The Eye Of The Beholder

The Eye Of The Beholder.

John stopped in his tracks. “You guys go on. I’ll catch up” he called to his friends as they walked ahead. He held his breath and stared.  He had never seen anything like it. His pupils dilated, eyes widening as his jaw dropped open, transfixed.

“Hey buddy" John felt a hand on his shoulder. "Come on man, we gotta get going!" John blinked and shook his head briefly, before turning to see his friend, Patrick, staring at him. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm... I'm fine"

"Are you sure, cos you kind of zoned out for a minute?" Patrick replied, real concern on his face. "You don't look too good"

"I'm fine, honestly. Tell you what, why don't you guys go on without me. Actually I am feeling a bit rough. I'll call you tomorrow"

"Hey it's fine, we'll all give tonight a miss. Let's have pizza and a few beers at my place?" Patrick said, eyebrows raised, his voice hopeful.

"I appreciate it mate, I really do, but I think I'll just get an early night. You guys go have fun"

Patrick frowned and looked at his friend. He paused and then squeezed John's shoulder. "OK, but we're doing something next weekend"

"Sure thing" he said with a nod. "Now go!"

"Catch ya later" Patrick said as he turned and jogged to catch up with the others.

John watched his friends disappear around the corner before turning back to the shop window. His reflection stared back at him, but not from the glass of the large window. Centre stage in Bygone Antiques' widow was a large ornate mirror. It's rectangular frame was intricately cast in bronze or gold, he wasn't sure which. Running around the frame were symbols, possibly a language, but one John didn't recognise.

He strode to the door and pushed the handle. The door didn't move. Looking up he saw the sign "CLOSED". "Damn" he muttered. He cast his eyes around the door and the window. There had to be one. He stepped back and looked up to the name above the shop. There! He pulled out his phone and dialled.

His hand was trembling. That was unusual. He looked sideways at the hand raised to his left ear. It was actually trembling. Maybe he really was coming down with something, he thought. The ringing tone was faint, he covered his other ear trying to hear the phone more clearly.

Just as John was about to give up he heard a voice. "Hello" came the gravely voice.

"Er, Hi. I'm wondering if I could buy something. I'm standing outside your shop right now. It's..."

"We're closed. You'll have to come back tomorrow"

"I know you're closed. I'm sorry to bother you, but I really need to get it today"

"Sir, we don't have anything that can’t wait until tomorrow."

"I.. I... I'm sorry, you don't understand" John stuttered, almost gasping. His hand was trembling violently now. "I need that mirror today!"

John heard breathing. "Well?" he snapped into the phone.

"I'll be right down". The phone went dead. John let out a breath of relief. He had difficulty sliding his phone into his pocket, his hand was shaking so much. Leaning forward, his nose almost touching the glass, he peered into the gloom of the shop.

"Come on, come on..." he muttered angrily under his breath. He found himself shifting his weight from one foot to another repeatedly, almost hopping, like an excited child.

After about a minute a light flickered into life in the depths of the shop. An elderly gentleman, hunched, and bald, shuffled into view. He raised a shaky hand as he neared the locked door. After three attempts he succeeded in sliding the key home and with a twist, the door unlocked.

"Well come in!" barked the man as he swung the door open.

"Thank you so much" replied John. "I really do appreciate this"

"Not wasting my time I hope" said the man, staring at his new customer.

"Oh no. I need to..." he stopped himself. "I want to buy that mirror" said John, pointing towards the window.

"Very well. It's up for £975" his eyes looking up and down in scrutiny of the man in his doorway.

"Fine, fine. Do you take credit card"

There was a pause as the shopkeeper's eyes seemed to bore into John's, their stare almost malevolent.

"Prefer cash but if that's all you can do"

"I'm sorry but it'll have to be card" said John apologetically.

The man snorted, turned, and slowly made his way towards the main window. His shuffling reminded John of an old Hammer Horror film, where decaying zombies shuffled towards their victims. The comparison seemed quite accurate he thought.

A few minutes later the mirror was safely wrapped and ready to be taken away. "There's no returns, mind you" said the old man. "You can't just change your mind."

