THE MIRROR

 

 

 

Absolute calm reigned in the luxuriously furnished room.

In addition to the lit chandelier and the sconces attached to the wall and carrying numerous bulbs, the lamps shone a soft red under their shades.

Sitting near the fire burning in the hearth, Jordono chain-smoked. The large silver ashtray was filled with cigarette butts, and a fragrant cloud of tobacco smoke drifted slowly beneath the cream-colored ceiling.

The phone rang, but Jordon remained motionless. Only his jade-colored eyes turned, filled with concern, toward the noisy device.

After a few stubborn signals—Jordon mechanically counted eleven—the bell fell silent and the man began to breathe more deeply, as if the restored silence lightened his heart.

Thick velvet curtains hung from the windows, blocking out even the slightest ray of the abundant light outside and, at the same time, drowning out the noise of the street.

Assuming, of course, that any noise could be heard from that deserted alley, since Jordon lived in a very remote part of Stokes-Newington , where only a few newly built houses stood, most of them still waiting for prospective tenants.

His own home was new, too. Only the rooms in which he lived were furnished; the rest of the building was completely bare of all furnishings.

The small copper plaque attached to the door bore a very common name: Ph. Jones . And no one, in Stoke-Newington or London, could have guessed that hidden beneath that vulgar patronymic lay the famous Jordon.

Jerry —as his friends called him—had been a true celebrity in the largest cities in the United States. At the head of a prominent gang of gangsters, he had established a true reign of terror there.

Robbery, armed robbery, blackmail, kidnapping, arson, murder… There wasn't a crime he hadn't savored.

He deserved the electric chair a hundred times over. However, the avenging arm of justice had never been extended to him, so feared was its power. Jerry was, above all, very well protected.

Then he had abruptly disappeared from that ambiguous world. They had never found him again anywhere in America. They believed him dead, the victim of some settling of scores.

In reality, he had expatriated himself to Europe and was now living as a peaceful bourgeois in a remote corner of the English capital.

He could rest easy. None of his former friends or accomplices would have been able to identify him. Thanks to a painful but perfectly executed surgical procedure, his facial features had been completely transformed.

However, he had not found the peace he had hoped for; he felt a mysterious and alarming threat hanging over him.

Where could the danger come from?

He was unaware of it, but he nevertheless perceived it clearly and that was enough for him.

He had the telephone installed, but since no one in the country knew him, they never called him. But that afternoon, it rang three times in a row.

"They've located me," he growled, when the doorbell rang for the third time.

The anguish he experienced caused all kinds of disturbing and ghostly images to emerge around him: enormous hands wielding daggers or revolvers, electric chairs, gigantic gallows and sinister guillotines.

Weren't those footsteps echoing in the deserted house? Didn't the staircase creak? And what invisible hand was manipulating the front door lock at that moment?

No, it was nothing more than the insidious wind brushing against the walls outside. The staircase groaned because it was new and still damp. As for the door, it couldn't stop groaning under the brutal buffeting of the draft that made the newly built house shudder.

He went back to smoking cigarette after cigarette and emptied the bottle of whiskey.

Suddenly, a light shadow crossed the room. Jordon began to tremble.

But there was no reason. It was simply a light bulb that, when it burned out, had created a small, dark spot on the wall.

"Nonsense!" he muttered. "No more, no less!"

Still, he couldn't help but slip his hand under the silk cushion of his chair to check if the loaded pistol was still there.

"Why have I retreated to this cursed place?" he asked himself bitterly. "Solitude serves no purpose. It would be better for me to lose myself in the crowd. In movie theaters, dance halls, and nightclubs, there's no risk of encountering ghosts. Whereas here... I must abandon this sinister refuge."

For the fourth time, the phone started ringing. The bell rang stubbornly. Now, nothing seemed able to stop it.

As if pushed by a mysterious force, Jordon placed his hand on the receiver, picked it up, and strained to listen.

The line was clearly broken, as all he heard was a series of frantic crackling sounds. Finally, he heard an unfamiliar voice.

Although someone on the other end of the line was speaking very voluble, he could only catch two or three frequently repeated words:

-The mirror…

Then the communication was abruptly interrupted.

"The mirror? What's wrong with the mirror?" Jordan growled.

There was only one mirror in the house, a magnificent piece that she had bought when she moved into her new home.

It was firmly fixed in a splendid frame, and the slightly greenish glass must have been of Venetian origin.

Jordano turned his eyes toward his acquisition.

It was a superb mirror, of course, in which the light was reflected perfectly, without a single shadow coming to stain it.

But why did he suddenly feel attracted to him?

Trembling with an anxiety he could not explain, he left his seat and approached the mirror, which immediately returned his image.

He bent down, horrified: in the glaucous depths of the glass a shadowy and threatening figure had just appeared.

Fiery eyes shone in their sockets and a grimace of ferocity disfigured their features.

Jordon let out a scream and tried to leap back, but his limbs refused to obey his will. He stood there, petrified, staring into the mirror, where his image grew ever more hideous.

The eyes went dark, the nose was erased. All that remained was an open mouth, with white, pointed teeth. An indescribable horror seized Jordon, who recognized the face of Death.

"Help!" he shouted.

The abominable head made a wild gesture that soon turned into a Homeric laugh, although inaudible.

"No, I don't want to!" Jordon howled. "I don't want to! Justice has never caught me, and neither will you! No!"

Desperate, he threw himself against the mirror with his fists clenched.

The mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Stupefied, Jordon stared in disbelief at the work of art he had just destroyed, his arms raised in the air.

He gave a stupid smile as he watched the blood gushing from the open veins of his torn wrists.

A few moments later he collapsed on the carpet, dead…

"It was a rare piece," lamented the antique dealer Boles , "what was once called a magic mirror , one of those curious objects of purely Venetian origin, a marvelous piece of glass which, when intensely illuminated, deforms the face in a strange way... I called him three times to tell him that it was no ordinary mirror, since it was my employee who sold and delivered it to him."

But I haven't received any answers to my calls. The fourth time, he picked up the receiver, but apparently the line was out of order, because it was almost impossible to understand each other.

 

END

Posted by Paya Frank, Freelance Writer and Editor, at 7:38 AM

Tags: B-013 Stories and Tales
Salt Lake City, Utah Provo, Utah, USA