Note: Well, today might very well be the day I make you lose patience. This project is officially kicking my ass. This is the hardest thing I’ve had to hammer out in months. Part 2 is currently hovering around the 10,000 mark with no end in sight, so— epic fail. But I’m powering through, even if it blows up in my face.
What follows is Part 1 of Part 2. No edits, no— Jeez, I was gonna say “no regrets” but I couldn’t type it out without laughing. Rambling and overwritten BUT: as much mine as the others were, and I’ll own it.
I’ll return in due time for some cuts, probably when I’m finished with the next one. For now, this is it. Expect Ghostlights II in a few days… if you’re still around, that is. Please enjoy!
Follow the Sepulchral Trails here: Chapter 1 Chapter 2:2 Chapter 3
I.
Shortly after noon on the Second of June, Francis decided to take a break. The fumes from the varnish were making him lightheaded and the sun beating down on the tin roof had heated up the workspace enough to make him sweat. He put the brush in the jar of paint thinner and put the lid on the varnish before stepping into the doorway. Wiping his brow and hands with an old rag, he surveyed the vast blue expanse in which only a handful of clouds floated like small, ragged ships.
Francis sighed.
Weatherman doesn’t know shit.
Today was supposed to be overcast, temperatures in the low sixties— maybe some local showers. Instead he was sweating his ass off in the hotbox again, trying to put a shine on the old grandfather clock he’d bought at a flea market in Warren last week. At the time he thought he’d made a helluva deal. Then he’d discovered wood rot on two of the legs, found the mechanism was in sorry state and had to be completely dismantled and cleaned. He had been at it since eight this morning, only finished restoring the lacquer on one of its sides. And there were still three other pieces awaiting his attention— one of them a cabinet he doubted would ever get sold, even if he managed to fix it up. Hours of work, in the stifling heat of the small shed.
He didn’t look forward to the sweltering summer months, when the temperatures in the glorified shed sometimes rose north of a hundred degrees. He had a fan, but that was about as useful as a leaky bucket during a flood.
Not for the first time Francis wished he’d sprung for an AC unit years ago, when the getting was good. He had a lot of those regrets, gathered over the years like the nuts and bolts and was forever coming upon, no inkling as to their purpose, but kept all the same.
Well, maybe if business is good, he thought as he moved along the side of the big red barn that housed the store itself.
Yeah. And people in hell wanted ice water.
There was a bench out front. He never allowed anyone to sit on it, because it was technically for sale, but during quiet stretches like this, he liked to sit and mull things over for a while. He made to sit down, then spied a smudge on the window. With his sleeve he rubbed it out of existence, his profusion of wares gleaming within.
Satisfied, he lowered himself down with a soft groan, tugging at his pant legs as he went. Then he pulled out his tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette.
His fingers moved with the skill of years, rocking and teasing the dark brown shag in its tissue-thin cradle until it reached the perfect density. Looking off over the fields, he folded it closed and brought it up to his mouth, where the tip of his tongue ran along the sweet-tasting paper. With a final twist, he stuck it between his thin, quivering lips and lit it with a match.
Francis inhaled, let the smoke escape in a big sigh towards the heavens… then looked off over the crushed stone dooryard and down Route 534, where in the distance, a solitary car crept its way north, towards Southington, leaving behind only silence.
It was quiet today. For once he didn’t much mind, what with the work and the unexpected heat of the last couple days. Last thing he wanted was having to wait on some looky-lous, drenched in sweat. He had little enough tolerance for them as it was— that’s why he hired Bobby in the first place. But Bobby hadn’t come in today; hadn’t come once these last nine days, leaving him holding the bag.
At first he’d been sympathetic, told her to take her time. But after three days, when he’d called her up and asked her what the forecast was, she said she just couldn’t come in— just couldn’t. Yesterday he’d finally had enough and told her that if she didn’t come in today, she should start looking for another job.
It would’ve been more satisfying if he could’ve told her instead of her voicemail, but still.
Goddam millenials.
