The Devil in the Mirrors

A brief and unsettling tale

Artwork by Karel Thole

Come on, don’t be scared. Let’s go.

He eventually came to curse those words, and to curse his decision to hop that fence. It was next to the Haunted House of Mirrors. Lame spot during the day, but at night? This should be spooky, they thought. They were right. More than they could imagine. They wandered through the dark labyrinth, laughing and getting lost, when they heard the hissing voice.

WHO’S IN MY HOUSE?

Good gag, they thought. They could barely hide their snickering until their eyes met the Devil. You may object to my using the word, but they certainly wouldn’t. What would you call a red man with yellow eyes, horns, a tail, and a pitchfork? They shrieked but couldn’t tell where he was. He seemed to reflect back to them at every turn. He was salivating and baring his discolored teeth. After a brief panic they found their way out, sprinting and diving under the merry-go-round. What the hell was that? They waited for their heaving lungs to slow. We’re stupid. It’s a Haunted House. That was a part of the gag. Yeah, they agreed, though each of them was secretly terrified. What kind of illusion was that?

They were drinking in the basement, their usual spot, and laughing about it the next day. You should have seen your face! Then one of them saw something that made his cigarette fall out of his mouth. What the hell’s wrong with you, another said, but then they all saw what he was looking at. In the mirror. The red skin. The yellow eyes. The horns. The Quiet One in the group was the fastest to act, unleashing his glass pipe that was conveniently in his hand. The mirror shattered. No one said a word as they worked together to pick up the broken pieces, occasionally catching a glimpse of red skin, or yellow eyes in one of the fragments.

This was not the last time it happened. Anywhere there was a mirror, there was danger. They were taunted by the Devil at every turn. The group was now bonded by this shared menace. Bonded by terror. None of them were unfamiliar with drugs, but they became much more familiar over the next months. It didn’t make the madness go away, but it made the madness feel more at home. The Strong One in the group was the first to break. After a public breakdown that involved his girlfriend and the police, he was institutionalized. His caretakers quickly learned to remove any mirror before he smashed it, with his head if he had to. But they couldn’t hold him for long. The anti-psychotic medication mellowed him out and nine months later he was released. He didn’t return to his old life though, preferring to remain on the move as long as he could stay awake, not going anywhere in particular. If you saw him you would rightly think, there goes another crazy homeless guy. His new favorite pastime was muttering and yelling at strangers. His friends tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t the same. It wasn’t long before he ended up in prison for attempted murder. He stabbed a police officer with a piece of broken glass. A broken mirror, actually.

After that, they all stopped meeting. It was no comfort to be around each other anymore. The Quiet One had taken to long walks in the countryside. The Devil never showed up in the reflections on the water, he noticed. He stole what he had to to survive but eventually found work as a farmhand. A kind old man thought it was his “Christian duty” to help him out. Fool. The man would share his favorite bible verses when he could, but mostly he left him alone. The Quiet One attempted to rob the Old Man the first chance he had, but his wallet was on a table in front of a mirror, and he could see the Devil laughing at him, beckoning him towards it. So he left the wallet and was determined never to steal again. With stealing off of his mind he settled into his work. This was new. He spent less time worrying about the Devil and more time focused on what his hands could control. A broken fence. I can fix that. A hungry horse. I can feed her. He even caught himself smiling again.

He was walking through town one day, careful not to look into any storefronts, when he saw one of those little library boxes. Take a book, leave a book. He pulled out a strange paperback with an ominous but eye catching cover. It was an unusual story about the world decaying, yet no one could see it except for a few. Only water could wash away this rot. The strange tale stirred something in him. The image of being washed clean grabbed a hold of him. It was as if he had suddenly seen rot covering his own flesh and became desperate to get it off. He never believed in any of that Bible stuff before, nor did he believe in it now, but he asked the Old Man to baptize him. The man only raised one grey eyebrow and gave a grim nod.

After a long quiet walk they stood together in the river. The Quiet One began the first prayer of his life. Was it right? Were the words correct? What was he doing? He was about to fall back into the water when he saw… him. Not in a reflection this time, but standing there in the water, right next to him. The Devil plunged his pitchfork into the Quiet One’s chest. The Old Man seemed to find a sudden urgency and slammed him backwards into the water. Submerged and bleeding, the Quiet One continued his prayer. When he was pulled up again, the Devil and pitchfork were gone. The wound, however, remained. The flowing water mixed with his blood and he couldn’t help but smile as he lay weakly in the Old Man’s arms.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you sooner,” the Old Man said.

“You can see him too?” the Quiet One asked.

“Of course,” he smiled. “Do you think I pray because I like the way it sounds?”

“I like the way it sounds.” the Quiet One said, smiling back. “Thank you…” He closed his eyes and passed away.