Roswell Crowley Jr.. Part I

Meeting my own gaze proved to be a challenging task. The intensity of shame weighed heavily upon me. Shifting my focus away, I directed my attention to the background. The elderly storekeeper's antiquated bookcases housed an assortment of seemingly irrelevant items, characteristic of a bygone era. My gaze fixates on a bubble imperfection, an unmistakable sign of the mirror's advancing age.

"How much?" I rasp out, my voice roughened by the lingering smoke.

"For that old mirror? Twenty-five bucks. Hey, throw in something else, and I'll cut you a deal," the storekeeper rattles on, but my attention remains singular—the mirror. Perhaps it's the piece the Studio is searching for.

"I'll snag the mirror for twenty-five bucks, but just that, alright? No need for the extra trinkets," I assert, lifting the mirror. The yellowed price tag discloses a former value of $35. "Hmm, I can sense the spirit in this one," I muse.

"Spirit? What are you talking about?" the shopkeeper questions, a hint of skepticism evident in his expression. The wooden flooring beneath a beige and brown rug creaks lazily as I step in front of the cash counter.

"That old thing has been in my shop for ten years or so. Nobody liked looking into it," the shopkeeper remarks as I hand him twenty-five dollars. "Thank you. Now, are you sure that nothing else in my store will interest you?"

"Interest me? No," I respond honestly, mindful of the looming appointment with Anola in half an hour, a woman who never eases off the accelerator, practically driving her car up my tail! I pick up the mirror, and it wobbles on its base as I hold it up. The vintage cash machine lets out a ding as it opens, and the shopkeeper stows away the money.

"Now, I don't usually ask folks why they bought an item, but what in the mirror enticed you to purchase it?" he inquires, closing the cash drawer with judgmental eyes fixed on mine.

"Mate, do you have a woman back home?" I inquire in return. He smiles and nods, coming across as an all-right chap. Perhaps I should tip him. I reach for my jacket pocket, fumbling in the cluttered space where I can feel a few dollars in change. I pull everything out and toss it into the tip jar, including some loose receipts and a rubber band. "Here for your kind smile and good service."

"Well, thank you," the old man acknowledges, taking out the rubber band and receipts and tossing them away behind the counter. "I reckon you need to clean out your jacket."

“Aye, I reckon I do.”

                                                *  *  *

The entire world eagerly anticipated Anola's upcoming TV show, heralding a new and exhilarating trajectory in her career. Or, at least, that's what our overheads believe. A ghost show? Does no one take this field seriously?

Anola and I, we have our share of conflicts, but we both realized that our mutual gifts contribute positively to the world. The ability to sense the departed, discern their emotions and feelings.

Death, it appears, is merely a pause in existence. I find no anticipation in its direction.

The honk of a car's horn behind mine jolts me from my internal musings, making me aware that the traffic light had turned green.

A sense of unease creeps over me regarding the mirror. Glancing back at it in the backseat, the energy emanating from it triggers a familiar sensation, like bugs crawling beneath my skin.

"God damn it! A poltergeist!" I abruptly pull over to the curbside in the heart of the city, grappling with a disturbing sensation. But no, this isn't a poltergeist; it's a downright demonic presence.

Do you hear me? Roswell…

I instinctively shield my head as my thoughts start to blur, a tangled web within my mind.

I feel no more pain. Roswell, but a burning desire…

Removing my seatbelt, I exit the vehicle, embarking on a lengthy stroll down the street to put some distance between myself and the otherworldly presence. It's a necessary act, for my own well-being. "For Christ's sake, I forgot my phone."

Well, Anola can surely wait for her prized possession from the depths of hell. Scanning my surroundings, a cacophony of voices persists in my head, too many to decipher into coherent phrases. I delve into the inner pocket of my jacket, seeking what I need—aspirin. My head begins to throb, a familiar occurrence in proximity to demonic energy.

I realize the urgency of calling Anola. I'll never hear the end of it if I'm late without a heads-up. Chewing on the aspirin, it leaves a distasteful aftertaste—an unappealing reminder of nothingness, the flavor of medication. The grainy taste of the chewed-up tablet served as a welcomed distraction from the escalating violence and volume of the voices. Anything was better than the relentless cacophony.

Summoning a reserve of willpower, I hasten back to the car and settle into the driver's seat.

Take me to her Roswell…

Accelerating down the street, the voices inundate my mind, a familiar onslaught whenever I confront a demonic entity. It's a sensation Anola, with her remarkable indifference to demonic presences, seldom experiences. Lucky her.

                                                   *  *  *

Pulling up to our apartment studio, my hand itches, and a sensation as if ants are crawling in my lungs. I can't suppress the incessant coughing. Damn demon. Taking the initiative, I step out of my dinged-up car, a testament to its age and wear. Barely able to catch my breath, I stagger towards the back door. As my hand grasps the handle, a jolt of energy stings my skin. Damn demon. Swiftly grabbing the handle, I yank the door open. There, the mirror lies on its back.

Do what you’re told Roswell…

Bounding up the stairs with the mirror in tow, I sense an uncomfortable burning sensation on my skin—not a literal burn, but rather an overwhelming feeling akin to being covered in fire ants. Reaching the top floor, our floor, I sprint to apartment 4-C. It's like any other unit, a medium-sized hallway flanked by average-sized apartments.

Approaching the door, I find it locked—typical of Anola, whose penchant for security often transforms our apartment into a modern-day Fort Knox. Knocking with my free hand, the other still tingling with a burning sensation, I call out, "C'mon Anola, please!" Frustration fuels my desire for a cigarette.

