Anthrocide is the official website for D.L. Hamilton, author of several Christian novels and essays.

The Mirror

“Brenda, are you sure this is the right address?”

“Yes, Conrad, this is what I got from accounting as Tony’s mailing address, and it matches what’s on the mailbox here in front.”

“Boy, you talk about out in the middle of nowhere. Why would anybody want to move out to a dilapidated old place like this?”

“I don’t know, but that’s his pickup parked there beside the house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, no mistaking that old rust bucket. And this house looks like it was built by an amateur. Anyway, let’s go see if he’s here. I mean, it’s not too unusual for Tony to miss a submission deadline, but to go completely silent and not answer my calls or texts, I’m just worried something might have happened to him. Or that he might be cracking-up, especially given that last screwball message I got from him. He sent me a link to a digitized newspaper article from way back when and asked me what it said. Then, after I responded, no further communication at all.”

“Well, you being his editor, you know him better than I do, but I get the impression he didn’t have much in the way of family or friend connections. Anyway, I think it’s really caring of you to drive 50 miles all the way out here to check on him, especially since he’s just a freelancer.”

“Yeah, we’ve worked together ever since he got out of high school, so I know him about as well as anyone, I guess. Recently I’d gotten the impression things weren’t all that good in his personal life and I’d hate it if anything happened to him, poor kid… Hmm… there’s no bell. I guess we just have to knock… Hello?! Tony? You in there? I don’t hear anything, Brenda, do you?”

“No. But if that’s his truck he must be home.”

“I’ll try the knob… Humph, how ‘bout that; it’s not locked. What say we have a look?”

“Con-rad! Are you sure it’s okay? Just walking in like this?”

“Why not? We’re not here to rob the place. Man, that door could use some WD-40… Wow, talk about Spartan décor. This place is practically barren.”

“Yeah, well, I gather he’s only lived here a couple of weeks. Hel-LO-oo! Tony!? Tony, are you here? Oh, Conrad he’s not answering, so either he’s not here or—ew, I don’t even want to think about—”

“Now just stay calm. Tell you what, you wait here in the living room and I’ll check the rest of the house.”

“Okay but if you discover his corpse or something, I don’t want to see it!”

“I can’t say I’d be too keen on the idea either. All right, here goes… Hmm, not much of anything in the dining room… I think over here might be the bedroom… Bed is ruffled a bit but empty… Kitchen is just a kitchen… Bathroom’s empty… Now, let’s see what’s in here… Aha… Hey! Brenda! Come here, I’ve found something.”

“Oh! Is it—I mean, is he…?”

“No, no, nothing bad. It’s just a large broken mirror and a note… sort of. See here? Have a look.”

“Hmm. Pretty long for a note. Where’d you find it?”

“Here on his printer. Let’s read it together.”


To whoever finds this:

My name is Tony Cameron Alba. Perhaps you have read some of my magazine articles. Or, more likely, you have not, since they may not even exist. Either way, it is of no consequence, as I am no longer here—at least, not in this world, your world. But, I must not get ahead of myself. Let me tell you how it was not long ago; that is, from your time and place.

As a writer, my creative juices had gone completely dry. I’d had a messy breakup with a cheating girlfriend, a financial catastrophe over a scam artist’s investment scheme, barely escaped incarceration due to my involvement with a couple of so-called friends, and my health was deteriorating, probably due to stress. So much worse was my situation than anything I had ever experienced, and so deep was my despair, I began to have extremely dark thoughts about how I might finally and permanently escape all the turmoil my life had become. If an alternative were to exist, it would require that I get out of the city; out away from all the chaos; out where there was fresh air and I could be alone, be at peace, and get my mind refocused on the story my editor, Conrad, was clamoring for. But where? Where was this haven of calm and comfort? I had not the vaguest notion.

Then came the letter. Yes, an actual letter. I mean, who writes letters anymore? It was from my somewhat estranged brother, and only living relative, Dean. I say “somewhat estranged” because it was not that we were deliberately not speaking to each other, only that we had nothing to say. Dean was 16 years my senior, independently wealthy, and had always considered writing to be a foolish way for a man to earn a living. Given my financial situation, I had begun to think he had a point. In the letter he described his plans for relocating abroad with his family and his desire to rid himself of a piece of, what he considered, useless rural property some 50 miles from where I was. I think he had inherited it from our late father’s spinster sister who had put Dean in her will before I was even born. He told me I could have it for the cost of paying the back taxes and utilities on it, which totaled less than one month’s rent on my city apartment. Given that one month’s rent would exhaust my meager finances, that sounded like an excellent deal to me. He pulled no punches in describing the place: a small, overgrown lot with a rundown, albeit livable house on it. Included with the letter were all the necessary documents to transfer the property to me, plus the front door key to the house.

Here it was! The very thing I most needed: a quiet country location to soothe my troubled soul and get me back into my writing. Furthermore, it had come exactly as the lease was running out on my apartment. I initially chalked the whole thing up to fortunate coincidence, but as my tale will indicate, coincidence played no part in it.
If you have discovered this document, you are familiar with the property, but in case the document is taken elsewhere I offer the following description: The house sits at the dead end of Squatter’s Trail, a narrow, often-patched country road, a quarter mile or more from the nearest neighbor. It seems as though this little lot was an afterthought once all of the adjacent properties had been plotted-out. The modest-sized house itself is quite old with dark brown wood shingles for siding, some of which are missing. The windowsills and door frames are in need of paint and, in a few cases are actually rotted.

