Bad Reflections

I am not a well person. That isn’t easy to admit, even though I understand that it is important to acknowledge that as fact. I am convinced that it all started the night of the storm.

After the lightning strike and subsequent power surge from the night before, both washing machines at my apartment complex were on the fritz. It was a minor miracle that we had lost power for only a few minutes. And thank God my expensive surge suppressors did their job. As a combined freelance writer / web designer, I rely heavily on my computers for my livelihood, and imagining even one of them electrically fried just makes my cringe.

The electric shock that knocked me on my ass was the real highlight of the evening though. Strong summer evening thunderstorms were nothing new for our small Midwestern city, but this one was particularly impressive. Blinding flashes lit the windows and booming thunder rolled and rattled the panes every few minutes. Not wanting to rely on the surge devices exclusively, I decided to quit working and power all my equipment down. Reaching down and unplugging the main computer power feed at the critical moment when the lightning induced surge came through, I actually saw as well as felt the arc as it jumped from the wall outlet, first following the cord, then my hand as I pulled the plug out. It was quite a jolt, knocked me back a few feet and flat onto my back. I don’t think I lost consciousness, but my whole body tingled and I smelled an ozone smell for hours afterward. Probably should have gone to the doctor just to get checked, but I’m mid-twenties and still have some lingering adolescent male invincibility delusions, so I figured I’d survive and blew it off.

Lugging dirty laundry down to the basement had never been one of my favorite pastimes, but add carting it a few blocks journey through the neighborhood, and you have a whole new level of annoyance. Nonetheless, there I sat the next day, butt already in a state of comingled pain and numbness from just a few minutes in the rock-hard, cracked pink plastic chair, a new John Scalzi sci-fi in hand. So far, the background noises of the machines and other patrons, including not one but two screaming toddlers, had prevented me from successfully reading a single page.

A short eternity later, the washer containing my first load quite spinning and sounded a brief buzz to alert me that it was done. Even though the laundromat was moderately crowded, I was lucky that there was an open dryer just opposite my washer, so I dutifully drug myself out of the torture device masquerading as a chair and headed across the room.

I bundled a large armful of my socks and tighty-whiteys, turned and dexterously flipped open the dryer lid, only to receive another shock to my hand, this one thankfully much milder than the one from the night before. It still startled me though, and I yelled as I dropped my armload of clothes.

“Son of a bitch!”

A roomful of eyes shifted my direction.

“Sorry,” I mumbled to no one in particular, returning to my chores.

After finishing, I returned to my poor man’s pink throne, determined to blot out all distractions and read.

 Five minutes later, I was vegetating, staring aimlessly about the laundromat.

That was when I first saw it; a hole, where no hole should be, reflected in the convex glass door of the ancient washing machine directly across the room from where I sat. I thought at first it was a smudge or even a ding in the glass, but then I noticed the same anomaly replicated in the machine door on either side of this one. The more I examined it, the reflected dark spot, if that’s what it was, seemed to float behind me, down near the floor. But when I turned to look there was nothing.

Over the next few hours, I washed and dried three loads, returning to watch the spot in between each. If I looked closely enough, I thought I could see it moving ever so slightly, sort of swirling and undulating. There was a hypnotic effect to it, so much so that the mother of one of the screaming kids had to poke me to let me know my last load was done.

Finally finished, I stuffed my clothes into a couple pillowcases that were serving as laundry bags, and staggered blurry eyed from the building. Once outside, my head somewhat cleared and interest in my recent temporary fixation began to wane. My focus turned instead to contemplate the work that I was now seriously behind on, thanks to the storm and extended laundry duties, as I headed for home.

Walking up the steps to my building, momentarily fumbling for my keys, I caught site of my reflection in one of the glass windows that outline the main doorway, and I froze. The spot, or whatever the damn thing actually was, had somehow followed me.

I stared in confusion. It didn’t seem possible, yet there it was unmistakably in the reflection, hovering in the same vicinity behind me and just above the ground, like it had appeared before. I spun my head around, and just like before, there was nothing to be seen behind me. Against my better judgement, I spun my attention back to examine the reflection in the window.

The spot was indeed there, but it had changed. While I had been walking home, it had grown larger, and had begun to emit flashes of light from its swirling center. Just a speck appearing here and there, briefly shining through before the undulating mass rolled and blotted it out again.

And along with the reflection, there was now an accompanying sound, a faint tinkling, like a set of wind chimes, coming from the direction of the spot. Unlike chimes though that came and went randomly with the wind, these played a melodic tune. Their cadence captured my attention, the rhythm lulling me into a trance. I listened, and I stared. For how long, I couldn’t say.

