Microhorror Writing Contest

In Terror

I could hear the sound of water dripping on tiles, and the buzzing of fluorescent lights, but that was all. The cover over my head blinded me but the dim light seeped through my hessian hood. My limbs were bound to a cold metal chair. The thin gauze robe over me did nothing to keep in any of my body heat.

Screaming had done nothing to help me, and I had wept to the point of dehydration, but no one came. The floor was wet and was pooling around my bare feet. Water everywhere, mostly water, I had lost control of my bladder while I had been unconscious, but this was not the worst stench that assailed my senses. Wherever I was it had been used to hold people before me, though it was clearly not a sterile environment.

There was a buzz, some time ago, though how long I couldn’t tell. Someone had entered the chamber, they hadn’t asked me anything, or even acknowledged me. It was only one pair of footsteps, well heeled. Eyes were upon me, I could tell, but no contact was made, physical or other wise. The smell of cologne had been strong, my assumption was that this had been a man watching me, and someone well paid, not to mention vain, to be so fragranced. The visitor had not stayed long, just stood near me, then walked away. A click signified the sound of a door closing, and I was alone again.

The goosebumps on my arms and legs were probably now permanent, but I had grown used to the cold. It must have been almost a day that I had been here so far. The sound of my stomach had been followed by painful cramps, I hadn’t had food or water since long before I had been captured, though I still had no idea by whom, or how. I had expected to wake up in my bed, at home, with only my cat for company. Despite the drought I found enough for tears once more, and I sniffed back my misery, and cried out again.

This time, however, there was a response, there was the sound of the buzz as the door unlocked and someone entered the room. This time there were two of them. The solid footsteps echoed closer to me as my captor approached. I called out to them, they didn’t respond, but the sound of their breath and their after-shave was close.

My heart thumped against my ribs, whatever was going to happen to me would happen now. It would be over soon, I hoped, and I prayed that I would be set free, though I had little hope left.

The sound of an intake of breath was the herald of change, and I held my own, waiting for something to happen.

“Kill her, make it quick. Then incinerate the body. No witnesses.”

“Yes, Mr President.”

Through the Silvering Glass Janet knew the mirror was special when she saw it—an ornate Victorian piece, its silvering slightly tarnished, the frame carved with twisting vines. The antique shop owner had hesitated, his fingers lingering on the glass as if reluctant to let go. But Janet had insisted, and now it hung in her bedroom.  

 By day, it reflected the room perfectly. But at night—  

 The first time it happened, she woke to moonlight pooling on the floor and glanced at the mirror. Her breath caught. The reflection wasn’t hers. Instead, a woman in a high-necked dress stood there, her palms pressed against the glass, her mouth moving soundlessly. Janet stumbled back, and the image vanished.  

 She told herself it was a trick of the light. But the next night, the woman returned—closer this time, her dark eyes wide with desperation.  

Research led Janet to the Blackwood family. Eleanor Blackwood, their youngest daughter, had vanished in 1847 after dabbling in séances and mirror scrying. The local papers whispered of occult practices, of a girl who stared too long into reflections.  

 Janet’s blood ran cold. Eleanor hadn’t disappeared. She’d been trapped.  

 That night, Janet lit candles and faced the mirror. “Eleanor?” she whispered.  

 The woman’s face appeared instantly, her hands clawing at the glass. Behind her, the reflection of Janet’s room was distorted—bookshelves mirrored backward, the writing on her desk reversed. A prison of reflections.  

 “I’ll help you,” Janet promised.  

 Eleanor’s lips curled into something like a smile. Then, slowly, she extended her hand—not toward the glass, but through it.  

 Janet gasped as cold fingers brushed hers. The room tilted. The candles flickered—except in the mirror, where they burned unnaturally still.  

 A realization slithered into Janet’s mind: mirrors worked both ways.  

 Eleanor’s grip tightened. She wasn’t trying to escape.  

She was pulling Janet in.