When I first arrived, I found that the front door was splintering at the bottom and groaned as if in pain when I opened it. Inside, the rooms were bare except that the kitchen had an old refrigerator and an ancient gas stove. The floors were all old, worn linoleum and the ceiling lights in most rooms were single-bulb fixtures with cheap plastic covers that had become discolored from heat and age. The front door opened into the living room and a hallway led out the other side. To the right of the hallway were a dining room and the small kitchen beyond it. At the end of the hall was the bathroom. To the hallway’s left were first the bedroom and then a room with a fireplace. I was not sure what that room was. At first, I thought it might be another bedroom, but the fireplace and the adjacent wall to its right filled with bookshelves suggested it had been a den or study of some kind. The books were all hefty tomes, and the few I gave a cursory look were boring texts of county easements, population statistics, and other such reference books from many decades ago. The fireplace looked in desperate need of cleaning before anyone dare use it. The wall opposite the bookshelves was barren except the one small window covered by an old, stained rollup shade. On the wall opposite the fireplace hung a four-by-six-foot mirror in an ornate frame. It was the only decorative item in the entire house and, to my surprise, was perfectly clean without a single fingerprint or smudge. Overall the place was dusty but not filthy so, undaunted, I hauled my meager belongings and furnishings in and set them up. My futon and wooden rocking chair were the extent of the living room’s furnishings. I put my double bed and small chest in the bedroom, and set up a card table and two folding chairs in the dining room. After bringing in my clothes, towels, dishes, and basic supplies, I placed my computer desk with lamp, laptop, and printer on it in the “den” against the wall facing the mirror, rolled my desk chair up to it, and considered myself moved in.

I had already had the utilities resumed and the first night was uneventful. On day two I spent part of the time connecting-up to slow, but functional, internet service and spent the rest of the day cleaning the place and buying food and other necessities in the town some ten miles away. That evening I settled down in the den, turned on the lamp and my laptop, and set to work on my long-neglected article. If one’s quest were peace and quiet, this was certainly the appropriate place. So much so, that, as I typed on my computer, the silence began to feel palpably heavy, as if even a scream would only carry a few feet and then die out.

I had just decided some music might be a nice way to lighten the atmosphere when an odd light made me look up at the mirror. For an instant I was not able to determine what had caught my eye. Everything seemed normal. Then I realized what I had seen. A flickering fire was reflecting from the fireplace behind me. But, wait! I had not built a fire. Indeed, I had not gotten around to cleaning out the fireplace yet. I turned around and looked. The fireplace was cold and dark as ever. I looked back at the mirror, and no fire could be seen. I shook my head and shrugged it off, but my mouth had gone dry, so I went into the kitchen for something to drink. Upon my return, I inspected the fireplace, but it had obviously not been used in quite some time. I sat back down and refocused on my computer screen.

There it was again. From the angle where I sat, the mirror only showed the very top of the fireplace opening, but the tips of dancing flames were visible. I stood up to get a fuller view, and indeed there was a hearty fire atop two large oak logs, filling the fireplace. I whirled around to, once again, find it cold and inert. As I spun back around to the mirror, it too, now reflected no fire, only the empty wall and unlit fireplace behind me. I gulped and felt my stomach tighten as I looked from one to the other and back again for some minutes, but nothing changed. I sat back down, thinking perhaps the passage of time would renew the phenomenon. Not that I was eager for this bizarre, seemingly supernatural event to recur, but I wanted to get to the bottom of it, to find the rational explanation, and put it to rest. I forced myself to resume my writing, although I cannot say the results were worth much. I kept eyeing the clock and, every few minutes, returning my gaze to the mirror. A couple of times I even stood up to get the full view, but the strange occurrence did not repeat itself. After half an hour or so, a call of nature bade me leave the room for the bathroom. Once again, as I reentered the room, I checked the fireplace and it was just the same. I took a deep breath and turned around to look in the mirror. As before, it “reflected” a blazing fire.

I had now realized the pattern. Looking back at what was reflected would break the “spell” so to speak, and it would not recur until I had left and reentered the room. I then wondered whether this manifestation was just visual or whether it had substance to it. I stepped backward slowly, never diverting my eyes from the mirror, holding my hands behind me. To my further amazement, I could feel warmth as my hands neared the fire.

I stared at the fire in the mirror for another couple of minutes, when it occurred to me that, perhaps, that might not be the only difference between the reflection and reality. I studied it carefully. The chimney, mantle, and hearth had been barren and without decoration, save an old box of wooden matches on the mantle, and that is how they appeared in the reflection. The wall and corner behind my right shoulder showed nothing, with only a small tear in the peeling wallpaper breaking the monotony of bare wall. The corner to the left, where the bookshelves adjoined the fireplace wall, however, was not empty. I noticed a dark heap on the floor in that corner. It seemed to be just a smallish pile of clothing. Now my mind began struggling to determine if this was really different. Was it possible that this nondescript pile of rags had been there all along? After all, it would not have been particularly noteworthy. Maybe it had been there, and I had just looked past it. But I didn’t think so. I did not want to take my eyes away from the mirror, but I had to be sure. I twisted quickly to my left and saw the empty corner. When I turned back toward the mirror, it now reflected nothing but what was actually there: a fire-less empty wall and corner. I exited the room so the mirror could do a “reset,” but as I did so, another question arose. Had the pile been in the reflection all along or had it just appeared this most recent time?
It was getting quite late and this whole thing was giving me the creeps. I considered just going to bed and wondered if these visual tricks would still be there in the daylight. But I knew I would never get to sleep with this mystery at play, so I returned to the room.