Of course Marge had been at him about it. “Bobby’s parents were right there, Frank. Can you imagine what the poor girl is going through?”
He could. His family had been sick with fear when his older brother went MIA in Nam, March of ’74. But there had been no time off for worry. And when he finally did make it home, lying down in a box instead of standing on his own two feet, Francis had been back at work the day after the funeral. Grief didn’t pay the bills; didn’t put food in mouths. Something this generation didn’t seem to understand: life wasn’t some show, played out before a loving, understanding audience. Life was an asshole, like to kick your teeth in if you gave it half a chance.
Which didn’t mean he didn’t feel for the kid. Stuck halfway around the world while her parents—
He sniffed, took another drag.
They might still be fine.
He really believed that. Sure, the news footage looked bad— some crazy-looking giant jellyfish coming up from the Mediterranean, reigning down destruction. He’d watched in repulsion as the monstrosity strode ashore on its myriad boneless legs, the bell that crowned its towering shape billowing and floating down in pulsing waves that reminded him of delicate petticoats that shone with their own spectral luminescence. Ghost light. Squirming, gelatinous ropes had snatched up fleeing people and lifted them high into the air, strewn them across the rooftops like dandelion fluff. Others—
He shook his head, tried to take another drag. It had gone out, so he struck another match and puffed until he got it going again.
Most had watched the images with a feeling of impending doom. But not Francis. Oh, no. He had no doubt something was happening over there, but he was convinced it had jack to do with some terror from the deeps. While others saw a nightmare scrambling across the French Riviera, he saw a Europe that had finally forced Russia into action. A psychological operation, no doubt. What they were watching was doctored, meant to instil fear in the hearts of the US population, dissuade them from intervening. They could do all kinds of shit with the AI these days. The grandson had shown him on the internet. If they could get the ghost of Bogart to bring a convincing rendition of Highway to Hell, why wouldn’t they be able to make it look like an enormous sea creature was attacking France?
For all they knew, the Russian flag could already be waving in Paris.
He had to admit, those first few days had been bad. News reports had run almost around the clock, original shots mixed in with footage pulled from various social media sources. These last were even worse; images that shuddered and leaned, while they cried and screamed and yammered in hopeless terror… yet still savvy enough to operate their cellphone cameras to get the shot.
The news from across the Atlantic had grown chaotic the last few days; reports popping up from all over the place— each one more unbelievable than the next. The last solid update said that the army had been mobilised and mass evacuations were underway in parts of Europe. According to the report, the “monster” was carving a path of destruction along a northwestern trajectory, most assuming it was making for the North Sea. But there were other reports that spoke of crazy cults— people that seemed to revere the creature. Of other creatures, as vile and repulsive as the one from Cannes. Of course, most of these “sources” were social media posts. If there was one place where the lines between fantasy and reality had ceased to exist, it was the internet.
Because think about it. What did they really know? All they knew was what the news showed them. Roads choked with traffic. Scenes of destruction. Closeups of people crying; a good few slack-jawed and numb expressions.
And plenty of lingering shots of the jellyfish, of course. That was ratings gold.
Yet no experts, no analysts were invited. Where, for instance, were the biologists or zoologists, or whoever the hell you called when something like this happened? Francis could tell them where, and he had, yesterday night at Lou’s: at home, bound and gagged by a piece of paper that probably came floating down all the way from the desk of the President.
Giant jelly fish.
Meanwhile, the talk shows were debating NATO and Article 5 around the clock.
All that said, he did hope Bobby wouldn’t do anything stupid— like try to go over there. According to Marge, all flights to the European mainland had been cancelled until further notice, but still… if she was motivated enough, there was always a way to make passage. He hoped not. Whatever they had going on over there was bad news. Slack-off millennial or no, he liked Bobby; came to think of her as another member of the family.
Thinking these heavy thoughts, Francis smoked the last of his cigarette, before crushing it underneath one heel. Then he slumped back against the bench, reluctant to go back into the sweltering shed and its useless labours. It was quiet; the highway was still deserted. And it was nice out. He could sit as spell, enjoy the day.
