Mirror Image

Marlo Uroya has always prided herself on being one of the top photographers in capturing exotics in the wild--she’s quick with a shutter, discerning with animal tracks, and seems to have been a wonderful person in a past life. She’s fallen from cliffsides, has found her arm trapped within the maw or an agitated jaguar, and has been bitten by a variety of poisonous bugs. Her coworkers and rivals alike have joked that she has a predisposition for uncanny survival, and she’s unable to do much more than laugh, shrug her shoulders, and thank the photography gods. 

What they don’t know is that for each award-winning photo she’s nearly died to capture, she’s sold a year of her life to the demon who calls her bedroom mirror home. 

It appeared three years prior to today. 

She visited a thrift store in New Mexican town called Truth Or Consequences. She’d been attracted by the unusual name and, within minutes of entering the town, had found herself standing in front of a thrift store named Or In Between. It was a small building, one story with a mural of the iconic New Mexican landscape painted on the side. The paint was chipping, the windows covered in dust and sand, but the open sign flashed its neon hello and beckoned her inside. 

It was windy, her first day in Truth Or Consequences. She’d worn her sand shield, was grateful for it as sand swept through the small town like waves through a reef. The red brick of the building and the beige hue of the sky disappeared as she entered the front door, brushing herself off on the welcome mat. Sandstorms in the area weren’t as common as most thought, but when they did hit, they hit hard. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks, brushing off granules of sand and dirt. 

“Welcome in,” a small woman called from behind a glass counter. She wore a patterned bandana over a messy bun, her skin papery and wrinkled with age though her green eyes glittered brightly. “Take your time looking around. You never know what might find you.” 

Marlo thanked her, dipping her head in a motion she hoped came across as respectful. Her camera hung from her neck, heavy around it as she peered around at the first section of the thrift store. She could see no other customers, but an old song was crooning through the speakers in the ceiling, tinny but comforting. 

“One thing, dear,” the woman said as Marlo passed by, and something in her tone had Marlo stopping to look her way, “no pictures, please.” 

“Of course,” Marlo nodded vigorously, even as she cursed inwardly, venturing further into the thrift store. The set-up was labyrinthian, the booths she passed by a maximalist’s dream. 

Her photography career hadn’t taken off the way she’d hoped it would. She made petty money by spending her days and vacations seeking out places she’d never been before—she was on a work trip which allowed her a day of recreation, which she’d decided to spend alone in Truth Or Consequences. 

She perused the shelves for an hour before turning a corner and falling still. At the end of the sprawling carpet, hanging quietly on a wooden lattice, was a pitch-black mirror. It was in the shape of an oval, with a black boarder carved in the shape of Victorian lace. The face of the mirror was pure black; as she stepped closer, she saw the lines of her legs, watched her torso become finely outlined, and once she was a foot away, she saw the freckles on her face, the long braids her hair was strung into. Though the surface was dark, it was well-polished, and she could see herself nearly as clearly as one would were this a regular mirror. 

She’d never been one for superstition—her grandmother was a native New Mexican woman who spread salt along her windowsills and the bases of doorways, who prayed to ancient gods and believed the souls of her ancestors danced through the air with the winds of a sandstorm. She’d tried to instill Marlo with a belief in the supernatural. She’d taken her out on long hikes, raised a craggy finger to trace the outline of the mesas and tell her ‘that, my dear, is where we come from and where we return to’. 

“To the rocks?” Marlo had asked, ten years old and kicking the dirt as she dreamed of the pistachio ice cream and lemonade waiting back at home. 

“To the horizon,” her grandmother had corrected gently. When Marlo glanced at her, she’d had a look of reverent peace on her face, the pink of the sunset dusting her cheeks and shining within her eyes. “To the space between here and nowhere. It’s a space no living being should go, and a space where no supernatural force can escape from. We are divided, but we are the same.” 

Marlo hadn’t understood her then. She didn’t understand her, even now. Her grandmother had died five years prior to her standing before the mirror, had fallen ill and passed within a month of diagnosis. Marlo would think of her every time she peered out over the mesas, every time her eyes trailed along the horizon line. 

Marlo reached out and brushed her fingers over the mirror’s surface—electricity pricked at her fingertips, her hair standing up on its ends. She wasn’t afraid, though—rather, she felt as if energy had begun to hum inside of her, an excitement she couldn’t quite place. She wanted this mirror—it was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. 

Her home back in Washington was filled with all manner of trinket. She tried to find something of interest everywhere she went, wanted to take a piece of it home with her to preserve the memory. It settled her soul, looking over at the little things she accumulated and remembering she’d made it out of her dusty New Mexican home. 

She stepped back and peered over her shoulder. She was far enough into the thrift store, and she hadn’t heard or seen another person since she’d entered. The old woman had looked far too frail to spend her days pacing around the store. She was utterly alone in this section of The In Between. 

She lifted her camera, glancing over her shoulder once more before training her eyes on the mirror. In its reflection, she held her camera up. Her finger hovered over the button, and just before she took the shot, movement darted through the darkened reflection of the mirror. She whirled around, lowering her camera as an excuse sprung up from her chest. 

“I was just—“ 

But there was nobody there. The mirror was located at the end of a long hallway, lined with bustling booths filled to the gils with old porcelain tea sets, VCRs, and racks of clothes. One rack stuck out from its booth slightly, with colorful vestments hanging from velvet hangers. Marlo crept forward down the hall, peered around the corner and into each booth. 