An idea hit me as I did so. I turned on the room’s overhead light and then got out my phone and turned on its light. Then, without concerning myself about what images were in the mirror, I decided to lean it away from the wall and check behind it. Maybe there was some sort of projector behind it and this was all just a silly practical joke. The light revealed nothing but a sturdy picture wire hanging the mirror from a large fastener screwed into in the wall. Maybe, I thought, it’s not a mirror, but a monitor. There were no cables for power or anything else, and the mirror was just the thickness one would expect. In addition, its front was unquestionably made of glass. As far as I could determine, it was just an ordinary mirror, nothing more. I walked back around my desk and looked into it. There again was a pile of old rags and a crackling fire. Wait. Crackling? No, oddly, the fire made no noise whatsoever, even from the occasional sparks that could be seen popping and disappearing up the chimney.

“Okay,” I said aloud. “Suppose this is some sort of supernatural phenomenon. Suppose there is some significance to seeing a nonexistent fire and a pile of old laundry. What’s the point? Am I just supposed to stand here and look at it all night? To what purpose?”

At that instant the pile of clothing moved.

I am not ashamed to admit that my eyes widened with terror as I debated whether to run out of the room. But I kept as my fallback the knowledge that I needed only to look away from the mirror at the wall it reflected, and the nightmare would cease. So, with sweating palms and dry mouth, I held my ground and watched for what manifestation might reveal itself next.

My first inkling was that the movement was, perhaps, that of a cat, now awakened, that had been sleeping among the pieces of fabric. But as I watched, the movement was much too slow and, rather than something crawling out, the entire pile was rising vertically and rotating back, reminiscent of time-lapse films of a seed opening and sprouting. Gradually I perceived that this was no unruly pile of rags but was, in fact, the clothing of some humanoid creature which had been huddled in the corner, now rising to stand erect. Two bony, gnarled hands emerged from long sleeves with broad cuffs. Next, I could see wisps of scraggly white hair peeking out from under a dark hood. Then, at last, grayish, wrinkled flesh stretched across a toothless skull appeared with two milky eyes devoid of irises and with the tiniest of pupils, and a vile, warty protuberance one could only assume to be a nose. It was a specter more horrifying than anything even my own fertile imagination could have conjured up. I was on the brink of panic and ready to flee when the creature gestured with its skeletal hand, scrunched its face and leaned forward as if planning to approach me. That was enough. I bolted from the room of horrors and all the way out to my pickup truck. I closed and locked the door and sat trembling, trying to think of a place to which I could escape. I checked out the windows and in my rear view mirror again and again to be certain the phantom was not approaching. After many long moments, something resembling rational thought returned to me. According to the pattern, the actual corner in which the creature appeared was, at this very moment, empty. As long as I avoided the accursed mirror, the evil apparition had no existence. Although that all made reasonable sense, I still had no intention of reentering the house. I decided that even the uncomfortable confines of my pickup’s driver’s seat offered a better option for sleeping than that eerie building. As keyed-up as I was, however, sleep was not going to overtake me anytime soon. The visage that I had witnessed replayed itself over and over in my mind. That hellish creature’s utter repulsiveness made me shudder and wish that I could purge it from my thoughts, but no distraction could restrain it for long. I turned on the radio in the truck and looked around on my phone, but nothing could prevent my mind from returning to the revolting image.

Then it occurred to me that something, some unexplained force, was compelling me to think about the ghostly vision I had seen. So, rather than continue to resist it, I yielded to it. I searched my mind for every detail and realized something I had missed before. There was meaning of some kind in the hand gesture and facial expression the “thing” had evidenced just before I had escaped the room. Neither was intended to be menacing. No, quite the opposite. Both were appeals for me not to do the very thing I did. The creature was wanting me to stay put, that it might, somehow, communicate with me. My cynical side wondered if permitting communication with—with what could be some sort of demon, was the ultimate in foolhardiness. However, my curiosity and desire to bring this insanity to some conclusion overrode such concerns and I decided to go back inside. First, though, I grabbed the lug wrench from my pickup. If things became too dreadful, I would simply smash the mirror. That, of course, according to superstition, would invoke seven years’ bad luck. But I was hard-pressed to imagine any worse luck than living in a haunted house.

Wrench in hand, I reentered the sinister room. I strode over to the corner where I had seen the creature and felt all around, even stomping the floor where it had been. Nothing, but empty space. I turned and, eyes lowered, walked back over to my desk. I took a deep breath, steeled myself, and looked up into the mirror. There again was the horrid specter, standing on trembling legs. The thing then pressed the palms of its hands together, as one would do if praying, and knelt down, shaking its hands toward me. It was as if it were pleading with me in some manner.

“Are—are you trying to ask me something?” I said into the mirror.

The thing pointed to its ears and shook its head, then pointed to its eyes and circled its toothless mouth with a gnarled finger.

“You cannot hear me?” I asked, pointing to my ears.