Making himself comfortable, he stared across the fields. The heat and the silence held him, like slipping into a comfortable bath, and it wasn’t long before his eyelids started sliding closed.
What kept him from falling asleep was the distant sound of an approaching engine. Smacking the taste of sleep out of his mouth he glanced in both directions and could see nothing but empty road. As another few seconds passed, the noise grew closer and he was confident it was coming from the south.
It was a full minute before the vehicle slipped from behind the trees and into view. He couldn’t tell make or model, coated in mud and dust as it was, though it was a sedan of some kind. The only part not covered in grime was the bit of the windshield the wiper had managed to fan.
Frowning, Francis watched as it closed the distance, its speed much slower than he was used to seeing along this stretch of highway. Creeping along, really; it couldn’t be doing much more than eighteen miles an hour. His first thought was that it was another tourist that had taken the wrong exit off the I-80, messing with the GPS while driving. But as the car came closer, he heard the stuttering, wheezing sounds of the engine.
Son of a bitch.
Francis got up, made to go in. If he was going to have to call a tow and spend the rest of the afternoon playing babysit, he might as well try to make a sale. Remembering the cigarette, he turned and bent down with another groan and plucked it from the crushed stone. Then he pushed inside, the bell above the door giving a rich tinkle, another when he shut it behind him.
The store beyond was filled to bursting, furniture arranged in crowded islands that created crooked, narrow walkways spreading towards the back. Polished wood and brass gleamed beneath the light thrown by two crystal chandeliers. Despite these, the long room still might’ve been a gloomy cave, if not for the mirrors.
They ran the length of the room, all hung from the wall across from the windows. Almost a hundred of them, in a variety of shapes and sizes— a mosaic of reflective glass that caught the light from the chandeliers and threw it back around the room, and its many bright treasures, brushing away the remaining shadows. The smallest one was little more than a hand mirror; the largest one would have been able to cover the entire wall of a modest-sized room. Though occluded around the edges, it was the most impressive piece he had, rumoured to have adorned the walls of an old Romanian palace. Francis had no idea if this was true or not but the craftsmanship was exceptional, right down to the intricate gilded frame. As was the price. Some said that was because he would be sorry to see it go, although he would denied this accusation if he ever heard it. Being a practical man, he would’ve sold the barn itself, should the right offer come along.
The mirrors had been Bobby’s idea— one of many. The rest of the wares had been cleared away from the wall so wandering customers would have the full visual effect. At first Francis had been skeptical but not only did the sale of mirrors go up; customers spent much longer searching through the rest now that it was closer together.
Weaving through the maze, his own reflection went with him in bits and pieces— a tall, wiry man with a back that was still straight at seventy-one. He positioned himself behind the counter (which was a modified old desk) at the far end of the room, behind which he kept the guns and ammo— and the phones: a landline on the counter and his cellphone in the upper drawer. In that same drawer he kept the phonebook and a map of Ohio, should they be needed— and they had been needed on multiple occasions.
In the footwell, he kept two other objects, waiting for another sort of emergency. One was a Sigarms P220; the other an old Browning side-by-side with its barrels shortened to a good six inches. If the circumstance called for either, he’d reach for the latter. Not a soul alive could keep it cool staring in the big, bottomless eyes of its barrels. As for whether or not he’d be able to pull the trigger, well— Francis had been raised in a military family. His father had been a marine and even though one of his sons hadn’t made it back alive, it had been his greatest disappointment that his youngest never saw active duty. The man had believed in two things. First, serving your country was the greatest honor known to man. And second, never take another man’s life, unless that man brings violence into your house. Then the situation changed.
Francis had forgotten more about his father than he remembered, but that one had stuck. Asking him if he ever killed a man, he’d answer, dead-pan: “If the situation asked for it.”
Well, here’s praying it never did.
Hands resting on the counter, he watched as the car hitched and bucked its way to the shoulder of the road, until it rolled to a stop at the edge of the dooryard. Francis shook his head. One of those days.
