The Corpse Within The Mirror

The living are blind; this much, I know for certain.

The dead, though eyeless, can see.

You must understand, I am a man of sound reason and integrity, and yet, the universe is a cruel mistress indeed. So I implore you, spare me your condemnation; I have already received it a thousand times more than you can even begin to imagine. But I cannot start at the beginning, no- rather, I will start where I presumed the beginning to be. Though all of this unpleasantness had already begun to unfold so many nightmares ago, that was unknown to me- ah, I had been blind then, so utterly blind.

It was a fog-ridden morning in Dublin- or so I believe, if my memory still serves me, the kind of day where rain glistens on each window and its rhythmic thumping lulls the world into a trance of mysticism and wonder, enticing the human mind to imagine all manner of horrors and treasure lurking just beyond the clouded veil. On this particular ‘morrow I lay hunched over my desk, having just discovered a rather peculiar note strewn upon my doorstep. I was, of course, no stranger to sudden correspondence, and my mail was often flooded with pleas from poor souls, begging me to cure their illness. After all, my name lay emblazoned as my legacy. Dr. Eston Emery- Miracle Worker. But I was no man of god or church; rather, I was a man of pure scientific reason, and I stood unchallenged at the top of my medical field, possessing a wealth of knowledge so great it surely held more value than all the riches of petty noblemen combined. I was skilled in both the conventional and unconventional, and I was angel and demon alike; master of alchemy, of exotic medicines, and of European techniques. It was this mastery, surely, that allowed my reputation to be all but spotless, and it was thus of no surprise to me to have received such a strange, unexpected note. It was, I quickly observed, nearly illegible, scrawled with such a haste that my eyes could scarce make out a single word. I cursed silently under my breath, beginning to rummage through the hopeless clutter and loose papers of my desk until I found my reading glasses. They bore all the signs of neglect- dust, graphite, and oily fingerprints- but alas, they would still serve their purpose. I held them, hovering them just above my eyes, as I carefully began to read the note"

Dearest Doctor E. Emory,

I understand that I am only a stranger to you, but I hope that you will take the time to read this letter in its entirety. You see, a valued friend of mine has spoken of your services with the highest praise imaginable. Alas, I seem to have found myself in a place of great tragedy, and so it is with grave urgency that I beseech your aid.

My child, my dearest Cynthia- angel she is! - has fallen wretchedly ill. She is riddled with fevers and chills, the poor thing, and seems incapable of eating. Only a devil, I reckon, would curse this poor, innocent soul to such turmoil! Cynthia has been my only source of comfort since her mother, the love of my life, died in childbirth, and I cannot bear the thought of losing her as well.

Should you be so kind, you may find my residence at 387 Baker Avenue, in the eastern countryside of Limerick. Naturally, your help shall  be compensated rather handsomely.

Sincerely,

Mr. B. Allberry

The letter had been scrawled with such a haste and fury that I could only begin to imagine the depth of the poor man’s grief, and yet I let out a wry chuckle at his ignorance. “Devil’s curse”- hah! That sweet little infant had become afflicted with the flu, and nothing more! I was no stranger to the ailment, and if the treatment was swift, death could be easily averted. Yet these country folk lacked a certain degree of scientific knowledge, and the loss of the child’s mother had likely caused the man’s anxiety to swell to a most disproportionate size. It was the last line, however, that caught my attention the most. But it was not the vague promise of material reward that intrigued me- rather, it was the address, printed in a nearly illegible fashion that would lead one to believe its author was a madman. And yet, my mind comprehended it with an inhuman ease. 387 Baker Avenue, in the eastern countryside of Limerick. That description could only indicate one single location, one single 387 Baker Avenue that’s name had been burnt into the deepest recesses of my mind.

Though the familiarity left my body riddled with chills, I did not allow myself to be bothered, and began to gather all manner of medical equipment together, preparing for the journey ahead. I do not intend on boring you with the details of that voyage, for it was a rather burdensome one, made by horse and carriage through the winding expanse of hills that curved from the back of the Irish countryside. Alas, after many hours that seemed to blur together almost entirely, I had arrived at the estate- 387 Baker Avenue.

