follow you around the room. She hadn’t been able to put her finger on why it was creepy... it.
just. was.
Furthermore it covered the complete width of the hall. With no way around, she sucked in her breath and sprinted
across it. If she calculated correctly, she only had to step on it three times, four
if she’d had a glass of wine or two.
Heading towards the kitchen, a wave of delicious smells floated
through the air.
"Something smells good, did you order takeout?" she
jested, leaning against the door frame to watch Josh cook.
He was stirring a pot on the stove, the worktops either side
resembled a culinary explosion.
“Hi, Sweetheart. Aren’t you the comedian?”
Grabbing a large wine glass already half-filled, he handed it to Libby. “A
little something to warm you before dinner. Although I must
say, your
cheeks already have a rosy glow to them."
“Hardly surprising; the damn taxi driver refused to bring me to the door. He said
it was impossible to turn around at the end of the track, so I walked. Great
start to my weekend," she grumbled. “Remind me again why we decided to live in the
middle of nowhere?”
“Breath-taking views, a bigger house, and no more noisy
neighbours, do you want me to go on” Josh smiled “more wine?” Her glass was already
two sips from empty.
“Why not, do I have time for a bath before dinner?”
“Not really, ten minutes or so. The fire’s lit in the dining room. That should help defrost you
a little.”
“Great, I’m going to warm my feet for a few minutes then.”
“No, don’t!” Josh blurted out, “I have a surprise for you first.”
…
Josh stood behind Libby at the entrance to the dining room, placing
his hands over her eyes. “No peeking,” he instructed as they shuffled
caterpillar-like into the room.
To the left, French doors lead directly onto a small patio, the
only defined area in the cottage garden. As they turn to the right, they
face a large
oval table surrounded by six soft green chairs. Cream walls were adorned with countless
paintings and photographs. Coming to a halt in front of the table, Libby shudders, a cold
shiver crawling down her back, “I thought you said you had lit the fire?”
“I did, it’s roaring away nicely, don’t worry you can toast
yourself in a moment. Are you ready?” Josh checks, taking his hands from her eyes. A
flat rectangular parcel about four feet high by three feet wide rests against one of the chairs.
Wrapped in glossy paper, a gift
tag peeks from the top left hand corner.
Libby slides Josh a sideways glance, trying to gauge his level of
enthusiasm. Some of the gifts he bought were stunning. The less desirable pieces
were stashed away in a spare bedroom. He was grinning, a big
all teeth-showing grin whilst bobbing up and down, barely able to contain his
excitement. “I saw this and thought of you.”
Oh my…
“I’m sure I will love it,” she says, ignoring her mental
objection. Reaching for the tag all the hairs on her forearm stand up.
Josh’s brow furrows, “Are you alright?”
“Yes … yes I’m fine.” Why is my stomach twisting? Whipping the label off
the parcel, she studies the inscription:
‘A simple reflection of your outer beauty. Your true beauty is
reflected in your eyes and felt in my heart.’
Josh.
Libby stands stiffly and gazes at the mirror. The intricate engraving on
the silver frame invites you to caress it, she however resists the urge. A line
of raised ridges in the bottom corner of the glass and slight deterioration to
the edges made for an interesting reflection.
“I have the perfect spot for it, Josh.” Libby takes a single step
back. Ahh that’s better.
Josh proceeds to ramble on. “I was going to hang it in the hall. It will
complement the rug and I realized it’s the only room we don’t have anything up on the walls. I think
they look kind of plain otherwise.”
And there’s me thinking is was my gift. “Do I get a say in it? Or
it is like the whole rug scenario. By the way, you know I like the
uncluttered walls in the hall.” Her gaze swept over the dining room walls before
settling back on Josh.
“Yes of course you do,” he hesitated. “I'm going to serve dinner.
There is more wine in the kitchen if you need it.”
Wandering over to the French doors, Libby rubs her index fingers
on her temple. This evening is just getting better and better. Wild flowers were running amok in the garden, buds of
pink, purple and yellow were sprinkled all over. It was as if someone had
crossed Monet’s Irises with Kandinsky’s Sky Blue, and she loved it.
“So selfish.”
“Me, selfish. You have to be kidding?” Libby snaps, swinging
around to where Josh is standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open.
“Selfish, what? Where did that come from?”
“Well, if you’re going to moan about me, you can at least be
honest about it.”
“I … ahh. Libby you’ve obviously had a hard day, can we just sit down and
at least try to enjoy dinner. I made pudding too.” Josh smiled tentatively.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. A nice dinner and a glass of wine, and
I’m sure I’ll be back to my jolly old self.” Libby laughs, it sounded fake even to her.
Twenty minutes later, Libby gave up pushing the food around on her
plate and set it aside. “I’m going to grab a bath,” she said, and headed upstairs.
As the soothing essence of Bergamot and Vetiver wash over her
aching limbs, she closes her eyes letting out a long sigh. What an evening.
…
Libby’s eyes flickered open to the sound of smashing glass.