The creature nodded that I was correct.

“But you can read lips?”

It nodded, but then made a gesture indicating it could do so only a little.

I began to speak slowly with exaggerated mouth movements, taking care to use the simplest phrases I could. “What…do…you…want…from…me?”

The thing clasped its hands in front of itself again as if begging and mouthed with a look of anguish, “Pi-ty…me!”

“Pity you?” I asked.

It nodded and shook its clasped hands toward me again.

“How…can…I…help…you?” I asked.

Still on its knees, the thing crawled forward a step closer, which put me on full alert. However, that was as far as it came. It lowered its head and hands for a moment so that only the clothing was visible then lifted its head again. To my surprise, the face was not so horrible. It was that of an extremely aged woman, in her nineties or beyond. The countenance was not fearsome, but kindly and yet a bit sad. The woman mouthed, “Please sir, rescue me.”

“You…you…are…a…woman,” I said.

“Yes,” she mouthed, as apparently she could make no sound. She stood, with considerable effort, and something resembling a hopeful smile crossed her countenance. “I am…” I could not make out the rest of what she was trying to say.

“You…are…what?” I said. “I…can…not…read…your…lips.”

She looked a bit frustrated for a moment then began drawing letters in the air. M-I-N-E-R-V-A. Then she pointed to herself and mouthed the word.

“Minerva?” I said. “Is…that…your…name? Minerva?”

She nodded so enthusiastically, I could not help but smile. I then said, “My…name…is…Tony.” She looked sort of sad and shook her head indicating she could not understand. I repeated slower, “To…ny.” She squinted, still not sure. An idea came to me. I grabbed a piece of paper from my printer and wrote TONY on it with a pen. I held the paper up to the mirror. Minerva was still there. Apparently looking away from the mirror did not break the spell so long as I did not look directly at the places the mirror was reflecting. She smiled but spun her finger indicating I needed to turn the word around. I then realized that the mirror made it backwards. I rewrote the word so that it would be correct in the mirror.

“Tony!” she mouthed joyfully.

“Yes…that’s…right!” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “Pleased…to…meet…you.” The look of joy on her face was far more than what I would have expected. She then lowered her head again so that I could see only the hood, and took another small step forward. I was less unnerved at this movement now than before. When she again looked up, she was still an older woman, but no longer ancient—perhaps what one stereotypically thinks of as a grandmother. I decided that writing would be better for less obvious communications, so I wrote, as best as I could mirror-image it, the following: MINERVA, WHO OR WHAT ARE YOU? DO YOU REALLY EXIST? WHY CAN I ONLY SEE YOU IN THE MIRROR?

Using a combination of mouthing words and “air writing” she said, “I am trapped here.”

“Trapped? In the mirror?”

She nodded.

I wrote: HOW? WHY? WHEN?

Her answer was, “Over a century ago.” Then with her fingers she displayed the numbers 1-8-9-8.

“Eighteen ninety-eight? You mean the year 1898?”

She nodded.

Once again I pointed to the words, WHY and HOW. It took a lot of time and effort for me to grasp the words she revealed next, but by me writing down each letter as she air-wrote, I finally got the words: A sorceress.


“Yes!” she mouthed. “She used a spell from that book,” she mouthed again, pointing to the bookshelves.

Without thinking I turned toward the shelves and then toward her place in the room and said, “Which one?” Of course, when I did so, I was speaking to an empty room. Minerva was gone. I left the room and realized how hungry I was, so I hastily made a peanut butter sandwich, then, after answering another call of nature, I went back into the room with my sandwich and a glass of milk. I found myself worrying that she might not be there. I resumed my place behind my chair, facing the mirror, and to my relief found her waiting patiently. I quickly wrote: I’M SO SORRY MINERVA. I FORGOT AND LOOKED AWAY. SO GLAD YOU’RE STILL HERE.

She smiled warmly at me and mouthed, “My friends call me Minnie.”

MINNIE? I wrote. She nodded. So I wrote: AM I YOUR FRIEND?

With a smile and a pleading look she mouthed, “Oh yes, I hope so.”


She smiled delightedly, lowered her head and stepped forward again. She was now just beyond arm’s length of where I stood. When she looked up, she had become some 25 years younger. She had light reddish-brown hair and lovely blue eyes. She was absolutely stunning. I stared at her reflection, mouth agape, for a long moment
before hurriedly writing: YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!

She beamed with joy, looked away shyly for a moment and then mouthed, “Thank you, Tony.”

I smiled, rubbed my chin, and then wrote: YOU WERE ABOUT TO TELL ME ABOUT A BOOK WITH SPELLS.

Her eyes grew wide and she nodded eagerly. She turned toward the bookshelves and pointed with her finger across a couple of rows of them before settling on one. She turned to me and started to say something when suddenly she looked over her shoulder at the wall opposite the bookshelves. Her eyes widened and she mouthed,

“No time. I must go. No time.”

“Wait! Minnie! What is it? What do you mean?” I looked at the wall and saw a pale halo of light around the window shade. It was dawn. I had been up all night. I looked back at the mirror and it was, once again, just a mirror reflecting my concerned look and the empty room. “Well,” I said aloud, “I guess that confirms that the magic only works at night.” Magic. I pondered that word. Was this indeed really magic? All at once I felt completely exhausted. I staggered to the bedroom, removed only my shoes and, without turning down the bed, collapsed onto it and fell into a deep sleep.

