Mirror Mirror

Peter Larkin stumbles out of the “Blue Bird Bar and Grill. He’s got a belly full of beans and hot dogs, and his head is buzzing from one too many beers. The sidewalk tilts as he tries to light a cigarette. Peter frowns as he braces himself and tries again. A smile of satisfaction spreads across his lips as his second attempt is successful. Suddenly, a harsh October wind lashes across his face as the quarter moon ducks behind a thick bank of clouds. Turning up his collar, he chuckles dryly, “Better get home before the rain catches me.” Then, pointing his finger high into the air, he declares, “But first, to the package store for my favorite nighttime sleepy medicine, Smirnoff’s eighty-proof!”

Billy, the store clerk, is displaying the patience of a saint as he watches Larkin fumble through his money for the pint. Instead of a neat stack of bills, Larkin has wadded his cash into a crumpled ball and now peels each note off as if he’s stripping layers from an onion.

When Larkin licks his thumb to keep counting, Billy stops him. “Hang on a minute, Pete. Looks like you might already have enough.” He smooths the bills across the counter, pressing out the wrinkles. "The pint costs $8.99, and you’ve got eight dollars here. All I need is one more dollar.”

Larkin scowls. “I-I thought you said-said it was $8.99.”

Billy sighs. “It is. You give me one more dollar and I’ll give you back a penny. Simple math, see?”

Larkin raises his eyebrows as he digs his hand into his pocket. “I think I might have the change...”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Billy snaps, snatching up another dollar and dropping a penny from the take a penny, leave a penny tray into Larkin’s hand. “There! Now we’re even.”

Larkin’s eyes go wide, blinking rapidly. “We’re even?” he asks in a dreamy voice.

“Yup!” Billy says. “Let me put that in a bag for you.”

But Larken opens his jacket with all the flair of a magician. Pointing to the inside pocket, he declares, “I’ll just tuck it in here, TA-DA!” “Good night, Billy!” Billy calls back, “Good night to you, too, Mr. Larkin!” He then adds under his breath, “And good reddens.”

As the liquor store’s door slowly closes, Billy hears a distant rumble of thunder. He tightens his lips, “Kind of late in the year for a thunderstorm. Oh well.”

The storm grows fierce. Larkin grips his coat by its lapels with both hands, desperate to keep it closed against the tearing wind. The thought of losing the bottle would be unbearable. His bleary eyes snap wide open as a jagged bolt of lightning strikes so near that the air reeks of ozone. A violent thunderclap follows, driving him stumbling backward on his heels until he slips off the edge of the sidewalk. Larkin flails his arms in a desperate attempt to keep his balance but he fails pitching head over heels down the embankment into the field below.

He lies sprawled out at the bottom, dazed and disoriented. Something warm trickles down his face. When he touches it, his fingers come away sticky with blood.

“I must have struck my head on a rock or something when I rolled down that hill,” he mutters.” Pressing his handkerchief to his brow, Larkin rises to his knees. He scans the field, but the three-foot tangle of grass and weeds nearly blocks his view. He sees what looks like a caravan of wagons in the distance. He reaches for his bottle and takes a long swig. “I don’t remember hearing about a carnival coming to town.” He decides to go and see. High-stepping through the weeds and tall grass, he reaches a raised platform. A jagged streak of lightning splits the sky, and the crash of thunder nearly knocks Larkins off his feet. The heavens open, drenching him in seconds. Blinking through a blur of vodka and rain, he squints up at the sign: “Hall of Mirrors.”

“Thank God,” he mutters.

He scrambles up the slick steps, slipping and sliding, and yanks at the rickety door. A fierce gust tears it from his grip—and loosens its hinges. Cursing, he ducks inside and slides down the wall, chest heaving. Phew! Son of a bitch.”

A flash of lightning ricochets off the mirrors, illuminating the room. Seeing his reflection in the mirror opposite him, he laughs at how stupid he looks. He’s soaked to the skin with his hair hanging down and his face covered in blood. Raising the bottle high, he salutes himself and takes a swig. The second flash reveals a shadowy figure alongside Larkin. He gasps. Another bolt of lightning shows a young boy, except this time, Larkin knows who he is. It’s him, wearing the same clothes he was wearing the day of the accident. As the light fades, Larkin’s eyes glaze over, and he drifts into the memory of that day.