It took a good minute for the door to swing open. Out folded a tall young man with light hair, wearing a shirt and a… coat? Christ, he must’ve been cooking in that heap of junk. From the looks of it is was a beat-up looking Volkswagen, almost old enough to earn itself a place amongst his wares.
The man stood by his car for another full minute, head down as if deep in thought. Then he bent back into the car. Straightening again, he rounded the door without closing it and made a beeline for the front of the antique store.
Doesn’t even bother to push it all the way off the road, Francis thought with another head shake. He took up a rag, began to make a show at wiping down the counter.
Peering up through his eyebrows he could see the man coming up to the door, but instead of coming in, he stopped. He didn’t try the doorknob, didn’t knock. He just stood there, looking in.
Francis sighed.
“We’re open!”
Almost as if he’d been waiting for the invitation the door swung inward, the doorbell giving another bright tinkle.
“Would you mind closing the door?” Francis said when the man made no move to do so.
There was a noticeable hesitation before he turned and did what Francis asked. The bell gave another pleasant shake.
He began to pick his way through the maze.
“Spot of trouble, huh?” he said, shooting for pleasant.
The man didn’t answer, slipping out of sight behind an armoire.
“Yep,” Francis said, stretching to one side to follow the stranger’s progress. “They always say ‘they don’t make ‘em like that anymore’, but if you ask me it’s all the same if you’re standing by the side of the road.” He laughed.
If the man heard him, he gave no sign. Emerging from behind a set of medieval armour, he reached the path that ran along the wall of mirrors, where he pulled up short. With a smile, Francis watched as the stranger raised his head to take in the sight.
“Something, isn’t it?” he called over. “Take a look— We’ve got something for every budget.”
Lowering his eyes, the man leaned closer to inspect his own reflection in the glass. Francis noticed he had something in his hand— a book? He couldn’t tell. Slowly, the stranger turned his face first one way, then the other. Fingers crept up to touch his cheek.
Some time passed— enough to make him uncomfortable, trapped in the big, silent room with Mister Rude.
“Do let me know if there’s something I can help you with,” he called over.
Just like before, the prompt seemed to be what the man needed. Pulling himself away from the mirror with effort, he started up the path towards the counter. Now that he came closer, Francis saw that he’d made a mistake: it wasn’t a young man, at all. His hair was a fine, silvery grey— almost white. His pallor was off, sallow beneath the light of the chandelier. The skin was pulled tight over the cheekbones, and there were dark bruises beneath his eyes.
Sick, Francis thought. Real sick.
Which explained the peculiar gait. Francis had noticed it when he was coming up to the store, as well. Something that was tough to put his finger on. It wasn’t that he was walking with difficulty. Not quite. More a… hitch in his step, almost too minute to pick up on, as if his brain needed the tiniest sliver of time extra to process the move.
As he reached the counter, his eyes found his for the first time and Francis had to fight the urge to take a step back. Looking into to them, he thought of lost, desolate places, where the wind moaned and wailed in haunting voices.
All at once, his desire to make a sale disappeared.
“What, uh, what can I—“ He cleared his throat, tried again. “What can I do for you?”
For a beat or two, the man remained silent. When he did speak, the words sounded hollow, drained of all life.
“I need… a car.”
“I can, ah— I can call you a tow. It’ll take a spell, but—“
“No time,” the man said. “There is no time anymore.”
Francis chuckled; it sounded like dried leaves whispering together. “Sure, I get ya. I’ll tell ‘em it’s an emergency situation.”
He reached for the drawer when the man said: “You… have a car out back.”
“Yeah,” Francis said slowly, pulling back from the drawer. Recovering a bit from his initial unease. “I do. But I’m afraid I can’t give you a ride. You see, the girl who—“
“I want you… to give it.”
“You want me… to give you my car?” Francis said. Underneath the makeshift counter, his hand moved away from the drawer and slid over to the footwell. “Now, why in the hell would I wanna go and do that?”
Before the man could answer, something in the depths of the room went over with a sound of shattering glass.