"That's fine. There's no way I'll be bringing this back" replied John, a wide grin on his face.

"I don't suppose YOU will be bringing it back" the man said emphasising the you.

That was weird, John thought. Why say it like that? He slid the mirror off the counter and held it under his arm. "Well thank you. Maybe I'll see you again" said John as he turned and made his way to the door.

"I doubt it" said the man quietly to himself.

He woke with a start. Had his scream woken him, or something else? He wiped his hand across his wet forehead. His hair was soaked with sweat, as were his bedding and T-shirt. He never had nightmares, until last night. His mind was a mass of confusion. He couldn’t remember the dream, only that he felt awful. He shivered, his cold, sweat soaked shirt clung to him. What the hell had happened.

Through his confusion, he remembered that today was Saturday. He closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. No work until Monday morning. At least he had two full days to get himself together before having to face the world. He needed a hot shower. That would make him feel better, he was sure of it. The dream had left him feeling shaken and troubled, a sense of dread and deep unease settled in his core like a bag of stones. What the hell was going on? He guessed he really was coming down with something; probably one of those new winter bugs going around like he saw on the news. He pulled back the damp clammy duvet, swung his cold legs out of bed, and sat for a minute. He suddenly realised he could see his breath as he exhaled. Goose bumps covered his bare arms and legs. He shivered as he stood and walked to the heating thermostat. That was odd. He saw the heating was set to 20 degrees so why was it so bloody cold. Walking to the nearest radiator John held out his hand. He withdrew it quickly as the hot metal nearly burnt his skin. John reflexively raised his eyebrows. "Weird" he said to himself. The heating was working flat out.

He groggily walked to the bathroom, glancing in his new mirror as he passed. John's breath caught in his chest as he stopped dead. He immediately spun on his heels to face the mirror. He looked terrible. Leaning forward to get a closer look, he had never seen himself appear this way. His skin was deathly pale, except for below his eyes, where it was darker, almost bruised looking. His lips, normally a healthy dark pink and plump were a grey blue colour and badly cracked. How could this happen in one night? He moved closer still, his nose almost touching the mirror's surface. Veins were visible under the abnormally pale skin, they almost formed a lattice across his entire face.

Moving back from the mirror he shook his head and covered his face with his hands, before dragging them downwards, as if he could wipe away what he saw in his reflection. John turned and walked to the bathroom. He swung open the door and turned to face the small mirror above the basin. That was odd, the glass was already fogged with condensation when he hadn't turned on the shower. That can't happen, can it? He raised a hand and swiped across the glass. The fogged surface remained unchanged. "What the..." he muttered before picking up his bath towel and trying again, repeating the swiping motion using the towel instead of his palm. The mirror was still foggy. John frowned in confusion. He turned and reached behind the shower curtain, turning on the hot water.

He stood under the hot water for several minutes after he'd finished washing. The water made him feel a little better. His body, now rid of the clammy stale sweat from the previous night, felt fresh. He turned the water off and reached for his towel. Maybe he was ok after all. He'd imagined the image in the mirror. Just the after effects of the nightmare. That had to be it. He did feel a little better but why couldn't he shake that weird feeling in his stomach; a feeling of utter dread. It had to be the dream. Surely it wasn't that unusual to be disturbed by a nightmare's lingering effects?

After drying himself with the towel he donned his bath robe before walking back to his bedroom. He stopped at the antique mirror and turned to face it, closing his eyes as he did so. He took three deep breaths, in through his nose, exhaling through his mouth each time, like a weight lifter preparing to lift. He opened his eyes and stared. He breathed in sharply when he saw his reflection was even worse than a short time ago. On his left cheek he saw what appeared to be the beginnings of a large spot. The area was a pinky red colour which gradually faded to the oddly pale hue. He saw three similar areas on his forehead and one more on his chin. What the hell was he coming down with? He'd caught something, he was sure of it.

