The Last Reflection

“Are you sure you want to look into it now?”, asked Mrs. Simms, nervously shuffling a small stack of index cards from hand to hand. 

The cards, Mr. Stanley had learned, contained information on many of the items up for auction, including the ornate full-length mirror he had just purchased for a staggering ten thousand dollars. 

Her auburn hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her black glasses hung from her neck by a sparkling onyx and blood red beaded cord. Nearby on a desk was her open briefcase. 

“Considering its reputation,” she said, “you might wish to wait a little while; at least until you've had time to prepare. Or perhaps even until you get it home?” She sounded almost hopeful about that last suggestion.

Mr. Stanley fiddled with his rust-colored necktie, which had refused to lay flat all morning. It contrasted with his starched white shirt and the dark navy blue of his suit.

“I confess I'm far too eager to wait,” he said, then added: “Tell me; do you believe the stories?” 

Mrs. Simms froze for a moment, her index cards growing still in her hands, then looked around as if to ensure no one else was nearby to hear her. “It's not a matter of belief,” she said carefully, lowering her voice. “I've seen it with my own eyes. And once you've looked into it, whether or not to believe is no longer a choice you get to make.” 

She placed the index cards inside her briefcase, retrieved some other papers, then turned to look him in the eyes. Her gaze was piercing, unwavering. She’d meant every word she'd said, he thought.

He gripped his cane tighter, his knuckles turning white. This was sounding more and more promising. He'd first heard of the peculiar mirror via a friend who both was a regular at these kinds of estate auctions and also knew of his interest in items that defied conventional description. He now had a modest collection of such objects; the first of these to be purchased had been a handmade spirit board that was reputed to belong to a woman who – while still living – had described herself as both a witch and a spiritual medium. After her passing, the board was said to house her spirit, and the auctioneer had claimed that it had been proven to answer truthfully all questions put to it. He'd jumped at the chance to purchase it for five hundred dollars, only to find later that its properties as a truth-speaking supernatural object were more non-existent than merely exaggerated. 

He blamed himself for being taken in. In the year 1929, he should not have been so easily fooled by superstitious nonsense, he admonished himself. That small disappointment aside, the board had begun his intense fascination with such things of a spiritual nature, so it still held a special place in his collection. Five years had passed since then, and he'd acquired a few smaller objects of similarly questionable claims; however, he'd been appropriately skeptical of those items even at the time of purchase, so he wasn't truly disappointed by their lack of authenticity. 

He considered now the extraordinary conviction of Mrs. Simms’ words:

“...once you've looked into it, whether or not to believe is no longer a choice you get to make.” 

The words made his breath come more quickly. “Tell me,” he said. “Please. Tell me what you saw when you looked in the mirror.”

Mrs. Simms perched her glasses on the end of her nose as she gazed at one of the papers she'd pulled out of her briefcase, then handed it to him. “Your bill of sale, to prove you've paid for it,” she explained. 

Then she sighed, and addressed him with what seemed like great reluctance. Peering over her glasses, she said, “You'll like as not think I’m insane at first; but you'll believe me soon enough, I expect.

She removed her glasses again, letting them rest on their beaded cord against her crisp, tightly buttoned white blouse. “All right, I'll tell you what I saw, as long as you promise to keep it between us. If you tell anyone, I'll deny ever having said anything at all. Do I have your word?”

He gave his word. Of course he did; he would have said anything to hear her story. He had to know. 

“First, you should know that I'm not the first to have seen something…odd. Some of the mirror’s previous owners have shared similar stories.” As she spoke, she reached out and adjusted the white cloth covering the mirror’s glass to make sure it didn't slip off and fall to the floor. 

“I understand,” he said, eager to hear more. “Do you have records of all the previous owners?”

“Oh, my, no. This mirror is quite old, Mr. Stanley, perhaps older than you realize. Our records show it was listed on the cargo manifest from a ship named ‘Siren’s Call’ that traveled from St. Petersburg, Russia to Salem Massachusetts in 1803. The manifest attributes the mirror to someone with the initials ‘J.P.’, which corresponds with the name Joseph Payne, the earliest owner of the mirror we could verify.”

“But there were other owners before him?”, asked Mr. Stanley.

“Oh, almost certainly,” she said. “We simply do not have records for them. But the craftsmanship and techniques of the carved gilded wooden frame and the tin-mercury coating used to produce the mirrored glass suggests that this mirror was likely created in Italy during the middle of the Baroque period. It has probably had many owners since its creation; we'll likely never know exactly how many or who they were.”