I awoke rather disoriented and it took me a several minutes to realize that it was late afternoon. I had slept nearly 12 hours. I went into the den, but it was quiet; all was normal even in the mirror. I made myself something to eat and then decided to take a bath. There was no shower, just an old clawfoot tub. As I sat in the warm water, I began to calculate how long until it got dark and I could see Minnie again. I wondered if she would come near enough to touch me this time. Would she be even younger? Even more beautiful? What was it that triggered her changes? I couldn’t wait for nightfall. Then I began to worry; would she still be there or was it a once-only phenomenon? If so, I, whom she sought as her means of rescue, had let her down.

I entered the room, sat down at my computer and began writing an entirely different article than I had originally planned, parts of which are contained in this document. Then I thought about the mysterious book Minnie had been indicating. Which one was it? Should I just look through all of them, or wait for her to appear? While trying to decide, I went over to the window and could see it was becoming dusk. I walked over behind my desk to the front of the mirror but kept my eyes down. I was so afraid the magic might not happen, my heart pounded as I at last looked up. To my great relief, there she stood in the mirror, just as I had last seen her.

I had already written down what I wanted to say to her. MINNIE, I AM SO GLAD YOU’RE STILL HERE. I FEARED YOU MIGHT NOT BE.

She smiled sweetly and mouthed, “You missed me, then?”

“Of course,” I said aloud.

“Then, you care about me?” she mouthed.

“Yes,” I said, “very much.”

A look of unbridled joy came over her. She lowered her head and stepped forward. When she looked up, she was a young woman of perhaps 20 years, breathtakingly beautiful but with an endearing sweet innocence and purity. It took all the willpower I could muster not to turn around and try to look at her directly. Then, as she was mere inches from me, I felt her hands rest upon my shoulders, and saw them in the mirror. I reached across with my right hand and felt the delicate softness of her fingers on my left shoulder. She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against my head just behind my ear. She spoke and, though I could see her mouth move in the mirror, I did not hear her words so much as “receive” them in my mind.

“I care very deeply for you, too, Tony. But our feelings cannot find expression until I am free of this curse.”

“Yes,” I said aloud, “tell me about the curse. Oh, and are you able to hear me speaking now?”

“Yes, I am, Tony,” she said. “It is somewhat muffled, as if you were in another room, but I can hear you at last. As to my story: My older brother Samuel had a close friend, Franklin; they had been inseparable since childhood. Franklin was engaged to a young woman named Emma Wilhelm. I tried my best to like Emma, but she was always very aloof towards me and seemed somewhat suspicious of me; for what reason I cannot say. She was also a very secretive person and always quite serious, even intense. Anyway, one day in early June, I needed to visit a friend at a farm some distance from Canton, Ohio, where we lived. Sam and Franklin said they would take me in our open carriage, so off we went. We had traveled quite a ways when there was a sudden cloudburst. I had never seen such a torrential downpour. Besides us all becoming soaked to the skin, the back-country dirt road we were on turned into a quagmire. Soon one of the carriage wheels stuck fast. As the rain continued, the gentlemen tried various attempts to pry the carriage free only to severely damage one of the wheels. Sam decided to unhitch the horse and ride it bareback into town to get help. Franklin and I waited for a while in the deluge until it turned to hail. We ran for shelter into an old barn a short distance away and waited perhaps a couple of hours until Sam returned with help. During the wait, we talked at length about his upcoming marriage and his plans for his and Emma’s future. I swear to you that nothing else happened whatsoever. After Sam returned and we all at last made it home, the three of us recounted our adventure to Emma, thinking it insignificant but droll. Instead of amusement, however, she exhibited a cold stoicism until the tale was completed. Then she smiled and asked me if I would accompany her to her home as she had something she wished to show me. Innocently and, still wishing us to be friends, I readily did so. She took me to a locked room deep within her house and opened the ancient book I mentioned previously. The page was titled “Confining an Enemy into Two Dimensions” and it contained strange instructions along with many Latin phrases. It took me a while to realize what it was. Once I understood it was a book of sorcery, I turned to her to caution her against such evil involvements only to find her pointing a revolver at me. Then, at gunpoint, a victim of her unfounded jealousy, I was forced to obey her wicked instructions; the result of which was my imprisonment in this mirror as you see me now.”

“How, then, can I help you, dear lady?” I asked.

“I recall clearly her unjust and unkind words to me. She said, ‘You whose wiles seek to lure men to you, if you can provoke sufficient love in the heart of one called ACA to risk joining you in your captivity, then shall he join you in your freedom, as then and only then, may the two of you return to your life in this time and place.’ In other words, the one known as ACA must love me deeply enough to join me in the mirror and that love will free us both to return to my life where it stopped.”

“ACA?” I said. “What does that mean?”

“I do not know, Tony. But you can find out for me; I know you can. You must. After so long, you are my only hope.”

“I—I want to help you,” I said, “truly I do. But, ACA, I mean, I don’t… Wait! Tony is my nickname; my actual name is Anthony. Anthony Cameron Alba. ACA are my initials! Minnie, it’s me! I am the one whose love can rescue you. It has been destined for all these years. How? How do I proceed?”

“You must get the book. It is there on the third shelf down, fourth book from the left; the big thick one. Stand and back toward the shelf. I will guide your hand so that you need not turn around.”

