New Entry - Bard's Hall Contest - Oct

Living Mausoleum - Be careful who or what you disrespect - reprisal can last an eternity.

          The attic reeked of mothballs and dead ambitions. I hadn't set foot inside this mausoleum house since I was eighteen, and now, at forty-eight, I am only here to invent the relics and sell the lot. My parents, now conveniently deceased, had filled this Victorian monstrosity with the detritus of lives lived predictably. I had no attachment to the place or to them. Sentimental fools build nests; cynical people build escape routes. Mine had been built long ago.

          I was here for the final inspection of the attic. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of weak afternoon light filtering through the grimy window. Stacked crates of linen and boxes of forgotten photographs lined the walls, but my eye snagged on something draped deep in the center of the gloom: a massive, standing mirror, shrouded in a heavy sheet of black velvet.

          I pulled off the shroud.

          The mirror was magnificent and oppressive. It was easily seven feet tall, framed in deeply carved, blackened oak that looked less like furniture and more like petrified thorns. The glass itself was murky and thick, carrying the green-tinged patina of extreme age.

          I stepped closer, wiping a layer of film from the glass with my sleeve, ready to critique the reflection of my newly acquired asset.

          The woman who stared back was me, undeniably--the sharp jawline, the practical dark suit, the tight knot of cynicism around the mouth. But what was unsettling wasn't the image, but the quality of the light upon it.

          The attic was dim, yet the reflection in the glass was unnaturally bright, as if illuminated by a lamp placed directly behind my head--a light that didn't exist in the dusty reality around me.

          I leaned in, examining the edges of the frame. No electrical fittings, no hidden lights. Just glass, wood, and a sudden, inexplicable chill.

          I shifted my weight, intending to turn away, but couldn't. It wasn't a physical restraint; it was the reflection itself that held me. My gaze had locked onto my eyes staring back, and they had deepened, becoming two pools of infinite, cold apprehension.

          Look away, the practical part of my brain commanded. You're standing in a cold, dusty room, and you're tired. Move.

          But I didn't move.

          The reflected Lisa began to smile. It was a slow, impossible curl of the lip, a movement that had nothing to do with the rigid muscles of my own face. My mirrored eyes, still locked on mine, did not crinkle with amusement; they widened with a terrible, silent joy.

          The air around the antique oak frame grew heavy, pushing against my chest, making breathing shallow and ragged. I could hear the faint, high-pitched

thrum of the old house settling, or it was the sound of my own blood rushing in panic.

          The reflection shifted again. The suit I wore dissolved, replaced by a soft, pale blue dress, the kind of frivolous thing I would never have purchased. My hair was loose, catching the strange, internal light of the mirror. Worst of all, the cynical knot around my mouth was gone, ironed flat by an expression of pure, open vulnerability.

          I hated it. I hated the softness, which I perceived as a weakness.

          Stop it! I screamed internally, straining against the invisible weight that prevented me from breaking eye contact. My real hands--the hands wrapped around my upper arms in a desperate attempt to feel something real--were shaking violently.

          The reflected Lisa raised a hand, placing it gently against the glass, and her expression deepened into one of profound, maternal longing.

          "It doesn't have to be so empty, Lisa," a voice whispered, though my mouth had not moved, nor had the reflections. The sound was thin, like paper scraping against the glass, and it seemed to vibrate deep in my eardrums.

          I tried to close my eyes, forcing the lids down, but my real eyelids suddenly felt like lead weights, incapable of movement. I was pinned, forced to witness this grotesque parody of the life I had willfully rejected--a life of attachments, softness, and emotion.

         Then, the reflection darkened.

          The pale dress withered instantly, turning grey and tattered. The vulnerability in the reflected Lisa's face evaporated, replaced by something ancient and hungry. Her smile widened, pulling her features tautly across the bone, becoming a rictus of pure, delighted malice.

          The light in the glass, which had been bright, intensified into a searing white that burned the retina. I gasped, finally feeling a physical tearing sensation in my chest as I realized the reflection was no longer mimicking me. It was consuming the space where I stood.

          The last thing I saw, before the world tilted into agonizing, silent surrender, was my own reflected eyes--not the deep, cold eyes I knew, but eyes that were entirely black, utterly devoid of pupil or iris, drinking in the last vestiges of my independent will.

          I had always scorned fools who loved. Now, I was trapped, staring forever into the cursed glass, forced to confront the terrible, reflective love of something that was finally, unequivocally, not me. And I could not look away.


Word Count: 858 Words