Horror
Nightmare Reflection
The spooky season is upon us and I have a chilling tale for you.
My first 26 cursed years on Earth were spent in the presence of the spirit who occupied the upstairs of my 1930’s council house. He would send chills through my very being every time I ascended and descended the stairs. When I arrived upstairs, he would enter the front bedroom and hide within the mirror of an old dressing table. It was this true story that inspired my “Nightmare Reflection.”
Nightmare Reflection
It’s bedtime. I hate bedtime — it means going upstairs. Something unnatural lives up there. Every night, I have to face it to reach the sanctuary of my bedroom.
With my cocoa in hand, there’s no more delaying the inevitable. The mantel clock chimes midnight and I creak open the hall door. The movement sets the hanging coats a-flutter.
I make the turn onto the stairs and ascend to the right. The orange glow from the street-lamp outside illuminates the treacherous flight. I resist the urge to engage the lights as I pass the switch and creep higher into the ominous dullness.
My fear spikes. I gulp it back while breathing in some courage.
I make it around the bend. It’s already there, waiting at the top of the eleven steps. I can’t see it — I never can — but I smell its ancient flowery perfume.
I feel it too — those powerful cold eyes boring into me. It’s there, watching … haunting me like it always does. Nobody ever feels it but me, I know it’s there, yearning for me.
My footsteps and breathing break the eerie silence. Feeling sweat beading my brow, I force myself to climb the stairs. With every step, my fear threatens to overwhelm me.
There are four dark rooms off the landing: two back bedrooms, two front bedrooms. I always close the doors. The presence prefers them open so they’re yawning wide, and enshrouded in ominous darkness.
I sense it — there, in the small bedroom directly in front of me. Its piercing energy causes the hairs on my arms to prickle. It won’t beat me — I rush to the door hoping to catch sight of it this time.
Lightning flashes at the window, thunder reverberates in my chest. Struggling to breathe through my fear, I look around the little playroom.
My attention is drawn by the creepy doll on the sideboard… it’s rocking in a violent way; shaking its head and taking on a demented appearance.
I can feel the presence gliding around me.
It rushes me.
I flinch as the cold energy passes through my body, leaving me shivering. I see a woman in my mind — skeletal, dark, angry eyes, screaming at me. I know the front bedroom is her lair, as she seems more powerful there.
With my hand over my thrumming heart, I suck in a breath, realizing I have to go inside and confront her. Adrenaline courses through my panic-ridden veins, as I continue along the hall approaching the deathly silent bedroom.
“Enough stalking me! Who are you?” A knot of fear in my throat leaves my words a weak whisper.
The thunder crackles, further lightning splitting the darkness like a welding torch. My gaze goes straight past the flowered bedspread to the creepy Victorian wardrobes. It’s connected to that bloody mirror, I know it is. If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have smashed it years ago. The Victorian patterned-brass framework seems to glow. The arched glass wavers like the dark, rippling waters of a deserted lake at midnight.
“I said, ‘Who the Hell are you?!’” This time, I manage to be more forceful.
My leg touches the bedspread, and I freeze with icy fingers of dread running down my spine. The curtain flutters as the storm continues to rage outside. It has little effect — I can’t tear my eyes from the mirror. The glass is not rigid anymore. It’s moving, like plasma. Something’s happening with the reflective surface.
Cold sweat bathes my face. I try to see myself in the mirror; my reflection isn’t there. It’s not because of the wicked, cruel darkness in the room. The angle isn’t wrong.
To my horror, my vision’s blocked — by her.
Her angelic face twists and contorts until it resembles that of demons. It warps the glass, and her withered hand reaches out, stretching… clawing, toward me. I whimper and try to run but my legs are paralyzed.
The second hand appears — her ghostly visage returns, leering at me. She jerks frightfully, forcing herself out of the mirror, always reaching for me.
The frigid air freezes my ragged breaths to icy clouds.
The spirit’s intangible form holds the appearance of gelatinous water. Her translucent skin draped in a ragged, strapless dress. She emits a debilitating banshee’s scream.
The sound tears through me like a shockwave, fraying my last nerves. I scream and try to back away. Tears flow down my cheeks as the blood pounds cold in my veins. My feet wouldn’t budge. No matter how I try to move them backward, they forcibly dragged me toward her.
She grabs me with her claw-like hands. Her grip as tundral as solid ice.
“No! Let me go!”
“Your turn,” she breathes, her voice evil, demonic.
I writhe in her grasp. Wrenching a hand free, I throw a punch, which goes right through her head. My thoughts spiral in intense panic as shock grips me. With a deafening shriek and sudden strength, she yanks me off my feet. I feel my fingers strike the gilded framework and I scrabble for a grip. My efforts leave me powerless against her.
I scream as she pulls me right through the mirror.
The wraith steps out, a fully-formed girl. With a slight turn, she lifts a hand and offers me a little wave and a coy smile highlighted by malevolent, black eyes. Then, she walks out of view and into the world … my world.
My silver necklace lays on the floor just below the mirror. A lasting remnant of the terrifying events which unfolded on my last night in the world of the living. Moonlight glints off the chain as a single tear falls down my face.
This is … The End?
If you dare find out how my story ends join me here for Nightmare Reflection — The End
This story was first released in my Menagerie October 26 2021.
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D. Denise Dianaty, Editor and Graphic Designer for the WE PAW Bloggers E-Zine. Administrator for the writers forum “WE PAW Bloggers” group and its sister group “Pandora’s Box of Horrors” on Facebook. In addition to being a self-published author and poet, artist, art-photographer, and administrator of the group, “WE PAW Bloggers,” Denise is a graphic designer with 25+ years experience, predominately in print media.