“And how do we know of Mr. Payne’s…experiences…with the mirror?” 

As he spoke, Mr. Stanley shifted his feet, altering his stance. Despite his extreme interest in the subject being discussed, he had begun to tire. It had been a long day, and he'd been standing for quite some time now. He was not as young as he once was, and his feet, legs, and back were beginning to exhibit the familiar dull ache that he now associated with his middle-aged existence. He wished there was a chair or bench nearby. 

“In Mr. Payne’s case, he was kind enough to leave behind a journal,” said Mrs. Simms. “He, like you, I suspect, was fascinated with the occult and all matters of spiritualism, and kept detailed records of his attempts to interact with the spirit world. He wrote that when he looked into the mirror – at the age of 31 – he saw his reflection as that of a very old man with a large scar on the left side of his face, dressed in an intricate nightshirt. He became convinced that the mirror was showing him a vision of how he would appear on the exact day and time of his death. He lived the next six decades without the slightest fear of dying, since he was all but convinced he would live to be very old. And in fact, he finally passed away from pneumonia at the advanced age of 91…after having injured the left side of his face falling out of bed that very morning.”

“So,” Mr. Stanley said, “It was exactly as the mirror had shown him. That is quite remarkable, truly.”

“So it would seem.” she said. “But not everyone has enjoyed their experience with the mirror, Mr. Stanley. Long before his death, Mr. Payne sold the mirror to a Mr. Isaiah Richards, who purchased it as a gift for his wife Henrietta in 1830. Though we have no first-hand account of what she may have seen in the mirror, medical records of the time period show that some time after she received the mirror, she began to exhibit serious signs of mental illness. She was treated for acute chronic ‘female hysteria’ – an unfortunately common diagnosis during that period – and was hospitalized for well over a year. Then, not long after her release and return home, she reportedly shot herself in the head with a flintlock pistol. Quite a messy end indeed, poor dear. A ghastly business to be sure.”

“Oh my,” said Mr. Stanley with a grimace. “If the mirror foretold the manner of her death with any accuracy, I can only imagine the horror of the reflection she saw in it. Poor woman, indeed. No wonder she went mad. But please, you were going to tell me of your own experience. I'd quite like to hear what you saw.”

“Very well. My own experience, as you can imagine, was…unsettling. I hadn't intended to look, mind you. But the mirror had been left uncovered by a careless auction house employee, whom I'm afraid also got a glimpse of his own…future. He quit the same day, but refused to say why he was quitting or what he saw. As for myself, I wish I could say I was surprised by what the mirror revealed, but I really wasn't. I entered the storage room unaware that the mirror was uncovered, and found myself staring at my own reflection before I even realized what I was looking at. I nearly didn't recognize myself, to be quite frank.”

Mr. Stanley looked apologetic. “I'm sorry, I fear my curiosity has made me somewhat insensitive. If you'd rather not talk about it…”, he began.

“Oh no, it's quite all right. In fact, it feels good to tell this story to someone who won't think I'm crazy”, she said with a relieved smile. “And in my case, the experience wasn't as bad as it might have been. After all, if the reflection I saw can be believed, I still have a good many years ahead of me.”

“Yet you said the experience was unsettling?”, asked Mr. Stanley. “May I ask why?”

Mrs. Simms hesitated only the briefest of moments, then seemed to reach a decision. 

“The women in my family often inherit a medical condition known as alopecia,” said Mrs. Simms. “Are you familiar with it, Mr. Stanley?”

“I'm not, no.”, he admitted.

“Essentially, it's hair loss. A slow, gradual thinning of the hair until nothing else grows. In my family, the women who are afflicted tend to become completely bald. As a child, I once saw my grandmother without her wig through her bedroom door’s keyhole. I hadn't even known she had lost her hair, and the sight of an old woman with a head as smooth and shiny as a newborn’s bottom, well…it quite frightened me at the time. And that's what I saw when I looked in your mirror, Mr. Stanley. I was an old woman, many years on from now; there were deep wrinkles on my face. I was wearing a lovely blue floral print dress. But I was completely bald. As I said, it took me a moment to even recognize myself, and when I finally did, you can imagine the shock I felt.”

Mr. Stanley tried to look sympathetic. “I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Simms. That must have been horrible.”

“To tell the truth,” she said, “Now that I've had a chance to come to terms with what I saw, it's been rather freeing. I no longer have to spend years wondering about whether or not I'm going to lose my hair. I've ‘ripped off the bandage’, as it were. Now that I know for sure, I can stop worrying about it. I feel…at peace, as strange as that may sound.”

