Fiction: The Reflecting Fear

He dared not look. 

It was ridiculous, he was a Professor for heaven's sake! He’d spent most of his life looking at things. Searching, investigating, experimenting… But no more. Professor Francis Whyte was now quite terrified of something as simple as looking. 

It had all started with that book, that accursed tome. Found on a dusty shelf in Somerville Municipal library, it was unremarkable to look at, though it was certainly a hefty volume. The curiosity in him had been immediately awakened and that had been his undoing. As he pored over the book more and more mysteries revealed themselves, fueling his desire to unearth answers. Before long he was reading phrases from unfamiliar languages and even speaking some aloud, though he had little idea what they actually said. One word resonated: Tyndaly’th. All too late he had discovered that some knowledge is best left undiscovered. Some words left unspoken.

That had been the definitive moment, a flashpoint. Of that he was sure. As he had uttered the guttural syllables of that one particular fateful phrase, the temperature had dropped noticeably, and hoarfrost had formed on the rims of his glasses. He had immediately slammed the book shut and placed it back on the shelf, his desire to know more quite sated. It had been too late. He cursed himself, he should have known better, but he had felt compelled to read. Not exactly against his will but certainly influenced, though by what he knew not.  Everything seemed fine, he thought he had escaped with no serious effects. That had been until he looked in the mirror. 

It wasn’t him though, he was unchanged. No, it was in the reflection, something was there. In the mirror. He had to look twice, he had thought he was just tired, but no, there was something there, indistinct, like some kind of shade, but becoming clearer. Sinuous, with claws and fangs. He’d shuddered and looked away. There was nothing in the room with him, it was definitely IN the reflection. Looking back in the mirror there it was again, and it was getting closer. Reaching for him. He’d screamed and left the room.  

• • •

The next two days had been the same, any time he caught sight of himself in a reflection, there it was, preparing to strike, snarling predatory snout with fangs bared and sharp talons reaching, as if in mid pounce. In a window, in a spoon, even once in his lenses when he had taken his glasses off to clean them. Indistinct but there, stalking him. He’d made such interactions short, lest the creature complete it’s strike and reach him. He shunned mirrors, avoided reflections as much as he could, he dared not look. He hid away in dark rooms isolated and alone, trapped. 

Then a thought struck him, the book! That had started things, surely the answer to the stalking spectre lay within those pages, those texts, a way to save himself. Excited he pulled a wide-brimmed hat low over his head and retrieved his revolver from the draw of the utility cupboard, stuffing the gun into his pocket. It wasn’t far from his current location to the library but it wasn’t open late and the sun was already setting. He would need to be fast, he knew he was on the verge of being caught by the stalking horror. One, maybe two reflected glances and he was doomed. 

He hurried along the streets, the sun was setting behind heavy clouds and he averted his gaze from anything that might reflect his image, he’d even removed his own watch. He couldn't do much about his glasses but as long as he kept them on he was safe, he’d not dared take them off in days. He’d journeyed about half the distance to the library when fate conspired against him. Two workmen, moving out of a shop front, carrying with them a thick pane of glass. So preoccupied was the Professor that he didn’t see them till it was too late, looking up automatically as he halted to avoid a collision. In that moment he saw it, reflected in the sinking sun, leering triumphantly as if it had been waiting for him. It looked like it was coming out of the glass. What happened next was the result of pure panicked instinct rather than any real rational thought process on the Professor’s part. He pulled the revolver from his pocket and fired three shots at the abomination in the glass, shattering the beast’s image into a thousand shards. Beyond the pane though, the bullets struck a passerby and she fell to the ground, crimson pooling around her body. Aghast, Professor Whyte dropped the smoking revolver, leapt over the field of shattered glass, not daring to look down, and began running. His hat flew from his head unheeded and fell to the floor amongst shards of glass. He heard shouts and police whistles in the distance, he did not stop, he dared not. He mustn’t be caught, he’d have no chance if he were. 

It was around an hour later (he had no watch to be sure) that he emerged from the shadows. The whistles had died down, the manhunt had been abandoned or at least focused elsewhere. He was safe. It was dark but the Library was nearby now, he could still make it if he was quick. He just had to get to the book, but he’d better take the back alleys there to be safe. Just in case, no sense in risking himself now, not when he was so close. Not knowing how much time he had, he broke into a run. Feet splish-splashing in the puddles. It had rained while he had hidden from the authorities. But the professor wasn’t a young man and he’d already pushed himself too far, adrenaline fueling his initial flight. It was a couple of blocks from the library that his stamina gave. Just a minute, just a minute, he told himself. It was ok, he was almost there. He paused a moment panting, bent over, resting his hands on his knees trying to regain his breath. 

The Moon betrayed him. 

Clouds that had covered bright Luna scudded clear and suddenly moonlight shone down, casting a reflection in a pool of water on the floor. A puddle, he thought, undone by a damned puddle. 

The beast struck. The Professor didn't even have time to scream. 

All that was left in the alley was a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. One side was broken but if one were to look really carefully in the intact lens they would have seen captured the faint image of Francis Whyte’s face frozen in rictus terror as he was dragged into nightmarish oblivion.

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