The Haunting on Huckleberry Hill

He was afraid to blink, in case the moment passed. That he would open his eyes to a dream, drifting helplessly into the night. Time stood so still he could feel the world turn.

Frozen in the warmth of her gaze, he couldn’t conjure a single word worth saying. Perhaps he didn’t need to. She was here. That was enough.

Words often eluded him, at least, the ones that mattered did. With the written, he was a wordsmith, with the hurtful, he was a poet. His mind was a whip that always seemed ready to lash out, and in shameful moments, he lashed out plenty at her. He supposed they did it to each other.  His redemption was that when he couldn’t find the softer words to say, he could always find the right notes to play.

He delicately placed his trembling hands on the surface of the cold, ivory keys, and caressed the haunting melody back into life. The deep, brooding low end of the piano echoed in the vast, empty halls as the shrill, higher notes danced and pierced their way through the air in between. As he played, and she watched, nothing was said, but all was forgiven between them.

As Grayson poured out his composition, he considered that Rosie had never looked so beautiful to him as she did right now. Stood in the pale moonlight, her hair seemed to rise and fall with the teasing of a soft, stirring wind. He longed to reach out and touch her, but supposed that might be a step too far.

After all, she was just a reflection in a mirror.

Earlier that day

He never ventured out much nowadays. It wasn’t the home comforts of his sixteen room mansion that the locals of The Valley referred to as ‘the big place on the hill’. The truth is that since he was a child, Grayson Huckleberry was happy in his own company. He didn’t know if it was nature, or nurture, but he was a loner, for sure.

The air was cold and crisp, with a spiteful wind occasionally taking aim. The town square was emptying out, with closing signs being flipped and shutters slamming down, the latter causing a rattling in Grayson’s sore, hungover head. Passers by chatted and laughed and he discreetly resented every one of them. Occasionally a sideways look fell upon him. He was used to that. He was the village millionaire, after all, and after this latest scandal, he was a bona-fide local celebrity. He pulled up the collar of his black overcoat, and carried on until he reached his destination.

Valley Antiques. His reason for leaving the sanctuary of his home stood leaning in the cluttered, dusty window display, amongst a plethora of sun faded relics. Just where it was the last time he saw it. Just how he dreamt it. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. It was a town where nothing ever changed. He stared at it, and it stared back at him. It was the kind of shop that looked closed even when it wasn’t, but when he pulled the handle of the door, to his relief, it opened.

The small shop was unattended, but when the door slammed shut behind him, Grayson heard the voice of the owner bellow from the back room.

“Just a minute.”

An uneasy feeling akin to claustrophobia washed over Grayson. There were no customers in sight and yet he felt crowded and overwhelmed. He’d never seen such an impressive collection of ghastly, useless junk. The fact that anyone would willingly visit and make a purchase here blew his mind, then the horrible revelation settled in. His worst fear confirmed. He was about to become one of them.

A moment later, the owners rosy, smiling face appeared behind the counter. A moment after that, when he saw Grayson was the one who awaited him, that same smile promptly disappeared.

“Hello Charles.” said Grayson

“Mr Huckleberry, hi. You know, I’m just closing up—"

“I know what I want. I won’t keep you long.” Grayson chimed in impatiently.

“I didn’t think I’d see the day when you became a customer here.” said Charlie, stepping around the counter and approaching his new client

“That makes two of us.” replied Grayson, looking around as though he might catch something from the place.

“Well. What can I do for you?” said Charlie, face to face with Grayson now

“The mirror in the window display. I’d like to buy it.”

“Is that so?” asked Charlie

“We’ve spoken about it once before. You won’t remember, but I passed by with my wife a couple of years ago and she—”

“I remember,” said Charlie, taking his turn to interrupt, “I’m truly sorry to hear of that awful accident. My condolences.”

Grayson dropped his head and nodded awkwardly. Charlie’s sincerity had caught him off guard, and it’s intensity was too overwhelming to look at, like staring directly at the sun.

“Well, I guess you’ll be glad to see it go. It’s been here for a while.” He said, finally

“Oh that’s been sold a few times. You must have heard the stories?” he said with a nervous chuckle. Grayson wasn’t laughing. “Well. I guess maybe the town gossip doesn’t make it all the way up to you on the hill. It’s just urban legend, really, but it keeps us entertained, you know?”

“I know there’s a story attached, she said something about it at the time. I don’t remember what exactly. Something about a French guy. I wasn’t listening all that closely, but she enjoyed the story, and I just enjoyed her enjoying it.” said Grayson, staring into a daydream before snapping himself out of it. “so, what other bits of gossip are helping the hours pass around here. I guess you heard the one about the wealthy jingle king and his cheating wife?”

