The Mirror

The Mirror

It was a clear but windy afternoon in the Nebraska countryside when Anne began moving into the old farmhouse. She had been living in Wichita but decided to move to be closer to her elderly parents. She had just recently divorced her husband of eight years and needed a change of scenery. Her ex-husband, Chris, was the type of man that women loved to hate. He was a good-looking guy with wavy blonde hair and dark brown eyes, the kind that always attracted the ladies. Unfortunately, he had another side to him. Underneath the handsome exterior beat the heart of a sick, twisted, sadistic bastard who delighted in beating his wife until he saw blood. After so many years and countless excuses, she finally got up the courage to leave but only after he threatened to kill her. The ink was still wet on the divorce papers when she loaded up her truck and moved to the small, rural town where she had grown up.

Most of the boxes were already inside, cluttering the living room when Anne decided to quit for the night. Her cat, Ralph, climbed onto her lap, wanting to be scratched and needing attention. She sat looking around her newly purchased home, proud of her hard-won independence. After such a long and hectic day, she decided to head upstairs and enjoy a long hot shower in her newly renovated bathroom. Turning off the downstairs lights, she began her way upstairs when she called for Ralph. As she continued, she called again for the cat only to find him halfway up the stairs, staring ahead and hissing.
“What are you doing? Are you coming up or not?” He simply stood there, unmoving but staring straight ahead with his head hung low.
“Fine, stay there, you silly boy,” she said with a smile.

Anne continued her way to her bedroom, gathered her nightgown and headed to the bathroom for a much-deserved shower. Closing the door, she turned on the hot water, allowing the room to fill with steam. She turned on the shower tap and stepped in, letting the water soak her hair and run down her back. She luxuriated in the warmth of the steam and water, letting all her stress of the day wash away. Finished, she turned off the faucet and wrapped a towel around her torso. As Anne stepped out of the tub and began to dry off, something caught her eye.

Written backwards in the steam on the mirror were the words “HELP ME”. Her mind swam, trying to understand what she saw before her. She was too baffled to be afraid. “What the hell…” she said, gently touching the mirror. No one could be in here, she thought, the door’s locked. “I don’t get it. Who needs help?” she said aloud. As soon as the words left her lips, more words appeared in the steam. “I DO” were slowly scrawled across the foggy mirror. The fear began to sink in. “What…I do? What does that mean?”

Like something out of a dream, letters began flying up onto the mirror and, like before, they were written backwards. “Darryl did this to me. The pain won’t stop. Please help me,” it seemed to cry. Completely confused and terrified, Anne wanted to bolt from the room and forget it ever happened but she knew it wasn’t possible.
“Who…who are you?” she asked in a trembling voice.
“Mary. He hurt me. Help me…” she replied, pleading.
“Mary, how did Darryl hurt you? What did he do?” She couldn’t believe she was conversing with a mirror.
“He hit me. He wouldn’t stop. I went to sleep and I woke up here.”
“Here? Where’s here, Mary?” However, the steam had cleared, leaving Anne staring at her own reflection. “Wait! Where’s here?”

Anne couldn’t sleep at all that night. She kept thinking about the terror that had happened in the house, the same kind of terror she had narrowly escaped. The following morning, Anne called Pat Blackford, the realtor who sold her the house. She was hoping that maybe Pat would know the house’s history or possibly why it was sold.
“I’m sorry, honey. I really don’t know much about the place. Just that a man named Darryl Johnston put it on the market. That’s pretty much it. Oh yeah, he said he was a handyman. I don‘t know if that will help.”
“Did he list with you or another agent?”
“With me. He made me uneasy, I can tell you that. Something strange about him.”
“When did he list the house, do you remember?”
“Well, let me look. Um…nearly a year ago. Why? Is everything alright?”
“Oh yeah, it’s great. I’m just curious. One last thing, do you know if he was married?”
“Not that I know of. I never saw him with a woman and he never mentioned it. Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you. You’ve really been a great help.”

Hanging up the telephone, Anne felt a desire to learn more about Mary and what had happened at the house. She went upstairs and into the bathroom. Closing the door, Anne turned on the shower and watched as the mirror became covered in the revealing steam. She called for Mary. Immediately, the backward letters appeared.
“Hello? Will you help me,” the words pleaded.
“Mary, I need to know…what’s your last name?”
“Johnston. Mary Johnston.”
“Who’s Darryl,” she asked.
“My husband. He did this. He made me go to sleep.”
“Where are you, Mary? I need to know.”
“In front of you,” the mirror read.
“Mary, are you sure? I don’t see you.” Despite the warmth of the steam, a chill ran up the back of her neck.
“I can see you.” Anne shuddered from the unnerving sense of being watched. “You have short brown hair and a white shirt. Why can’t you see me,” she wrote quickly.

