Hermit

My grandfather was a bit of a hermit after his second wife died. He could barely keep it together after his first wife, my grandmother, died, but when his second wife, half his age, died unexpectedly, he became a different person. He sold all of his possessions, and three of his houses, to purchase a gigantic mansion in the woods up north. We never heard from him after that, and it wasn’t until we got a call from the sheriff’s department asking us to identify the body that we got an update on what he was doing all alone out there. Apparently, he was dying.

Dying and collecting junk. It was unbelievable how many random pieces of furniture he had laying around the giant open rooms of his mansion. Almost all of them had a mirror somewhere on it. Big dressers with large oval mirrors. Cabinets with built-in mirrors on the door. Large desks with mechanical looking mirrors you can pull out to where you sat. Many of the pieces, we realized, were indeed just plain old mirrors. It didn’t take long for the few of us from the family that had come up to identify and bury the body to see a pattern. The man had become obsessed with mirrors. This would’ve been strange for anyone but it was particularly strange to us. When he was alive my grandfather had been disheveled more often than not and seemed to care very little for his outward appearance. He was also never much of a collector, that is, if you ignored his formerly vast collection of wealth and property.

Perhaps he had taken better care of himself in his hermitage and being that he was all he had out here, perhaps he wanted to see more of himself. That was how my uncle had put it before he left for his hotel that afternoon. Slowly everyone trickled out of the gigantic wooden front doors to drive off to where they had found a place to stay. Everyone had different reservations at different hotels. Different economic circumstances resulted in a difference of standards, and unfortunately we were the poorest of the lot. My mother and I had decided to stay the night in the mansion. Apparently, she had begun to regret the state of their relationship upon the news of her father’s death. I found myself wondering if she was taking the time to eye up her share of the inheritance, because she went off exploring with a book of plain green circular stickers I didn’t know she had brought with her.

It wasn’t the worst idea. Looking around the place, that is. Finding something valuable was easy enough. Everywhere you looked there was something shiny and fancy, presumably with a mirror on it. But now that the rest of the family was gone it seemed a whole lot bigger. I figured it was time to do some exploring myself.

The main entrance had a large staircase as the centerpiece of the foyer. It came up to a carpeted landing in the middle and then went up on either side to take you to the large hallways of the second floor. On the first floor, underneath those sides, were more doorways. I decided the second floor would be my starting spot, and as I went up the stairs I chose the left side. Multi-colored beams of light came bursting through the gigantic stained-glass window that sat above the main staircase and I could feel a warmth pass over me.

The second floor was a long hallway with many doors. I called out for my mother to see if she was in the vicinity but received no reply. Every door seemed to be open, and they all led into a room that had the appearance of a purpose, but that purpose was obfuscated by the random pieces of furniture littered across every single one of them. I could tell one room used to be a study. It had a desk and shelves with dusty old books. As well as a gigantic globe that opened up into a mirror.

That was when I noticed there was a room connected to the study.

It was behind a large piece of furniture, and I only noticed it when I looked into the reflection of the globe’s mirror. Every single other door in the place had been opened, but for whatever reason this one had remained closed. Perhaps it was supposed to be a secret. That was intriguing enough for me to push the giant wooden cabinet out of the way and try the doorknob. It was locked when I first turned it, I could’ve sworn, but the second jiggle of the knob must have knocked something loose because it opened almost on its own that time.

Inside the secret room was a surprising lack of furniture. It had absolutely none at all. The only thing that sat on the floor was a large square rug perfectly centered in the middle of the room. There were no windows. The only light was coming in through the door I had just opened, but it was enough to see that on each and every wall sat a mirror. Plain old mirrors. One had a gold rim, the other had none but both were oval shaped, and the last one was almost the size of the wall with a large black spiraling wood frame. The wall-sized mirror was the one directly across from where I had entered the secret room. To my left was the golden rimmed mirror, and to his right was the plain mirror. I searched for a light-switch but quickly realized there were none. However, as I glimpsed into the largest of the mirrors, I spied a standing lamp sitting out of sight behind where I stood. I figured that would serve and went to see if I could turn it on. I found my brain scrambling the second I turned around.

It wasn’t there.

There was no lamp in the room. Only the large square rug and the three mirrors. I turned back to check my reflection and saw that the lamp was now glowing with a dull orange light. Another peculiarity was that the door I had entered through appeared closed, although it was most certainly open. My skin began to crawl in the direction of the exit. Whatever strangeness I had perceived would surely cease were I only to exit this room. I was certain of it. So, I left. I did not care to continue my exploration. I decided I would fork up whatever cash I had in my accounts to pay for the nearest motel. I was done with this place. It had begun to feel more like my grandfather’s tomb than his home.