I did as Minnie instructed and obtained the book. It was incredibly old; its binding was nearly in tatters. The pages were brittle and browned with age.

“It is page 176; I shall never forget. On that page is the original spell and also the means you may use to join me. Then, if you can truly find it in your heart to love me, we shall both escape this curse and be together back in my normal world.”

I gently turned to the page and then her last words struck me. “Your normal world?” I asked. “The world as it was in 1898?”

“Yes, Tony, my world, my time. I know it will be unfamiliar to you, but your willingness to leave all that you know and risk entering my world would prove your love for me beyond question.” Then she added with a slight tremor in her voice, “That is, if you are willing.”

That tremor made my heart lurch. How could I refuse her? But then I began to think more deeply about the implications of my making this radical leap of faith. “Minnie, my dear lady, I am indeed willing to do so for your sake, but I am concerned that it might be more complicated than we realize. For example, if I enter the world of 1898, I will know things—things no one in that year should know. I’ll know that, in only a few years, our country will join a horrific war in Europe. And the stock market! I’ll know that it will crash in 1929 leaving millions of people destitute. At my current age, I should still be alive when Hitler rises to power and when Japan bombs Pearl Harbor. Will I seek to interfere in such events? Will I stand by silently knowing the impact of these events on human history? And what of us? Forgive my presumption, but suppose we were to marry and have children?”

She smiled broadly. “I would be most positively disposed to being your wife and bearing your children, Tony.”

“I know—that is, I understand. But consider the implications. Any children we would have are outside of the timeline of today’s current world. What might change because of their introduction into the time-space continuum? Even if they only live quiet lives and have children of their own, could that not, somewhere downstream, cause significant—even horrible—unintended consequences? Minerva, we must think this through.”

She began to weep. “I do not know about all of that, Tony. It is true the world could be changed, but perhaps the changes might be for the better. Is your world so perfect now that a different outcome in your time could only be worse?”

“Well, no, but still…”

Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I understand your fears. If you feel that you dare not help me, then I would ask only this one last favor. I saw that you brought a large iron tool in last night. Please, if you cannot help me, I beg of you, use it to smash the mirror and end my miserable existence once and for all.”

I reached back over my shoulder and laid my hand upon hers. “No, my darling, no! I could never do such a thing to you. You’re right. I’m so truly sorry. This is a matter of life and death for you. Please forgive me.”

She thought for a long while and then got a pensive look and said, “No, dear Tony. It is I who must apologize. This is an enormous step I am asking you to take with lifelong and possibly frightening consequences. It cannot be a decision you enter lightly. In fact, I insist that you wait until tomorrow night. Take the entire day to think it through completely and thoroughly and whatever you decide, I will accept. Now, close your eyes and turn toward me.”

I did as she asked and heard her say, “Until tomorrow night, then, my love.” Then her soft, wonderful lips pressed against mine and she said, “Now open your eyes.”

I did so and, of course, she was gone. I could have gone out and reentered the room, but I decided to do as she asked. The hour was late, and I felt a tiredness beyond anything I can remember experiencing before. I would sleep on it and, perhaps, all would be clearer in the morning.

I awoke the next morning secure in the absolute certainty that I would join her, help her, rescue her. After all, what was there here, on this side of the mirror, to hold me? Conversely, on the other side was the love of my life. I stopped short. How could it be that I had fallen so deeply in love with her so quickly? We had spent but a few hours together and even then only in the most bizarre of circumstances. Still, that I loved her was beyond question. As for the possibility of wreaking havoc with space-time, I would leave it to the Creator to determine if divine intervention were needed to prevent the violation of His ultimate cosmic plan. And, if so, He could do as He saw fit. As for me, I considered no risk too great to save the woman I loved. I would eagerly join her.

Anticipating that someone at some point might possibly wonder what had become of me; I sat down and spent the day writing most of what you have read here thus far. That is, until I reached that last sentence in the above paragraph. Then, all at once, I sort of snapped out of it. “This is crazy,” I said aloud. “A magic mirror, a sorceress spell, talking to people over a century old who don’t exist? Am I hallucinating? Am I having some sort of mental breakdown? I mean, seeing and talking to people who aren’t there that’s—” I stopped short, and then said the words that caused me to shudder. “That’s schizophrenia.” I sat and thought about it for a long time. Could that be it? I had heard that it was often a genetic disorder caused by parents who had a child when quite old. That certainly fit my case. I had also read that it often became evident when a person was in his twenties. That also fit me. It is hard to put into words how discouraged I felt. My sweet Minerva, just a figment of some mental illness? I realized how much sense that made. Far more sense than some silliness about being trapped in a mirror. I mean, how ridiculous. Sure, I had felt her touch, the warmth of the fire; I had heard her voice. But could not my sense of touch and hearing be as easily hallucinated as my sight? I went into the den and looked at the book. Didn’t that prove that what I had seen was real? Perhaps not, I thought to myself. Perhaps this thick book that my twisted brain tells me is a book of sorcery is, in reality, just an old dictionary or some textbook from years gone by. This whole mirror and magic experience could be but the delusions of an unsound mind. Not only did that seem possible, it was far more plausible than what my likely misguided, deceived senses were telling me. But now, what was I to do about it? What means did I have to determine reality from misperception? I looked out the window in the den and the sun had just set. It was with a heavy heart that I sat at my desk and lifted my eyes to the mirror. There was Minnie, so beautiful, so sweet, so gentle, but yet, just a fantasy of my mental illness.