Larkin was ten, on vacation with his family. While his mother went inside to check them into the motel, she told him to keep an eye on his four-year-old brother, Timmy. As they walked past the pool, something glinted beneath a hedge catching Larkin’s attention. Curiosity got the better of him. He let go of Timmy’s hand for just a moment so he could bend down to investigate.

It was a woman’s watch—an expensive one. Grinning widely, he turned to show Timmy his find—but Timmy was gone.

Larkin swears to this day it was less than thirty seconds. He remembers seeing a fully dressed man climb out of the pool, hauling Timmy’s limp body onto the deck. The paramedics arrived quickly and did everything they could, but it was too late. Timmy had struck his head and drowned.

His mother never forgave him and, worse still, her heart turned cold toward him. He tried not to let it get to him because it was an accident but, to this day, he lives with the guilt.

The image in the mirror fades with the rolling thunder as Larkin curses his mother. “It was an accident!” He takes another drink. The wind blows the door shut with a bang. Larkin nearly jumps out of his skin. “Son of a bitch!”

Plunged into total darkness, he begins to feel for the door handle. There isn’t one. Swearing, Larkin searches for the lighter in his pocket, finds it and flicks it on. In absolute terror, Larkin gasps as he slams back against the wall. Dozens of reflections of his brother’s face stare at him. Larkin screams and drops his lighter. “Damn!” He falls to his knees, groping in the darkness. When his fingers close around the lighter, he hesitates—afraid of what the light might reveal. His heart hammers in his chest as he flicks the wheel. The flame flares to life, and he whimpers at the sight before him.

His mother’s face glows in the trembling light—twisted with fury, her eyes blazing with hatred.

“You killed him!” she spits. “The love of my life—you killed him! Tonight you’ll roast in Hell!”

Larkin clutches his hands together, his voice breaking. “No, no! It was an accident! Why can’t you see that? I was only a child—I didn’t know what I was doing! I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.

The image shifts one final time—to Timmy lying motionless on the deck, his cornsilk hair plastered to his forehead, the whites of his eyes exposed. His face is drained of life, a pale, bluish hue. Larkin collapses to the floor, crushed by grief.

“Timmy! I never meant for you to die—I loved you!” he cries, his voice breaks as he sinks into uncontrollable sobs, whispering his regret over and over.

Larkin’s heart nearly stops as he feels a cool breath press against his ear as it speaks, “Tonight you die!”

Larkin shrieks as he scrambles to his feet to escape the disembodied voice. He slams into a mirror and drops his bottle. The storm continue to rage outside. One explosion of thunder rocks the wagon and blows the exit door wide open. Larkin tries to escape but runs into another mirror. He begins pounding on the glass with both fists, growling as he tries to break it. That’s when his foot knocks into his vodka bottle. Grabbing the bottle, he throws it with all his might, smashing the mirror and exposing the true exit.

Laughing hysterically, tears streaking down his face, Larkin bursts through the doorway. He misses the steps and crashes face-first into the mud. In an instant, he’s up again, stumbling forward and sprinting blindly across the field, driven only by the desperate need to escape.

As Mrs. Hollander rounds the corner, a figure suddenly erupts from the field into her headlights—too close, too fast for her to stop.

…

The two officers watch as the paramedics slide Larkin’s body into a black bag. The first officer glances toward the overgrown field that Mrs. Hollander said Peter came running from.

“Hey, Ben,” he says, squinting into the darkness. “Isn’t this where they used to hold the County State Fair? Must’ve been, what—twenty years ago? What do you think Larkin was doing out there?”

Ben’s eyes linger on Larkin’s pale, frozen face as the zipper closes. “No idea,” he says quietly. “And it looks like we’ll never find out.”

The two men climb into their cruiser and pull away, following the ambulance’s taillights until they vanish in the distance—leaving the silent, empty field behind them.