He turned and walked to his bedside table. John picked up his phone, pulling the lightning cable from its port as he did so. He unlocked and tapped the camera icon. He'd get a photo of his face, then he'd be able to zoom in. The camera app appeared on the screen then closed immediately. John sighed and tapped the camera icon a second time. Once again the app opened and immediately closed again. "Fucking thing!". He swore at the phone and held down the power and volume buttons before swiping to shut down. He really didn't have the patience for this. Of all the times for the camera app to fail. Another buggy update no doubt. He pressed the power button and waited. Third time lucky he thought as he pressed the app's icon once again. Just as before the camera app opened and closed again. "Bloody thing!" John shouted and threw the phone onto the bed.

Maybe some food would help he mused. This time he avoided looking into the mirror as he passed. He opened the fridge door and looked inside. He picked up an open packet of bacon and sniffed. His nose wrinkled and he pushed the packet back onto the shelf. He loved bacon but this morning the smell made him feel sick. To turn his nose up at bacon he really must be ill he thought. He let out a loud sigh and slammed the fridge door, rattling the jars inside. He decided he wasn't hungry after all and shuffled back to his bedroom.

Grabbing his duvet with widespread hands he flipped it over so the dry side was towards the bed. He slid under the bedding and closed his eyes. The fact it was daytime didn't matter at all. Maybe all he needed was a good sleep. He hoped he wouldn't dream again.

Incoherent moans escaped his lips as beads of perspiration rose on his forehead. His limbs thrashed, as his nightmare raged. John cried out, the words unintelligible. The room was dark when he finally woke. He felt even worse than he had upon waking that morning. Rolling onto his side he reached for his phone. Dull ache filled every joint. This really wasn't like him at all. It must be flu he thought. The phone screen showed 19:25. How had he slept so long? John sniffed. And what was that smell? He lifted the duvet and sniffed again. Revulsion swept over him as he recognised the odour. Urine. He'd pissed the bed! "Fuck" he said loudly. Why had he done that? He could wash the duvet and sheet but that mattress was going to stink.

Standing, he walked to the mirror. He didn't really want to look but he had to see. If his bladder hadn't been empty he would have probably peed himself right there. What had been the beginnings of spots were now huge boils on his face, each seemed about the size of a golf ball. The skin was stretched tight and an angry shade of red, the uppermost point of each boil, or sore, oozed pus. There were five in total. John reached up a shaking hand to touch his cheek. Pain flared on his face like a spreading fire as his fingertips made contact. A thin trail of pus oozed over his left eyebrow and onto his eyelid. He blinked rapidly as the putrid fluid touched his eye.

He gasped as he took in the vision before him. He had been fine last week so what the hell was going on. I bet it’s that bloody Sam from work. She’d just got back from a trip to Bolivia. She must have brought some bug back with her and given it to me, he thought as he considered the cause of his condition. Anger flared in his soul, and his teeth clenched ferociously. He slammed his fist into his reflection, desperate to banish the creature in the glass. His reflection glared back, mockingly. With a scream of rage he crashed his knuckles into the glass once more. This time it shattered, as spiderweb of cracks radiated outwards from the point of impact. Blood trickled from a deep gash on his hand.

Spent of energy, John slumped onto his knees. Crying out in anguish he bent forward, wrapping his arms around his head. He began to rock backwards and forwards, crying like a baby. Eventually his tears subsided as he slumped forward, his head on his hands. A crackling sound made him hold his breath and listen. Slowly he raised his head from his hands and pushed himself up onto his knees. He leaned back and looked upwards. His mouth dropped open as he looked at the wall in disbelief. There, on the wall, was the mirror in perfect condition. The glass was completely intact and as perfect as the day of it’s creation. John raised his hand and stared at his bleeding knuckles as he shook his head in confusion. On shaky legs he stood, reaching out to touch the wall for support. His eyes did not linger on his reflection, rather they stared blankly ahead, not fixing on any particular object. Slowly he turned and left the room.

He returned from the kitchen and once again faced the grotesque, terrifying vision in the mirror. John trembled as a sob escaped his cracked lips. Utter despair gripped him and tears began to flow. He raised one shaking hand and held the knife to his forehead, it’s razor sharp blade resting against the edge of one of the boils. How had his life come to this? His tears now ran down his discoloured, rancid cheeks, before dropping to the floor. He blinked rapidly in an effort to see more clearly. As a wave of sobs wracked his body, his trembling arm moved and the blade began to cut.