Ah, it was a grand estate indeed, an antique Irish castle that had been reformed into a manor, but still bore all the charm of its age, its stone towers having overlooked the horizon since the days of knights so many centuries ago. Upon arrival, I noticed that the castle appeared to be sinking ever so slightly into the grass and dirt, as it lay uneven on the ground and had begun to crumble at its very seams. It was not unlike, I noted, the tombs of aching souls, swallowed into the merciless earth and pulled towards the soil and worms that lay in the world of rot below. My mind shuddered at this observation, yet my feet trudged forwards towards the hallow entrance. You must understand, I am a very rational man, and so despite those shudders of unease that may have made the superstitious flee, I was grounded in my task and trusting of my client’s earnest intentions.

Slowly, and with much delicacy, I reached a gloved hand towards the door to knock, but before my knuckles managed to touch the wooden monstrosity the wind thrust the door open, causing me to stumble inside and nearly collapse to the floor. Almost as quickly as the castle had opened its gaping maw to me, the doors slammed shut, compelled by the wind or perhaps-and though I knew such fantasies were impossible, I thought it- by the house itself, as it were some living beast that had consumed me into its bowels. I near retched at the mere smell of the place; it reeked of rot and dissemination, distorting the once lovely interior into an abhorrent picture of hell itself. Musty old decorations lay strewn about the floor, casting their shadows in the most frightful of patterns, igniting the terrible splendor of human imagination. For a moment I stood frozen, gasping for fresh air and petrified at my surroundings. But to stand still in horror would not be professional, and so I composed myself, taking a deep breath and hurriedly brushing the dust off my vest.

“Hello, Mr. Allberry, sir? I apologize for my intrusion, but I received your letter, and"”

I was cut off by a loud wail that erupted from upstairs. Though you may try, you would never be able to imagine such a shriek. For it was not the scream of any mortal creature" no, it was the shriek of a demon itself, filled with such unfathomable pain and suffering! It echoed through the entire castle until the walls and the floorboards themselves seemed to scream, shaking the foundation to its core and piercing through my very soul itself. Though every muscle within my body begged to flee, to leave that wretched castle and never return, I forced myself to remain still. They must be the screams of Mr. Allberry, or the infant herself, perhaps- I had convinced myself of this fact. After all, it was only logical; demons and ghosts are little more than fairy tales.

“Sir, are you alright?”

The wails seemed to grow softer and more melancholy, echoing as a gentle symphony of agony. After listening for a moment I concluded that they were coming from the upstairs chamber, and so I began to make my way through the castle’s rather claustrophobic interior, gagging at the overwhelming scent of neglect. With each step I took down those cursed, twisted corridors, memories flooded back to me, chilling my very spine.

It is in this moment that I believe you should know my tale.

For you see, no more than a year prior, 387 Baker Ave. had been the summer estate of the young and immensely popular Earl Grayward, a British nobleman whose tendrils of influence had entangled the entirety of Europe herself. He was an overwhelmingly proud and wealthy man whose ego had swollen to a most disproportionate size. And yet, rich men are not immune to the cruelty of the universe and her ever-turning wheel of fortune, and the Earl’s luck had been cast back down to the bottom. You see, he had fallen wretchedly ill with some unknown ailment, and in desperation had called upon my services. It was a rather discreet matter, for he was in no condition to deal with the papers and prefered his illness be kept under wraps until his body began to recover. He promised me much grandeur and wealth upon my success, and assured me that he would spread word of my services and secure me much fame and popularity. These promises filled my head with ambitious greed, and so not only did I accept, I swore upon all that is good and just that he would be healed within the week. But my confidence masked blindness and ignorance, for I was unaware what illness had entrapped the poor Earl, and I had not begun to grasp its severity. This was of no matter to him, it seemed, as he vigorously shook my hand and entrusted me with his care and livelihood.

He had been a fool to do so. I had never seen an illness so aggressive, like a parasite with some unholy grudge, determined to drain its host of all life. And yet I smiled self-importantly, assuring the Earl that the matter was entirely under my control. We were two fools, drowning ourselves in a cesspool of denial and idiocy, smugly believing that we could evade the throes of fate and conquer the battles of nature herself. Medicine after medicine, tonic after tonic, and yet the Earl’s condition only worsened, and within days he was bedridden, his hollow chest wheezing for air and his body erupting in the most hideous of rashes and blisters. My mind, once wholly confident, began to grow heavy and sink, for I realized that the Earl had ventured to the doors of death and I, the Miracle Worker, was unable to save him. But I could not bear the thought of failure, and so I continued to fill his body full of exotic medicines, pointless as it was. He seemed oblivious to my anxieties, and still held a blind trust and faith in my abilities. Then, one dreary, dreadful Sunday afternoon, he began to grow suspicious of my flustered actions.