“I see,” he said, careful not to sound dismissive. If he was honest, he felt she was fortunate to have confirmation that she still had a long life ahead of her, bald or not. 

“May I ask what you're hoping to see, Mr. Stanley?”, asked Mrs. Simms, interrupting his train of thought.

Mr. Stanley cleared his throat awkwardly then rested more of his weight on his cane. He really did want to sit down, but there was nothing for it. 

“The men in my family have a high incidence of a particular kind of cancer,” he said, delicately. “I see my doctor regularly for checkups, and to ease my mind, but I've seen too many of my family’s brothers, fathers, and grandfathers cut down well before their prime; if this mirror can reassure me that I'm meant to live a long and healthy life, it would be a blessing.”

“Or a curse.” countered Mrs. Simms. Her voice was thin and a bit tense. “I suspect there have been a fair number of people over the years that have not enjoyed their little glimpses into the future. When one receives information through such sources as this, there's often a cost. Perhaps neither you nor I will have to pay that cost today, but sooner or later, someone else certainly will. Just ask poor Mrs. Henrietta Richards.” 

Mr. Stanley looked at her in surprise, his mouth slightly agape. He wasn't sure how to respond to that. He looked away uncomfortably and once again attempted, unsuccessfully, to straighten his crooked tie.

Mrs. Simms returned an errant lock of hair that had fallen into her eyes to its former position behind her ear. Her voice then softened a bit. “Forgive me, Mr. Stanley. That was impolite. I'm afraid the strangeness of this situation has affected my manners. I do hope that you see…whatever it is you hope to see. Truly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Simms,” he said, with a polite nod and a patient smile.

She placed the rest of the papers she'd been holding into her briefcase, then closed the lid and flicked the latches shut with a satisfying click. 

“I'll leave you to it, then. Good luck, Mr. Stanley. I wish you all the best.”

She shook his hand quickly, politely, then took her leave; her high heels left echoing percussive strikes on the cement warehouse floor as she departed.

Mr. Stanley moved in front of the mirror, breathing deeply as he did so. The mirror was still covered by the white cloth, but he felt his heart hammering in his chest. He could see a bit of the gilded gold frame shimmering, peeking out from under the cloth. The frame itself was carved in an angel motif, with ornate wings and feathers decorating the outer structure of the frame. This mirror had cost him a small fortune, yes, but he was convinced that – this time – he'd get his money's worth. He'd finally have his answer, and could stop endlessly ruminating over his own mortality.

His trembling hand reached out and slowly pulled away the white cloth. As he did so, he found himself squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation. He heard the cloth crumple to the floor, then heard nothing but his own ragged breathing. With his eyes still closed, he felt dizzy. For a brief moment, his courage nearly failed him, and he found himself wanting to turn away, to run from the room and never look back. But he’d come too far to stop now. He had to know what was in store for him.

His heart still beating like a bass drum, he opened his eyes. Dust from the fallen cloth still hung in the air; an errant sunbeam from a nearby window appeared like a small spotlight, illuminating the particles of dust in the air as it struck the mirror’s surface. As his gaze fell upon his own reflection, he felt a mixture of fear, rage, and disappointment. His mirror self stared back at him…looking exactly like his current appearance. 

He wasn't a day older. 

He had no mysterious injuries from future accidents.

He was even wearing the exact same suit. His still-crooked rust-colored necktie mocked him in the mirror. 

He stared at his reflection for nearly a full minute, his increasing anger and embarrassment turning his face a deep shade of scarlet, and making it grow hot.

It had all been a farce; yet another trick to scam him out of his money. How many times would he fall for this? He felt like a fool. Well, why shouldn't he? What kind of idiot spends thousands of dollars on a “magic” mirror? He deserved to feel foolish, didn't he? 

He felt particularly betrayed by Mrs. Simms and her obviously false tale of family woe. How she must be laughing at him right now! A new level of anger flared to life, so powerful that it staggered him. His head swam, and his balance faltered. 

He reached out to the mirror to steady himself, but it refused to support him, swiveling slightly away from his touch. He fell down on one knee. The hand with which he'd reached out to steady himself had become numb, almost tingly. He was confused; he felt as though he should be calling out for help, but could not think of why. He tried to speak to his own reflection, to chastise it, to accuse it of trying to trick him, but he found that one side of his face was numb and didn't seem to work properly. His words came out as a slurred collection of meaningless vowel sounds. 

As his vision grew dark, his last thoughts were of the mirror and what a disappointment it had been. If only it had worked. If only…