“Oh, Tony, you have come back. I am so glad, my love; I was so worried that you might not.” She hugged me from behind, pressed her cheek against my head, and kissed and even nibbled my ear. Her eyes swam with tears. “We will be so happy together; I am certain of it.” Suddenly her eyes widened and her demeanor changed. “What is it, Tony? Something is wrong.” Her tears of joy became those of fear, and her lip trembled as she spoke. “You have changed your mind, haven’t you? You have decided not to join me; that the risk is too great. That is it, is it not?”

“Not exactly,” I said quietly. “It’s not that I fear the risk—I’ve moved beyond that. It’s—something else.”

Tears were streaming down her face. I reached back and laid the crook of my index finger against her incredibly soft cheek and then studied the teardrop on my finger. If only it were real.

“What, Tony? What is it?”

“Minnie, it’s that this is all too bizarre, too crazy, too unbelievable. I mean, sorcery? A damsel in distress? A magic mirror? Incantations from an ancient book? It’s straight out of some fairy tale. No, my dear, it’s not that I fear risking my life; it’s that I am all but certain that all of this, including you, is not real. It’s all just my mind playing tricks on me—a product of my own mental illness.”

She tented her hands over her nose and mouth. “Oh no! No Tony, no! You mustn’t say that. You mustn’t think that. I am real! I am! I swear it. I know it all seems as if it were some fantasy, something that cannot possibly be, but it is. Oh Tony, please, I beg of you, please do not abandon me.”

Now I was crying. “Minnie, don’t you think I want this to be real? Don’t you realize how painful it is for me to know that this most precious, angelic woman I have ever known exists only in my imagination? I would give anything if only I could know that you truly exist. If only someone else could verify what I see—” Suddenly I stopped short. “Wait! Maybe that’s it. I could call someone and have them sit here with me and see you! That would prove that you’re real!”

Her countenance dropped and her shoulders sagged. “No. That will not work. My curse is that I may manifest myself to only one person until that person either comes to my rescue or abandons me—as three others have done over the years before you. If you bring or send someone else to see me, I will not be able to appear.”

“Humph. Very convenient. And these other three, did you proclaim your love for them as well?”

“No, Tony. The two females were too frightened and ran away. I pleaded and pleaded with the man to come to my aid. He listened for a while but eventually he also ignored my pleas, never to return. But only you have I loved, Tony.”

“Then I am at a loss, Minerva. If only there were some proof that at least some part of your story were true…” Slowly an idea began to form in my mind. “Minnie, when this Emma woman trapped you in the mirror, wouldn’t your family have wondered what had happened to you?”

“Yes. Without question. I have often agonized at how distraught my father and brother must have been wondering what had become of me. Their perception would have been that I had gone to Emma’s house and then simply vanished.”

“That’s right; you would have suddenly gone missing. A missing person! Wouldn’t they have conducted a search, contacted the police?”

“Yes, I feel certain that they would have.”

“Minnie, was there a newspaper back then? One that contained local news? One that might have a report of your disappearance?”

“Yes. It was the Stark County Democrat. But how can you find a copy of it after so many years?”

“Well, this will require some luck on our part, but it’s possible that it has been digitized and made available online.”

“I am sorry, Tony, I do not understand anything you just said.”

“Yes, sorry about that. Let’s just say I might have a means of finding it on this device you see in front of me.” I performed some quick searches and, to my great relief, found exactly what I had hoped. “Minnie, I found it! The Stark County Democrat has copies online going back beyond 1898. What was the date when all this happened?”

“It was a Thursday; June 8, 1898.”

“Okay, and—oops—Minerva, I don’t know your last name.”

“It is LeDoux: L-e-D-o-u-x.”

“Perfect, let me do a search on your name.” I did so and was thrilled at what I found.

“Ha! Look there! Can you see my screen?”

“No. I can only see what the mirror sees.”

“Okay, this is from the Stark County Democrat, Canton, Ohio, June 9, 1898, and has the headline, ‘Young Woman Reported Missing.’ Let me read it to you:

“A missing person report was filed with Constable Henry regarding Minerva LeDoux, age 19, of Canton. Miss LeDoux was last seen heading north on Market Avenue Thursday afternoon by a friend, Emma Wilhelm, whose home she had been visiting. According to Miss Wilhelm, Minnie was taking the short walk of less than half a mile to her home. Miss LeDoux’s father became concerned later that evening when his daughter did not arrive and began a search involving friends and neighbors, but no trace of the missing woman could be found. The following morning the report was filed. The police investigation is currently ongoing. Anyone with any information regarding Miss LeDoux’s whereabouts is requested to contact the Canton police department.”

“Oh, Tony, then this proves my story? That I am real?”

“Yes! It—well—no, not really. If my mind is really inventing its own reality, this article might not say what I think it does at all.” Minnie’s countenance fell. “But,” I said, “there might be a way to verify it. I’ll have a friend of mine look at it and see what he says about it.”