Horrified, Anne finally realized where Mary Johnston was and understood why the words were backwards. She was in the wall. As calmly as she could, Anne turned again to speak to the ghostly spirit, hoping to somehow free the poor woman’s soul.
“Mary, I know where you are. What can I do to help you?”
Once again, the letters flew up onto the mirror’s face. “Please let me out. It’s so cold and I miss my family. I just want to go home,” she wrote. Oh dear God, she thought, she doesn’t realize what’s happened to her. Somehow, she had to tell this poor woman.
“Mary, I’m so sorry. Darryl killed you. You died.” An unearthly shriek filled the small room, fracturing edges of the large mirror.
In large, angry letters, Mary conveyed her message. “KILL HIM!!”
Shocked at the request, Anne asked, “You want me to kill Darryl?”
“YES! And only then I can rest. HE MUST DIE!” Suddenly the mirror shattered, falling in tiny pieces from the wall. Anne quickly turned off the shower and rushed from the room. For days, the last words of Mary haunted her. She couldn’t possibly kill someone, it’s absurd, she thought. But after a week of focusing and dwelling on the woman’s words, Anne began having terrifying nightmares. Visions of a young blonde woman running down the upstairs hall, screaming in terror as an older man with a mustache chased her. He would yell at her, calling her ‘bitch’ and ‘whore’. The man would beat and kick the woman.

Every morning, Anne would awake scared and frightened. She desperately tried to rid herself of the images from these nightly episodes until the night Anne had one dream that changed everything. One night as she slept, Anne saw the same young woman attempting to fight back against her abuser. Although this enraged the large man, he stopped his assault and walked away. She could see the look of relief on the young woman’s face as she cowered on the floor, a look that would soon be gone forever. Anne could hear his footsteps come up the stairs in a controlled fury. All she could see was a glimpse of the sledgehammer in his hand. In one swift motion, he lifted it and swung, smashing the woman in the skull. Anne could see the young blonde crawl down the hall, attempting a futile escape. She called out to her, yelling her name. She wanted to stop him but Anne was helpless. He continued to attack her until she no longer moved or even whimpered. Blood was splattered on the walls and pooled on the carpet; it was everywhere. Anne awoke with a start, afraid that her own past had found her. But this wasn’t about Anne’s history, this was Mary’s reality. She sat in bed, absorbing all that her dreams had told her. She knew she had to right a tragic wrong.

The next morning, Anne looked up the name Darryl Johnston in the local yellow pages. Fortunately, there was only one and before she could change her mind, she dialed the number.
“Hello?” A man answered.
“Hi. Is this Darryl Johnston?”
“Yeah, who’s this,” he asked curtly.
“Well, I need a handyman and I got your number from a friend.”
“What do ya need?”
“I have a drip in my bathtub and it‘s driving me crazy. Is that something you could do?”
“Yeah, I can come by this afternoon. Does that work for you?”
“That’d be great. I’ll see you then.”

After hanging up the telephone, Anne prepared herself for what was to come. She knew she had to do it for Mary, for herself, and for every woman who wasn’t strong enough to escape the torture. Around two o’clock, the doorbell rang. She answered the door forcing a smile on her face and welcomed in the man from her nightmare. He was a tall, large man with salt and pepper hair that appeared not to have been brushed and a full mustache. He wore a worn red flannel shirt, raggedy jeans and was in need of a bath.
“Where’s the bathroom with the drip?” he asked, making no mention that the home once belonged to him and his wife.
“Upstairs and to the left.”

As he began the ascent up the stairs, Anne followed him, waiting for the right moment. Crouching over the bathtub, Darryl opened his battered toolbox to begin his work. Standing behind him, Anne quietly reached into his tools and retrieved a hammer. That should do it, she thought to herself. With one mighty swing, she brought the hammer down. Over and over, with blood and flesh flying, she continued striking him, unable to stop. All the memories of what her own husband had done to her, knowing what Mary had endured, now he would never harm anyone again. Finally, in mid-swing, drenched in his blood, Anne realized it was over. Calmly, she began to clean up, having already decided what to do with the bastard’s body.

Under the cloak of darkness, she had made her way to the center of her property and began to dig. It took quite a while but when she was finished she had dug a shallow grave large enough for a full-grown man. Arduously dragging his body, she deposited Darryl and his toolbox in the unmarked grave, forever to be forgotten. Although exhausted, Anne had one more task to tend to. Taking a hammer from the garage, she began carefully breaking down the drywall from the hallway. As the wall began to give way, she grasped at the torn wallpaper and broken drywall, tearing, pulling. And then she saw her. A small body crumpled at the bottom, wedged inside the wall. Bits of blonde hair remained on the woman’s skull while tattered pieces of pink cotton hung from her bones. She had found Mary. Attempting to pick her up, the body began to crumble, to break apart. Anne ran and retrieved one of her moving boxes to place her in so that Mary could receive a proper burial.

Anne found herself again digging in the darkness. She gently laid Mary’s remains in the grave and said a quiet prayer before slowly replacing the soil.

After a hot shower to wash away remnants of her crime, Anne stepped out to expect a message on the mirror only to find it broken and in pieces. She wrapped her bathrobe around her still wet body and walked across the hall to her bedroom. There, she reclined on the queen-sized bed and thought about the past few days. She didn’t feel remorse for killing Darryl but instead felt a sense of relief not only for Mary but also for herself. It was like a cleansing, she thought. “I wonder if Chris would visit. I have tons of room in the back,” she thought with a sly smile on her face.