The door unlocks with a click, and she cautiously opens it, peering out. Her eyes fixate on the mirror, and she grimaces, shaking her head. "I can sense the demonic presence in that mirror, Ros."

"You wanted something strong like this! Look, move aside—" I attempt to push the door open, but the chain lock halts its movement. "Jesus Christ, Anola! My arm is burning here."

She slides the lock out, and I push the door aside, revealing our apartment—a cozy living area with a petite kitchen. I set the mirror down on our couch, casting a glance at Anola's disheveled hair and pajamas. Although a part of me wants to remind her of her ongoing contract with our overheads and suggest she tidy herself up, I find no motivation to do so. Why should I care?

"Anola, can you fix yourself up? Yeah?" I couldn't help but add, frustrated. "And listen, I'm bringing Kristine here on Friday."

"Kristine? She's a low-grade psychic. Also known as... a fake," Anola remarks, picking up the mirror and disregarding my suggestion to get ready. Predictably, she examines it, her face contorted in a grimace. Nothing escapes her discerning gaze, but I'm surprised that this demonic presence seems to be affecting her. I suppose things do change.

"So? What do you think?" I inquire, eyeing the mirror. The voices had ceased the moment I entered, and something feels off. "Hey Anola!" She doesn't respond, her gaze fixed on an imperfection in the glass.

"It's perfect, Ros. Just a bit... off-putting. Like an accident you can't look away from," her words barely leaving her lips. My hands start shaking inexplicably. Something is wrong.

"Roswell..." She rarely uses my full name. "This is no demon."

"What do you mean?" I inquire.

"The spirit in this mirror... it's... perfect." Her head turns, and she smiles. "Perfect for the show."

"Is the spirit suffering?" I ask, feeling a burning sensation on my neck.

"No, Roswell." Again, with the full name.

"Okay, let's go to the studio then." I head to the door, realizing I haven't even removed my shoes. I really don't want that mirror here.

"The mirror just cracked!" Anola exclaims, I turn around to witness the mirror split down the middle, with steam billowing from the opening.

"What the hell is this presence?" I ask, my fear now evident. My stomach aches, and my skin feels cold. "Smoke indicates a deadly apparition, An!"

"No, Roswell. It represents me," Anola responds, her tone different, not like her usual self. I feel the urge to run, but my legs are locked in place.

"Who is that?" I inquire, convinced she's possessed.

"The new Anola." Her eyes remain fixed on the mirror. The smoke is dissipating, revealing a void under the glass, akin to the Earth opening to the abyss. Using her right hand, Anola slips her fingers underneath one of the edges of the fractured glass and lifts. Surprisingly, no blood flows from her hand, as it should when glass is involved. Instead, she laughs, opening the glass. The abyss beneath it expands, and my head begins to ache. This is really not good.

Summoning the strength needed to press forward, I take heavy steps. The path becomes clearer, and I seize the mirror, hurling it away from Anola. It crashes to the floor, shattering like a normal mirror would.

"Oh, Jesus," Anola utters with a frown, an uncommon expression on her typically unfazed face. "That was a portal to the afterlife, Ros."

"Let me see your hand." I grasp her petite right hand and observe that no damage has been done. "And how do you know that?"

"The abyss, it's purgatory. Those spirits were trying to find their way out, perhaps to our world or in a vain attempt to reach the heavens above," Anola explains, inspecting the broken mirror. My hands still shake. I ask, "Why would the mirror be a portal to purgatory?"

"I don't know, but I felt it. Remember when we discovered that old cave, somewhere in Canada?"

"Aye, a bloody portal to hell." It's an old memory.

"No, to Purgatory, Ros. These portals are made by God or by accident through projected energy from the afterlife." Anola picks up the glass and looks into it.

"The voices told me to give them to you, like you were needed for their escape," I admit, feeling embarrassed by the weaknesses I exhibit, especially when compared to her.

"That's odd. So, what now, Ros?" She asked, looking up from the floor, a piece of glass still in her hand. "We don't have a piece for the show now."

"Who cares about the show; let's just clean this up," I suggested.

"I was possessed, Ros," Anola's voice was full of shame. I could tell. I always could.

"Nearly possessed. Look, I don't feel anything from the piece anymore. Let's just buck up."

"And roll on?" Anola smirked, our saying. Buck up. Roll on.

Always buck up and roll on, because if spirits don't remind someone of the eventual demise of everyone, nothing will.

                                                 *  *  *

The breezy stroll to the diner provided relief after the portal ordeal. Seated, I perused the menu, contemplating my choice. A cheeseburger, perhaps? How quintessentially American, despite my Coventry roots. Maybe a salad? Anola's predictable preference would likely be chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream - childish. Settling on the burger and fries, I couldn't help but admire Anola, especially considering her recent narrow escape from a potential possession.

The glass was discarded, yet I swear Anola clandestinely pocketed a shard of it. She has a penchant for harboring otherworldly possessions in her room. I fear the remnants of the near-possession might cling to her. I hope not.

"What are you ordering?" she inquires, her gaze fixed on the pancake section of the menu. A sizable image showcases a stack of pancakes adorned with syrup, the golden liquid cascading down the sides. Christ, I'm famished. The visuals aren't making the decision any easier.

"Burger with fries. You?" I inquire.

"I'm not sure," she replies. Oh, she knows. With a final smile and a gesture towards the menu, she settles on her choice – waffles?

"Waffles? I swear you always order pancakes when you come here," I remark, a faint smile playing on my face. "Time for a change?"

"Time for a change," she echoes, looking back at the menu. I can't shake the feeling that something is amiss as I detect a glimmer in her eye.

"Anola?" I inquire, pulling the menu away from her. Our eyes lock, but in that moment, I realize...

They're not her eyes.