Sitting bolt upright in the bath, water slopping over the side, she leans her
head over straining to catch any further sounds. A faint scrapping noise
is coming from downstairs. Jumping out of the bath, she grabs a towel, wraps it
around her and charges out of the bathroom and down the stairs.
“Josh … Josh are you alright?” she shouts out. Her heart is racing as she
swings around the end of the bannister.
“Josh…” A single breath escapes as a face, barely visible stares
back at her. Her trembling fingers rest on her heart as it pounds frantically
in her chest.
It’s that goddamn mirror she realizes looking at her own
reflection.
What the hell are you doing here, other than scaring the bejesus
out of me?
Scowling at the mirror, anger replaces fear and she marches to
the kitchen door, twisting the handle as Josh calls out “I’m ok, don’t come in. I’ve broken a vase and
there’s glass all over the floor.”
Eyeing the mirror to her left, Libby edges away. “OK, I’m going to get
dressed then. When you’re done can you p.l.e.a.s.e. bring me a glass of wine.” God knows I need it.
Heading back down the hall, she can feel her skin crawl under the gaze of the
mirror.
No, I’m not looking at you.
…
Whoa, my head hurts. Libby rubs her temples, opening her eyes
she squints in the darkness. Two empty bottles of wine taunt her from the coffee
table and the clock chimes twelve times from the mantelpiece.
“So he just left you down here," a gravelly voice murmurs by her ear. "That
was thoughtful of him.”
Libby’s whole body tenses as she glances sideways, but no one is
there. Sucking in a breath, she whispers. “What?”
She waits, crouching forward, listening. Seconds pass, then minute.
Apart from
the gentle crackling of the dying fire, the only sound in the room comes from
the blood pounding in her ears."
Fine, I’m going to bed.
Stumbling up from the sofa, Libby half dashes, half saunters out
of the room. Faking bravado whilst inside her nerves are a wreck. Focusing on the stairs, she sprints
across the rug, completely ignoring the mirror.
This is flaming ridiculous.
Reaching the stairs, her hands tremble. She cannot bring herself to
put them anywhere near the bannister by the mirror. Taking a deep breath, she bounds
up the stairs and onto the landing.
Almost there, nearly in my bed and the duvet’s going right over
my head.
A sigh of relief escapes her lips as she reaches the bedroom
door. Then she catches a sound. A low menacing laugh floats up the stairs and
along the landing.
Charging into the bedroom, Libby dives fully clothed under
the duvet. Pushing herself against Josh, her breathing rages as she strains to hear a
sound, a whisper and creek of the door.
Laying sweltering under the covers, her heart finally stops racing.
Drenched in sweat Libby craves for a cool breeze to wash over her, but there
was no way in hell she was coming out from under the duvet. Turning her head up, she
pushes her mouth to the edge of the cover and breathes deeply, her ears still
straining to catch any sound.
Exhausted, she finally drifts into a fitful sleep. She finds her sleeping self
standing in the hall. The air wraps itself around her, its icy fingers send
chills rippling down her spine. Her breath hangs in the air for a moment,
when it clears she finds herself facing the mirror. A mirror, which held no
reflection.
"A freak electrical storm last night…" the dull tones
of the weatherman from the local radio station wake Libby. Stretching her weary
body, memories of her nightmares wash over her. Reaching out a hand, she finds the
bed next to her empty. Josh must have left for yet another antique fair. To be honest, she was relieved.
Libby knows her dreams were just that, but she
cannot help feeling agitated. Visions of their house, stale rooms overloaded
with heavy, dark furniture weighing down on her, pushing every last drop of air
out of the room. Taking a long deep breath does nothing to ease the feeling of
oppression so throwing on an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt, Libby ventures
downstairs and out into the garden.
Grabbing a throw from the hall cupboard on her way past she
drapes it over the mirror.
You might be in my house but that doesn’t mean I have
to look at you.
…
A couple of hours in the garden and Libby was feeling a damn
sight better. Time for a bite to eat and maybe some chilling out time with a
book.
The sun had warmed the dining room from chilly to stuffy. Leaving the French doors ajar
Libby heads to the kitchen. Stepping in the hall, freezing air hits her face
and sends shivers run up her arms. Rubbing them away, a slither of light
glistens across the floor, reflected from the mirror. Neatly placed on the
floor at its base is the throw.
Standing rooted to the spot she stares at the throw and then the
mirror.
How the hell did you get there? Like that?
Minutes pass and Libby remains statue like, other than her breath,
which raggedly escapes her open mouth. No rational thought in her mind, just
jumbled images and fear.
“Oh for goodness sake woman pull yourself together,” she shakes her head.
“Right, I’ve had enough of your funny business,” Libby grumbles at the mirror
as she flips it over to face the wall. Wedging it firmly between the wall and
the floor, she steps back to view her handiwork. You’re not going anywhere this
time.
That’s odd.
Four lines indented in the bottom corner catch her eye. Each one is make up of
small ridges and differ slightly in length.
“What the…?” crouching down, Libby leans in, reaching to touch
each indent. Her fingers trace each mark. Slowly she places one finger after
another into each proceeding line it rather looks like… a hand print.
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