I hurried out of the study, backed out into the hallway, and worked my way back to the stairs. Where I once saw open rooms, I now saw closed doors. I tried not to care. I was leaving. I made it to the stairs and started my descent. Light still beamed through the stained-glass window still, but there was no warmth to any of it. I was at the landing when it struck me where I had just come from.

I had descended down the wrong side of the stairway. Somehow, despite retracing the steps I had only just made, I was on the complete opposite side of the house. Perhaps I was confused, but I knew I wasn’t. Something was wrong. I had to find my mother and leave. She couldn’t think me crazier than my grandfather had been and even then I didn’t need to explain anything right away. I could say I saw a rat. She hated rats. She hated sleeping near them even more. That would do. I began to shout and holler for my mother all throughout the first floor. I ran through the kitchens, I looked down into the cellar, I popped out into the backyard; all the while avoiding the reflections that surrounded me everywhere I went.

She was nowhere to be found on the first floor or the basement cellar. I realized I would need to check the second floor and I felt sick. Why was I so afraid? I only needed to leave and I would be fine. I did not need to feel so strange about it. I would walk right up those stairs, find my mother, and leave. That’s all there was to it. I marched my way back towards the main entrance, started up the left side of the stairs to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy, and froze on the landing when I heard the screaming.

It was a scream infused with the heaviness of grief and dark tones of disgust. It sounded like my mother, and it had come from behind me. I had to go back up the right-side now. I needed to check what was wrong and I needed to move quickly. Only, I found myself moving at a snail’s pace. Step by step there was a struggle. I couldn’t get myself to move without the most strenuous effort. It was like being in a dream.

However, as slow as I was moving, I still made progress. Inch by inch I progressed up the stairs and toward the only open door in the hallway. By the time I made it to the study’s door, the screaming had ceased, but it was almost preferable to the noise that had taken its place. It had become something of a moan, mixed with dry-heaving, and the occasional swallowing of air down a coarse open throat. I turned to enter the study and stopped in the doorway.

There was a man sitting at the only desk in the room without a mirror attached. Near that desk sat the globe with a mirror, which had now been closed.

This man was my grandfather. He wasn’t dressed anything like him, but it was definitely him. He was shaved, his hair was cut, and he wore a full burgundy suit with a dark purple tie. He never wore suits, even at weddings and other such events that called for them. Also, he was supposed to be dead.

Nonetheless, he was there. Scribbling aimlessly on a piece of paper that sat in front of him. He didn’t appear to be writing in English, or any language I had ever seen. It was mostly symbols. Next to him sat a large stack of papers that seemed to be similarly marked with those symbols. I stood there for a couple minutes. I realized at one point I had been holding my breath. So, I started to breathe.

He hadn’t looked up yet. I’m not sure he even knew I was there. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. I ignored him, and he ignored me. I wanted to turn away and leave, but there was another moan, then a gagging noise, and a wailing cry cut through the air like thunder.

It came from the secret room. It was obvious now. I was going to be forced to return there. Circumstances as strange as they were, I would have to check on my screaming crying mother, and to do that I would have to walk past my recently deceased grandfather while he worked on his symbols in his burgundy suit and purple tie. Something about it all felt right. The sun cut through the windows as I took my first step. Warmth passed over me as I turned the knob of the secret door. I didn’t stop to check if my grandfather had noticed. I didn’t care. Nothing mattered so much as checking on my wailing screaming mother. I entered the secret room.

I wasn’t alone in there. Lit only by the dull orange light of a standing lamp in the corner stood a woman I had seen somewhere before. She was gazing into the reflection of the wall-sized mirror with the black spiraling wood frame. She was impeccably dressed as well, wearing a lavish purple gown while holding a bouquet of burgundy roses. Like my grandfather in the room behind us, she did not acknowledge my presence in any noticeable manner. Instead she wept. She was crying a thick mucus-like substance that slowly pattered onto the wooden floor with more force than any tears I had ever shed, and it was turning the area around her into a mushy opaque puddle. The wailing was not hers, however. She was deathly silent in her sorrow.

The wailing had been the reflection. The glass vibrated as he approached it. As he walked closer the details became more and more vivid. In that reflection was an entirely different scene. There was no lamp, and neither him nor the impeccably dressed woman next to him. Instead, there were the same two mirrors on either wall, one golden rimmed, the other plain, with only a rug in the center of the room. On that rug was where his mother sat, clutching at the horribly maimed corpse of her son. Upon seeing this he was gone. Something else remained. It walked into the mirror, past the mother and her son, and closed the door behind them.