I then sent a link to my editor, Conrad Bybee and asked him to tell me if there was an article on that page about a missing woman and, if so, what her name was. Although it only took him a few minutes to respond, it felt like forever. All the while Minnie kept kissing and caressing me from behind. She even spoke a quiet prayer that I would receive the answer we so desperately needed. At last the text arrived saying, “Yes, it’s an article from 1898 about a Canton woman named Minerva LeDoux reported missing. But, Tony, what’s this all about? How is this relevant to the article I need from you? Are you okay?”

Amid much rejoicing, I set my phone aside and, ignoring that someone kept trying to call me on it, I reread the ancient book of spells and incantations regarding breaking Emma’s curse on Minnie. After several odd ritualistic behaviors, which I have now done, it said I must place my palms upon the mirror as Minnie placed her hands on mine from the other side, and repeat the following Latin words continuously until the transformation occurred: accipere mihi etiam. And so, before doing so, that others might understand my disappearance, I have written what you are now reading. I will print it and then perform that final step. If afterward I am still here, no one will need to read this; I will know it was all in my mind. If I am gone and you are reading this, as incredible as it may seem, I have been transported to the year 1898 with my beloved and apparently the impact on time and space has been somehow tolerated. If what I am doing turns out to be in league with the powers of darkness, may the Lord have mercy on my soul.


“Wow, poor Tony. He must have really gone off the deep end.”

“What do you mean, Conrad? Isn’t it obvious that he really did transport back in time?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. This note is clearly the ramblings of a tortured mind. Even he suspected it. I mean, come on, Brenda, a magic mirror? Besides, see how it’s been broken? He probably said those magic words and smashed it in frustration when nothing happened.”

“It is cracked all over, but it doesn’t look like someone smashed it; there are no pieces of glass on the floor. And besides if it didn’t work, then where is he?”

“I dunno, probably ran off into the woods back behind the house and, well, I hate to say it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we found him, y’know, hanging from some tree or something.”

“Oh Conrad, don’t even think it. Look here, his laptop is still plugged-in and—look, the browser is open to that newspaper, the Stark County Democrat. Is it true that he sent you a link to it?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Was the article about a missing woman named Minerva?”

“Yeah, but don’t you see? He happened upon that article somehow and then his mind just made up all the rest.”

“Conrad, how come I don’t see the article here? Isn’t this the right date? Do you still have the text he sent you? Check on your phone.”

“Brenda, you need to stop all this. I’m telling you—”

“Just do it. It can’t hurt to look can it?”

“Oh all right… Here it is. Only, humph, I don’t see the article.”

“Yes, your screen looks just like the one on his laptop. Where on the page was it?”

“It was in the lower right. But all I see now is an item about how a bridge washed out the day before.”

“That’s it!”

“That’s what?”

“There is no article about her missing because, once she and he returned to her time, it was as if she had never disappeared. Don’t you see? It means she made it back. Or rather, they both did.”

“Aw, come on Brenda. This is—is—is crazy. There must be some other explanation. We must have gotten the page or the date mixed up or something.”

“Here, then, let me try one more thing. I’m going to search the paper for Minerva LeDoux for any date… Okay, here goes… Omigosh! Look! It’s from September 14 of that same year. Look what it says!”

“Hmm… ‘A marriage license was issued to Mr. Anthony Alba and Miss Minerva LeDoux, both of Canton.’”

“They made it! They made it back and got married!”

“O-okay, whatever. Look Brenda, that’s the story you can tell your grandkids some spooky night around a campfire. I’m still betting that someone finds his body out back there somewhere.”

“But Conrad, can’t you see? It has to be that he transported back with her.”

“Let’s just get out of here, okay? This place is creeping me out. Just leave everything the way we found it. I’ll call the police later and let them deal with it. Let’s us just get out to the car as quick as we can. Here, ladies first…”

“Whoa! Oh—oh my… Conrad, what was that? Did you feel that—that sort of whoosh as we left that room?”

“Yeah, I sure did. Wait, Brenda, I’m feeling kind of disoriented; sort of like dizzy, but that’s not quite it.”

“I feel the exact same thing… Um, Conrad? I’m very confused. Where—where exactly are we?”

“Whooh—I—I’m not sure. We’re in the middle of some old, empty house somewhere. How did we get here? And why?”

“I—I don’t quite remember. We came here to—to look for something or someone, I think, but I don’t remember what or who.”

“Yeah, me either. That room… Something about that back room there. Come on, let’s have a look…”

“Okay, so there’s nothing in here except a bookshelf with some old books and a big broken mirror. Nothing else at all. Conrad, this is too weird. I’m, um, getting rather frightened. Can we just go?”

“Sure, okay, Brenda. But first I’ll need to check GPS and see where in blazes we even are… Whoa. Look at this. We’re a good 50 miles out in the sticks. You sure you don’t remember why we came out here or what happened?”

“No, I don’t remember. Not a thing. And, honestly, I don’t think I want to know. Let’s just get back to town and forget all about this, okay?”

“That suits me just fine. And Brenda, maybe we best not tell anyone about this; not even our spouses. Not for a while, anyway. I wouldn’t want people thinking we’re nuts.”

“I agree. If we hurry we can get back to the office before five and maybe no one will notice we were even gone.”

“I can’t imagine why we would have taken so much time out of the workday to go on some wild goose chase out in the middle of nowhere. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do. I still need to see if I can find a freelancer to do an article for this month’s edition, and I’m getting short on time. Come on, let’s get going.”

A Short Circuit

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