With some effort, I pulled my gaze away from the window and the spot, focusing down on my now clenched hands. The chimes cutoff cleanly as the spot slipped from my peripheral vision.

 Fear replaced my confusion. I quickly unlocked the door and hurried inside, my heart pounding out a triphammer beat. I needed to get to my apartment, but avoid anything reflective along the way. The elevator was out of the question, so I kept my head down and headed for the stairs.

The stairway provided temporary safety, with its dingy, concrete steps and unadorned walls. My apartment was on the third floor. As I climbed, I began to inventory the hazards that still awaited me. Once inside my own door, there lurked a multitude of windows, pictures, and mirrors both big and small. TVs, appliances, and even my computers, and all had to be avoided.

I reached my door without incident, and took a few moments to calm my nerves. As I waited, I couldn’t help questioning the reality of what I thought had just happened. Was I really cowering outside my own door, in the hallway I had traversed countless times, afraid of seeing some malevolent object in anything reflective? I tried to tell myself that this was foolishness, akin to a kid afraid of the dark for no apparent reason other than it wasn’t light. Or was there a better explanation?

The shock during the storm. That had to be the cause, I reasoned. Maybe some brain damage, not much, but enough to make me see spots and floating objects that weren’t really there. And hear things that weren’t there either. Why not?

I had not quite, but almost convinced myself that this could all be rationally explained. I still wasn’t ready to raise my line of sight above floor level, but I entered the apartment much calmer than I had been only moments before. I thought about the little kid me again, afraid of the dark, and remembered walking through the house turning on all the lights, telling myself that even though I wasn’t really afraid, the lights were just a harmless precaution. With that as my mindset, I retrieved a handful of towels and blankets and proceeded through my apartment, covertly covering anything reflective as I went.

Collapsing at my desk, having covered my monitors with a sheet, I started theorizing how I could live like this until I could get to a doctor for help. I rationalized, even if the spot wasn’t real, I still had to deal with its effects until I could be assured that it was gone.

As I was ticking off tasks needed to stay functional (disable monitor screensavers, figure out how to go out in public, maybe wear a hoodie with the strings pulled tight to minimize my field of view), my phone rang. I reflexively reached for it out of habit, and had just enough time to register that it was my mom calling before I saw it again, reflected in the dark glass of my cellphone.

It floated higher now, and it was still growing, perhaps balloon sized now. I could see variation in colors, shades of gray to black, swirling and heaving in rippling folds. The flashes of light had increased their brightness, still appearing briefly in the dark mass before being re-consumed. The chimes returned as well, grabbing my attention so completely that answering my mother’s call was beyond my capabilities. I watched and listened, unsure whether sight or sound was the more compelling sensation.

As my phone ringing stopped, I heard another sound, low and hidden underneath the chimes. There was nothing melodic about this new sound, and it struck a fresh fear into my mind. It resonated wet and heavy, like some ancient Lovecraftian god of old dragging itself from dark, mysterious depths.

As I listened, the chimes clashed with the new noise in a strange auditory battle for supremacy. As I watched, the spot slowly grew. I could see it changing in the reflection, but knew it was occurring behind me, and at the same time, knew that there would be nothing there to see, if I had been able to turn and look.

Rigid with fear, I couldn’t look away, helpless to alter my situation.

As I sat incapacitated, a fresh horror arose. Like soft tendrils at first, I sensed what felt like a pair of many fingered hands creep over my shoulders and down my chest. Their caress was almost sensual as they moved down to me waist, where the sensation changed to a grip. There was no real strength in the ghostly hands, but the feeling was inexplicably drawing me backward, back to where the spot awaited. Sensual became coaxing, coaxing turned to seductive, then finally approached insistence. Unable to resist, I tried rolling myself backward as I sat in the desk chair. The chair castors did not turn smoothly against the carpet, or I might have succeeded in my retreat to god only knows what fate the spot had planned for me. As I flexed my legs to overcome the drag of the carpet, my loving yet meddlesome mother came to my rescue.

I hadn’t answered her previous call, and she hadn’t left a message. Her routine in such situations was to wait ten minutes and call again, using the time to compose an appropriately thoughtful yet guilt inducing message to leave.

The phone chirped loudly in my hand, enough to startle me and cause me to drop it. Luck being on my side for once in my life, it landed screen down. I pulled a slew of papers, coasters and even a dirty plate off my desk, whatever was within reach, to cover it.

The onslaught had ceased in a flash.