Charlie shuffled about uncomfortably, anxiously  scratching at his white beard. “I just heard about the crash , that’s all.”

“Oh come on. She was with her Spanish tutor in the car, I’m sure that little gem made it’s way to you.”

“Look, it’s like I said, I ought to be shutting down now. The mirror isn’t an item that’s for sale. It’s kind of like a town mascot. It ends up in the window display, usually on Halloween. That kind of thing.” explained Charlie

“It’s November 22^nd?” queried Grayson

“Yeah well. Things are a little behind. That doesn’t make it any more for sale.”

“Alright look, I haven’t got time for this,” said Grayson, reaching into his inside coat pocket, and pulling out a cheque book, “you got a pen?”

“what for?” asked a bewildered Charlie

“Write a cheque, whatever you want, ok?” Snapped Grayson

“Now, you understand this isn’t some bartering technique? That mirror, that mirror is not for sale. I have plenty of others just like it that you’re more than welcome to buy. Why don’t you come back tomorrow—”

“There is no tomorrow. I need it now. Tonight. And it has to be that mirror. No other thing will do. I don’t care if it’s like a part of the family or if the townies around here are sad to see it go. You’ve got overheads and I’ve got cold, hard cash, so name a price and get on with it.” Grayson raged

Charlie was taken aback. There weren’t many locals that would attest to a pleasant meeting with Grayson Huckleberry. Brushes with him were rare and invariably off-beat. Even though there were times he displayed big acts of generosity, it was often seen as disingenuous, and treated with suspicion. Now, though, he saw something more sinister at hand. Something dangerous. Grief is a black hole, and some people never reappear. 

“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on here, Mr Huckleberry?” He said finally

Grayson looked immediately agitated, but before he could spit out his rebuke, Charlie pre-emted him

“Now hold on. You walk into my store passed closing time. You demand to buy something that I’ve told you, respectfully,  isn’t for sale, and now you’re fixin’ to be unpleasant because I’m asking you what the hell is going on. This is my shop, and the fact you could buy and sell it a hundred times over is neither here nor there. Now, you tell me why you want that exact mirror so badly or you turn and go right now.”

It was Grayson’s turn to be caught off guard. He hadn't anticipated a response from Charlie so firm and direct. He realised now that he wasn’t going to throw his money or weight around and get what he wanted. He supposed that when all else failed, he may as well give the truth a go.

“A dream.” said Grayson

“A dream?” repeated a perplexed Charlie

“It may not surprise you to know that I haven’t been sleeping so well lately. I lost my wife twice in the same moment. Once to the crumpled car wrapped around that tree, and once to her betrayal  with that grease ball Victor. I found out about both at the same time. I can’t ask her about it. I can’t ask her why or how long. I can’t scream at her for doing this to me or beg her to give us one more try. I simply can’t. The other night I washed down a handful of sleeping pills with a tumbler of scotch and I finally drifted away. When I did I had the most vividly beautiful dream. It was late spring, but not in our time. It was maybe a hundred years ago, or more, I don’t know. People were dressed well, and sophisticated. I was actually pleased to be in their presence. I stood outside your shop with Rosie, looking in the window. Our reflections stared back at me in that mirror. We were smiling. Happy. Rosie had a this glow, this radiance about her. One I hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe I’d never seen it, and I just longed to. All the while this beautiful melody played from this old music box in your display. It took me a while to hear it but when I did, I realised it had been playing the entire time. It permeated everything. For a moment I thought...”

Grayson’s tired eyes glistened and Charlie thought a tear might escape any blink, now.

“You thought what?” asked Charlie, surprised by the tremor in his own voice

“I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. The only thing keeping me going is composing the song I heard from the music box in that dream, and now I have it. I’ve recreated it and it’s perfect. I want to get as close to that feeling as I can. Do you understand?”

“I do.” said Charlie

“Whatever is stopping you from selling it to me, please reconsider. I have to have it.”

“Son, you might not be a superstitious man, and I don’t know that I am. But suppose you took this mirror home, then took another handful of those pills, and washed ‘em down with liquor again, and suppose you don’t wake from that beautiful slumber this time?”

“I’ll be happy with that.” answered Grayson

“Yeah, but I won’t.” responded Charlie

“Alright. You got me. I have to ask. What is it with this thing? What's the story?” asked Grayson

“It was given to me about twenty years ago, not long after I opened this place, by a buddy of mine called Ed Winter. Ed did house clearances back in those days, and before taking the stuff to the dump, he would swing by here first with his truck and see if there was anything I thought I could make use of in here. Well, it was mostly old people’s homes that Ed was clearing, but this one time he turned up here all excited. He’d been at the house of Roger Visage. You heard of him?”

