The Other Scott
Scott was terrified to go to sleep. When he was a teenager, he would have incredibly vivid nightmares. These weren’t normal nightmares though. They involved his mirror, and would often wake up from them screaming and gasping for air. That was then. Scott was now 35, and the nightmares that plagued his youth returned.
The dreams were almost identical. In them, he would have a reason to get out of bed. Whether it be to go to the bathroom, to get some water, or something else entirely, there was always a reason. Getting out of bed, he would walk past his mirror. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror was always the start of the terror. It always looked like Scott from a distance, but there would be one or two things that didn’t add up. In his dreams this week, the smile was off. And as Scott in…
The Man In The Mirror
At first I was the only one, I could see him staring at me in disbelief, unable to comprehend my appearance, as I stared back at him. Each night he would be there on the other side of the glass, stricken with terror, and to me it felt good that he was experiencing this. I hoped that the cold sliver of discovery went down his spine and back up to his brain, via his iced over heart. Then after weeks of this passed his thin lipped rictus face became a smile. Perhaps he had realised that I could do nothing from where I was, unable to reach beyond the bounds of my prison, ineffectual against his madness.
This changed again one night when I realised that I was no longer along, there was a terrible groan beside me as shadow covered me and then shifted to allow me to see clearly. My companion was a tall man with a mop of black hair, and eyes bound up tight as if trying to hide the sight before him. Then he tried to shriek again but the deep cut in its neck prevented anything intelligible from coming out except for that hoarse gurgle of dry skin and viscous fluid from the wound.
The man on the other side of the glass stared back at us, his face now a picture of morbid fascination. His eyes widened with glee as both of us tried to yell and scream at him in our rage, but whatever separated us beyond the glass it was evident that sound could not pass it.
Next it was twins, they held each other and wept before acknowledging that they were not alone, and yet still they could not talk. The same tell tale wound, the deep cut across the vocal cords that prevented any communication. Last was a thick set man, strong in the arms and shoulders but silenced in the same modus operandi as we had all been victim too.
The killer returned every night after that, with his rictus grin, mocking us as we sought to break the glass, and sound our fury across that ethereal threshold. Every death increased our numbers, and every new face increased the savage joy of the man in the mirror, reveling in his collection of trapped spectres, desperately awaiting the night that we could get free and exact our revenge.