“It’s been a week, Doctor, and I still feel sickly as death himself- come on now, give me more medicine, get on with it. Cure this wretched thing!”

“Sir, I’m afraid…” I paused, straining to say those dreaded words. “There is little more that I can do- I’m sorry.”

One, single word can leave thousands more unspoken in its wake. Sorry. It was a word of so few letters, yet so many meanings lay entangled within it. The Earl’s eyes seemed to glaze over, and it was only in this very moment that he understood, that he was fully able to hear my words; he was a dead man, and he had crossed over the threshold of hope into a world of bitter certainty. Though he lay in silent waiting, a thousand words escaped his mouth, and his face began to twitch and grow hollow. The flood of sorrow, of guilt, of the fateful pangs of unfulfilled potential, suffocated his very being, until all reason had been pushed outwards and his mind had become all but blank. We shared that feeling, that moment of silence, as he lay dying and I sat still as a reaper, an observer of his tragedy and no more than that. It could have lasted no longer than a minute, and yet we both felt the pains of eons lasting between us. But then- in only a moment, and a moment no more- his mouth began to twinge ever so slightly, as if something was trying to crawl out from his mortal body and escape into the air above, desperate for release from its realm of suffocation.

“Demon!”

His shriek overflowed with the anger of a nobleman at the end of his time, whose wealth was soon to be nothing more than ashes and dust. I searched myself for a response, and yet nothing came- so I continued to sit in silence, allowing the insults to wash over me.

“How- how could you let this happen? How- I cannot die, I won’t-”

He was delirious, of course. To him, I was little more than a fleshbourne entity of death, looming over him and taunting him with my finiteness. Unreasonable as it were, I was the reason for all his suffering and pain. And so he lunged at me like a hawk upon its prey, his bony fingers digging into my shoulders and his eyes narrowed with a determined desperation.

“Leave this place, devil! Demon! And mark my words, I will let all of Britain know of your deceit, with my dying breath I will warn them! You promised to heal me, you will- you will hang for this, I will ensure it! A thousand curses upon your soul!”

It was at this point that my concern began to grow. The Earl was a man of great influence,  you must understand, and so his threats bore a grave severity. Even if he was a madman, even if he was being entirely unreasonable- still, the public would coat his words in gold and treat them like gospel. He would drag me to the grave with him. What was I to do! Here I sat, shaking, a threat upon my life and reputation looming above my head. One solution, and one alone, began to creep into the crevices of my mind- but I was a doctor, how could I bring myself to do such a thing? And yet, the reasoning was sound, and seemed clear as day. It was cold reasoning, yes, but it was reason nonetheless, and so I let the impulse consume my mind and heart, contorting me into a panicked frenzy. But before you condemn me, do understand that I had been robbed off all rhyme and reason, and thoughts of any other option evaded me. He was a dead man already- that was unavoidable, and it would not be unjust to speed up the process. It would be kind- merciful, even- for I would spare him days of needless suffering. The more I thought, the more convinced I became, and I assured myself that I was not a villain, but a saviour. Yes, indeed, I would save this poor man from the torments of illness, and as a happy coincidence would ensure that he did not slander my name. Blind determination flooded my mind, and in a quick burst of impulse, I tackled the Earl to his bed and forced a pillow over his face. Oh, he struggled, but in his weakened state was no match for me, and soon his gasps for air were replaced with cold, deathly, silence.

I was the reaper. Observing, and then delivering his soul from its mortal chains and sinews.

There was a moment of bliss that lingered, perhaps, for a minute too long. My mind was not my own, but that of an animal, desperate for survival and relieved at its cunning escape. I kneeled, motionless, over the Earl’s hollow corpse, panting heavily. With every breath of air I took, it seemed the Earl grew all the more lifeless, his blank eyes sinking back into his weary skull. And then, the severity of my deed flooded my mind, and I began to shake with fear and panic. What had I done? I became flushed, caught within the throes of anxiety as my mind began to race far beyond control. What had I done? The question echoed within my mind, and I began to hyperventilate. I had killed a man with my own hands- oh, what had I become? A fiend, a murderer! I had been inhaled into a maelstrom of regret, and in desperation began to formulate a plan to conceal my heinous act. I can scarce remember those frenzied moments, but by some unknown inspiration it occurred to me that I could hide the body within the Earl’s hidden  study" a chamber known only to the two of us, for he had entrusted that secret only with me.