I spent the rest of that night living like a blind man. I tied a shirt around my head for a blindfold and wore it constantly, not trusting myself to just keep my eyes closed. Somehow, with face recognition and Siri’s help, I managed to call and check the hours for the urgent care facility a few blocks away, my plan being to arrive as the doors opened in the morning. After inexplicably getting a few hours’ sleep, mostly from exhaustion, and having neither eaten nor showered since the previous morning, I found myself contemplating just how best to navigate walking the six blocks to the doctor.

I couldn’t very well walk down the street blindfolded, so I had employed my hoodie idea. With the opening pulled down to just an unnerving few square inches, I ventured out.

Other than sideswiping a garbage can and nearly colliding with a couple of emerging coffee shop patrons, my tunnel vision trek was proceeding without any serious issues, until I needed to cross the main road. So far, I had only encountered side street intersections, with little to no traffic at this hour, but the medical facility was on the opposite side of the four-lane.

As I waited at the light, head down and listening for the chirping noise that told me it was safe to cross, I reassuringly told myself that I was going to make it, that the doctor would scan my head, prescribe a pill, or send me to some specialist who would know exactly how to cure what ailed me.

Having made it this far unscathed, I was feeling just a sliver of optimism as the chirp came and I stepped into the street. I may have been distracted, or it may have made no difference. I heard a motor racing, just a bit, to my right. Nothing particularly menacing, but enough to draw my attention. Just like answering the phone, I instinctively looked up ever so slightly to assure myself that I wasn’t about to be run over, and there it was; a spotlessly clean storefront window, advertising the coming fall fashions. Spotless that is, except for the spot I had been avoiding.

The result was instantaneous. The ethereal chimes and fearsome dragging sounds, the forceful groping fingers upon my chest, urging me backward, and the sight of the ever growing, surging spot itself, all manifested collectively. Reflected in the glass, the spot now loomed, grown larger than me, its depths beckoned, its darkness seductive.

I stopped, then reversed direction in the crosswalk, shuffling backward toward the maw of the thing that had been pursuing me. I was a part of the reflection this time, and I watched as my fate unfolded behind me. The flashing lights became blue-white arcs, dancing wildly just behind me, reaching out to welcome me or strike me dead, I knew not which, when a delivery truck pulled to the stoplight and blocked the window from my view.

Released, I collapsed. Horns blared, onlookers undoubtedly gawked, and a young girl actually stepped up and asked me if I needed help. I ignored them all. Abandoning my optimistic hopes for a medical miracle cure, I staggered to me feet, pulled my hoodie strings tighter, and ran. I desperately wanted to run away, but how can you run away from a reflection, from an entity that follows you always?

So I ran toward something, or rather somewhere. I ran blindly to the laundromat.

It made no logical sense, but logic had been left far behind sometime yesterday. As I had laid awake last night, my mind had reeled through scenarios, causes and plans for what had been happening. The doctor had remained as plan A. My plan B made no sense whatsoever, but it flowed forward like a lifeline as I ran.

Miraculously, I arrived at the laundromat without being run over or seeing another reflection. The laundromat hadn’t opened yet, but that wasn’t going to deter me. I pried the painted metal top off a public trashcan, and with my eyes closed, beat it against the front window until it shattered. I carefully crawled through and headed for the door in the rear of the building marked Employees Only. It was thankfully unlocked. Once inside, it took little time to find something that would serve my purposes; a large screwdriver in an old toolbox.

Back in the laundromat was an array of electrical panels mounted on the back wall, variously marked High Voltage, Danger 220/208V, or just Electrical Hazard. I had noticed these while gazing idly about the room the day before.

Without hesitating to think, I pried the door open on the largest of the panels, held the screwdriver by the metal blade to assure good contact, and jammed it across the incoming leads.

“… and woke up here in the hospital in the psychiatric ward, about two weeks ago. Guess you know the rest, Doc. I refused to open my eyes until anything reflective was removed from the room, the curtains drawn, not sure what else I demanded, but I got sedated for it, I do remember.

Under the care of your colleagues though, I’m calmer and less prone to delusions. In just this short time, I’ve progressed to where I can actually look at myself in a mirror. I don’t like to, but I can do it.”

“Well, you do seem to have made incredible progress Mr. Buchanan.”

“Please, just Jerry.”

“OK, Jerry. And I did want to apologize again for you getting shuffled about here a bit. We seem to have quite the rash of absenteeism lately. I hope there isn’t anything contagious being passed around.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it, Doc,” I said, rising and extending my hand. “I wanted to thank you and your team again for all you’ve done.”

As he reached out to shake my hand, he flinched his own. “Oh, got a little shock from you, Jerry.”

“Yeah, that happens. Probably just static.”