“No.” said Grayson bluntly, not even feigning interest in Charlie’s story

“Well, before you, we had another resident artist, a painter. French fella, good looking. Didn’t speak much English but charming all the same. Never did see it comin’ with him. He seemed such a happy soul but I suppose you just never know with people.”

“See what comin’?” asked Grayson

“His suicide. He’d stared into that thing a little too often. A little too closely.

“What do you mean?” asked Grayson. Charlie had his full attention now.

“No one had seem him for about a month before he did it, and it transpires that he’d been locked away, working on a self portrait and slowly losing his mind. Night after night, he sat there staring into that mirror, until something moved inside of him, and finally gave way. Ed was excited by the scandal at first, but he called me later that night, and there was something different in his voice. He told me about the many portraits scattered on the table by that mirror in Visage’s tiny apartment, and how something changed in the artists green eyes with every new attempt. They hollowed out, further and further, until eventually they were blank. Empty. Gone. He said the kid aged ten years in the small collection of pictures, and while his technique declined towards the end, the portraits became more and more striking. Ed laughed about it with his co-workers at the time, but in the late hours when you’re alone and the cogs start turning, it wasn't so funny. That was the last time I spoke to him. He died of a heart attack two days later.”

Charlie took a slow step towards Grayson, his own face had taken on a strange intensity during the telling of the story.

“Are you hearing me? Seeing the big picture?”

“Sounds like this kid had a few issues besides being a crappy artist.” said Grayson, coldly

“His girlfriend had left him. Just before he started shutting himself away. Heartbreak is a great motive for doing something stupid. Maybe you know what I'm talking about? Now, People around here know the story of poor Roger Visage, and at some point – I don’t know why or when, exactly – but the sadness gave way to a sort fun fascination with that mirror. I guess I’m complicit in that, but as you pointed out, I have over heads. I sold the mirror twice following Ed’s death. You know what happened?”

“Something bad, I assume?” answered Grayson

“One car crash and one house fire, and somehow the damn thing always finds it’s way back to me. Now I prefer to keep it as a light hearted artefact. I haven’t sold it since, and life has been better for it. So maybe you understand why I’m trying my best not to make a sale here. Any questions?” asked Charlie

“Do you deliver?” answered Grayson

Back to the moment

Grayson hammered away his symphony as the loving spirit of his wife observed with adoration. The radiant glow he longed for, that he saw in his dream, was ever present and it illuminated the shadows of his mansion and the darkness in his heart. Drunk with power, he knew now what he’d always suspected; that he was the greatest composer of all time. He’d earned a fortune from his jingles, and now he’d summoned the dead. He was a little drowsy, no doubt the effect of his new favourite cocktail of sleeping pills, painkillers, scotch and heartache, but he was performing beautifully.

Until.

A wrong note. In key, but wrong all the same. He shook it off and carried on. A few bars later. Another clanger. The sharpness of it this time impossible to shrug off. Embarrassed, he glanced up at the mirror. If anything, Rosie looked even happier. Grayson threw himself back into the song, or at least, he tried to. The piano was responding very differently. He couldn’t find the notes he was looking for. It was a complete betrayal, as though the instrument had abandoned him during the performance of his life. He tried again, hammering harder and more precisely, as though he could will it back to life. He couldn’t. His perfect, hauntingly beautiful melody had been lost, and all that was left was the haunting. Minor, dissonant tones were all that remained, his heart beat with panic, and this time when he searched for Rosie, her head was turned. She had company. A hand slowly slithered around her hip like a snake. Grayson’s wide eyes observed with horror as Rosie pulled the man into view.

Victor.

The pony-tailed grease ball, clad in a ghastly red suit, so bright it made Grayson squint, howled in laughter, as his hands writhed all over Rosie, who responded in vivid pleasure with every touch. Death had been kind to him, his already statuesque good looks only seemed more defined and chiselled on the other side. There was something else, too. Something in the way he moved. He’d acquired an almost musical grace, like a dancer. Grayson stood from his stool, from the deepest darkest depths of his soul he screamed for Rosie, but she couldn’t hear him. The unholy, twisted piano symphony continued to play and drowned him out. Rosie covered Victor in hot, breathless kisses and Grayson fell to his knees, tears stinging his eyes, and the horrendous piano ensemble filling his ears.

He fell to the floor, eyes clasped shut and hands covering his ears, failing to drown out the ungodly storm of musical dissonance as it raged on. Until suddenly.

Silence.

Only the thudding of his beating heart and trembling breath. He opened his eyes, and rose slowly to his knees.

He looked over at the mirror. A face. But not Rosie’s.

It was a man’s face. But not Victor’s.

An artists face. With hollow, green eyes. Almost blank. Gone.