She was the only one in this section of the store. She laughed quietly to herself before jogging back towards the mirror. If she was going to take a photo, she’d need to do it now. 

She positioned herself back where she’d been, her index finger hovering over the trigger. Inhaled a shaky breath, exhaled a steady one. She pressed the button down, her heart trilling at the familiar shutter of the camera, and pulled back. 

If she’d have left then, she may have been alright. If she’d have settled with a photo, what befell her next may never have happened. But she didn’t—she lifted the mirror from its lattice, cradled it carefully in her arms as she made her way back through the labyrinth, and set it on the counter before the old woman. 

It had cost nine dollars. 

Now, it hangs in the entryway of her Spokane apartment. It stands out against the eggshell-painted walls and the otherwise earthen-toned furniture she’d decorated her home with. 

It took a month for her to realize there was a demon living within her mirror. 

She’d been peering into it one day—she’d thrown a dinner party, her guests having just left, and was leaning against the door as she swirled her wine in its glass. They’d all remarked on its stunning quality, which Marlo had felt a swell of pride at. She had an eye for detail, and when others noticed this, it reaffirmed her, made her feel that her pipe dream of becoming a world-renowned photographer may not be quite so out of reach. 

She’d pushed off the door, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of the way as she made sure her lipstick hadn’t been smeared out of place upon goodbyes, and had dropped her wine glass onto the tile floor as a face not her own appeared, layered above hers. 

She shrieked, stumbling backwards. A shard of glass wedged itself into her foot, but she couldn’t tear her gaze from the face in the mirror. 

“You know, I’ve always said that to waste a glass of red is to sin unforgivably,” The face crooned. Marlo’s heart stuttered in her chest. The face had papery skin, eye-less sockets, and a wide, unnerving grin that stretched from one side of its face to the other. 

“Wh—what is—?” 

“Dear me,” the face sighed, and Marlo expected if it had eyes they’d be rolling. She heard herself hyperventilating, placed a hand over her chest as it rose and fell haltingly. “Can we skip this bit? After hundreds of years, one grows tired of being gawked at like a common animal.” 

“Who are—“ Marlo shook her head, attempting to swallow her own panic, “what is this? A trick?” 

Yes, a trick. Surely! She lurched forward, ignoring the spark of pain in the soles of her feet as her blood mingled with the merlot. She lifted the mirror, ignoring the long-suffering sigh of the face within it, and examined the back. A switch, or a button she hadn’t noticed before—surely, this was a battery operated mirror, meant to pop out and surprise whoever peered into it. A Halloween decoration—relief flooded through her at the though. Such a simple explanation. She’d always told others of Occham’s Razor, and now here she was, proving it to herself. 

But there was no button. No switch. No batteries to empower the face, which was muttering to itself on the other side of the mirror. 

She placed the mirror back on the wall, took a step backwards. The glass crunched beneath her feet. She barely felt its bite. 

“What is this?” She said hollowly, terror muting her senses. Her mind was buzzing, dizzying. This wasn’t possible, there was surely some explanation she wasn’t seeing. 

“I, my dear,” it announced proudly, “am no mere thing. I am the key to your success. I am the conduit of your good fortune. Speak to me your desire, and I will make it so.” 

“What…” Marlo turned away, her shaking hand covering her mouth as nervous laughter burst from her. This was insane. This made no sense. She’d turned the mirror this way and that, had found no mechanism which could have spontaneously turned on. There was no battery box, no charging port through which someone could have charged it. The mirror, impossibly, was alive. “What are you? Am I…” She shook her head, panic rolling around in her chest like marbles dropped in a dryer. “Am I insane?” 

“As of right now, no,” the mirror replied simply. She glanced at it. The face watched her, an unimpressed set to its mouth. “Tell me your greatest desire, and I will bring it to life. All you need do is speak.” 

“I…” her voice shook, “I want to be a famous photographer.” 

“Ah,” the face nodded, pensive, “an occupation which requires great risk in order to receive such a reward. I can give you this. Spread your blood across my mirror’s face, and I shall grant you the ability you require to attain your dream.” 

She wasn’t sure why she did it, even to this day. She reached down after only a moment’s hesitation, her eyes locked to the socket-less pits of the face in the mirror as she brushed her fingers along the soles of her feet. Her hand came away slicked with crimson blood. She wiped the blood horizontally across the face of the mirror, let out a shaking gasp as the face shuddered. As she watched, hair sprouted from its scalp, color returned to its skin, eyes sprouted within its sockets, and within a minute, her own face stared back at her, a foreign grin spread across it. 

“Ah, that’s lovely,” her voice wafted out from the mirror now, its tone something she’d never heard from herself before. “Now, dear. Go out into your world. Risk everything—your life will never be lost, long as I remain here on your wall.” 

“My… life?” She echoed. 

“Do with my instruction what you will. You will not die, no matter the risk you take. What you do with this ability is up to you.” 

Marlo had taken the mirror’s advice, had ventured out into the world and risked a life she no longer feared losing to take some of the greatest shots of her generation. She hadn’t known that, upon spreading her blood across the blackened surface of the mirror, she had taken in a curse which would travel throughout her bloodline, current and future alike. Though the gift had enabled her to escape death at each turn, it cursed her relatives to encounter it frequently. 

One can only escape death so many times.