Ah yes, what a plan it was! Nobody knew of the secret room except the Earl, and so no one would think to look behind the mirror. Fingers shaking madly, I dug through the dresser drawers until I located the key- it was a small, delicately engraved key, and in my franticness I dropped it several times, but finally I was able to firmly grasp it. Hurriedly I placed it in the lock, and swung the mirror open to reveal the study- nay, the tomb. In that room I cast the Earl’s lifeless corpse, then quickly closed the mirror and locked him into his silent grave. The key I threw into the fireplace, and as it turned to ash, my breaths began to slow and become less shallow, a wave of relief coursing through my veins. Yet, my task was not complete, and there was still much to be done. With great precision I forged a suicide note, delicately copying the Earl’s handwriting and tone; in his voice, I lamented that he had been overwhelmed by his fame, and had decided to drown himself in the lake. I made sure to include a note that he did not wish for his body to be found- rather, he would prefer it to remain in place, so that he may finally rest in the peace and solitude he had always longed for. It was a rather believable note, and I placed it carefully on his dresser, so that any investigator would quite easily locate it. With that, I gathered my tools and rushed out of the castle, praying that I would never see that damned place again.

My plan worked with a genius precision; no one even thought to suspect me, for no one but the Earl knew I had been there, and the Earl had been silenced by death. Though the investigators came, they were quick to believe my forgery, and assumed without question that the Earl had killed himself. The papers devoured the drama of the scandal for weeks, but within no more than a month the tragedy was all but forgotten, and my record lay unstained.

All this flooded back to me now, as I walked those halls once again, following the echoing sound of the wails and growing ever more uneasy at the castle’s disarray. The sound led me up the creaking stairs, down corridor after corridor until, as fate had it, I arrived at the doorway of the Earl’s master bedroom itself! My skin crawled and shuddered, and yet onwards I went, out of both trust for my client and of dark, mortal curiosity. As I walked into that musty old room my heart skipped a beat, for before me lay that cursed old mirror. Even in its neglect it was a grand sight indeed, carved intricately from stone and laced with glinting trims of gold, emblazoned with delicate patterns of flowers and cherubs that clinged to its ornate edges and carefully crafted splendor. To some, it was a lovely antique, but to me it was nothing more than a statue of guilt and regret, taunting me as my mind began to swell with fear. For mere moments I observed it in silence, until" wait! That abhorrent thing was open, ever so slightly! I grew flustered; had I not locked it, and burnt the key? Had I not sealed it securely? I took a step towards the mirror to examine it in closer detail. You must understand that I had become entirely consumed by the darkest of curiosities, and so with a hesitant hand I tugged at the edge and swung the mirror open to reveal the gaping room behind.

I let out a gasp of utter horror.

There he was, within that tomb; the Earl, his decomposing corpse lay contorted on the ground, mangled and shrivelled, his pallid skin fraying at the seams and his eyes all but sunken into his bloody, hollow skull. It was an utterly repulsive sight, and I gagged with sheer disgust and terror. And yet, horrible as it was, I could not bring myself to avert my eyes, and I became hypnotized by the image of rot and decay. Then, in an awful, sudden moment, the mirror door slammed shut behind me, trapping me beside that wretched corpse. I screamed, but it was no use; though my trembling hands pounded at the mirror, it refused to budge, sealed tight as a tomb itself. It was as if someone had locked the door from the outside" but no! I was alone, and the key had been turned to ash so many months ago" it was not possible! I screamed and struggled, pounded and prayed, and yet within my soul I knew that my efforts were worthless. The universe is a cruel lady indeed, and my crimes demanded payment and retribution. Or perhaps it was not simply misfortune, perhaps it was" and my whole being shuddered at the thought" the vengeful ghost of the Earl himself, dragging me to the same suffering I had wreaked upon him.

And so, here I sit.

And here I rot.

Author's Note

(For some reason when I pasted this into the text box it replaced a lot of my dashes with quotation marks. So if any quotation marks look out of place, they're supposed to be dashes ^-^' )