Page 24 - Chronicles of Darkness

“It’s okay, it’s not like I’m alone. Now, goodnight.” Siranush closed the door
gently, so as not to wake Alan. Mena was sweet, but… well, a lot pushier these last
few years.
She crept over to the couch, tucked the blanket around Alan, and then padded
down the hall of her grandmother’s apartment. It had been sweet of him to come
help her pack after Nana passed away, and she had felt more at ease once he
arrived. There was something so cold and hostile about the apartment without
Nana living there.
Cleaning alone after the wake had left her sleepless and shaking,
with an angry-looking reflection. She told herself it was because
Nana’s death was so sudden. She had looked frail in her casket, all
the muscle of her vigorous age melted away. It felt like a stranger’s
funeral. But when Sira called Alan, he ran over to keep her company,
and was now snoring faintly along with the horror movie that was
supposed to help her relax. She heard a tinny scream and a loud
snuffle in the living room, and smiled.
She’d taken inventory of this hallway a half dozen times
already; and there wasn’t much to do until the appraisers
came tomorrow anyway. But she was too restless to sleep.
She traced the spiderweb pattern of broken glass in Nana’s
favorite mirror, and watched her reflected hand ripple along
the edges. The faster she moved, the further out of sync her
reflection became. Then suddenly, it stopped. Her reflected
hand pressed against the glass, far from where her fingers
lingered. Her face looked canny and hungry and too sharp
in the low light, and Sira jumped back. She waited for her
reflection to jump away, too; for the too-slow distortion to
resolve back into her own image.
It didn’t.
The hand on the other side of the mirror began
pounding. Silently at first, then distant and building,
until she saw the glass shake, and crack. Siranush
staggered away from the mirror and started running back
down the hall. The Sira-in-the-mirror followed, her fists
cracking the glass of each window, each mirror, each pane of
glass. Her fingers reaching through the gaps where shards fell
away. The hands bled where they were cut; dark, clotting blood,
swimming with the acid smell of formaldehyde. They kept pushing
through all around her, grabbing at her sleeves and threading their
fingers into her hair. Why did Nana have so many mirrors? She
almost made it back to the living room.
Then her own hands pulled her back into the dark hallway, her
screams somehow dim, as though muffled by thick layers of glass.
Sira-in-the-hall pried the bloody hands of Sira-in-the-mirror off her wrist
and out of her hair. And together they teetered, half in and half out of the
mirror. Both fell in, and both climbed out of, but one Sira was forced back
through.
The other dusted the broken glass from her sweater, tucked herself in
next to Alan, and put a proprietary arm around him. He startled slightly,
surfacing slowly from a deep sleep.
“Sira, did I fall asleep? How did the movie end?”
“Don’t worry, baby. She got away.”