Francis reached for the Browning, fingers brushing the stock, when the man’s hand clamped down on his bicep with a strength that belied his appearance. Caught in his iron grip, Francis strained, desperate fingertips caressing the polished wood, before being driven back.
“Give me the keys.”
“I— I don’t have them here,” Francis breathed.
The man’s face contorted… then relaxed again.
Francis head snapped up as a piece of furniture scraped across the floor. His eyes flitted about the room, but the man’s accomplice stayed out of view.
He strained to free himself from the stranger’s vice-like grip, felt like he was trying to pull at a tree stump with his bare hands. The man didn’t even notice. Frowning, his head cocked to the side, he almost looked like he was listening to something.
Message from outer space, perhaps.
Reaching over with his other arm, he tried for the shotgun. Almost… almost—
“Stop it,” the man said, shoving him back hard enough to make his head snap. Then he smiled; a ghoulish sight that made his legs turn to rubber. “Fortune smiles upon you, friend. We will make a trade.”
“A trade?” Francis gasped, trying to remove the steely fingers digging into the meat of his arm.
“Yes.” He raised his other hand, showed him the object he had been carrying. It was a book, a thick leather-bound tome, held fast by two silvered clasps that winked in the light as he moved it.
“A most extraordinary item… worth infinitely more than your… vehicle. Though I wish I… did not have to—” He trailed off. A shadow passed over his face, and then he almost… did look like a young man.
A strange illusion… but not the only one, because just then he thought he saw a furtive movement from the corner of his eye. Glancing over, the room was still empty. And yet—
And yet unfelt, invisible fingers brushed his forearms, skin humping up in harsh gooseflesh. His eyes blinked, narrowed, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
The space beyond still looked the same but there was a difference in the light thrown by the chandeliers, in the way the corners of the ceiling met that didn’t seemed right. His eyes tried to make sense of it and couldn’t, kept skittering off, like they refused to accept this disturbing new reality.
It became even worse, dimensions pulling further and further out of true, light bending in strange and terrifying angles without touching the walls—
“Alright!” the man cried out, making Francis flinch back against his death grip. “It’s yours,” he continued in the same flat tone as before, sliding the book across the counter. He held out his hand. The other one grew even tighter around his arm. Francis moaned. “Now… the keys.”
He reached into his pants pocket, fished out the keys, almost dropping them on the ground. One trembling hand reached across the counter, keys jangling. Dropped them onto the man’s palm, where yellowish fingers curled around them.
“Now the phone.”
When he started reaching for the landline, the man clicked his tongue. “The other one. The one—“ a slight pause, “—in the drawer.”
Before he had time to respond, or even think, the hand gave another painful squeeze. With a chocked cry, Francis clawed for the drawer, pulled out the cellphone and tossed it on the counter.
Slipping the keys in his pocket, the man snatched up the cellphone, and made that disappear as well.
“Now the other one.”
Francis reached across the man’s arm, pawed at the phone until he was able to grab it. The man picked it up and gave a sharp tug, severing the cable. Onto the floor it went, to be crushed underfoot.
Pulling him close, the man said: “Rejoice. This suffering of the flesh is almost over.”
Then he gave Francis a hard shove. Stuttering back on his heels, he landed in an untidy heap against the wall.
By the time he got to his knees, the bell above the door gave its cheerful chime. Rubbing his head, Francis’ mouth twisted. He pulled out the .45, and stumbled around the counter.
Halfway through the maze of his own design, he heard the familiar rumble of his Chevy. He hurried, made it to the door just in time to see the truck peel out of the dooryard in a spray of crushed stone and dirt and turn south on the highway, missing the opened door of the abandoned VW by inches.
Breaking into a wobbling half-jog, half-run, Francis thumbed off the safety, and when he got to the road, he squared his feet, straddling the divider, and took aim at the shrinking truck without rushing. One finger curled around the trigger, applied pressure.
The sound of the shot rolled across the field. The spent casing bounced of the asphalt, clinking.
In the distance, the back window of the truck had turned to milk.
Yet even though he was sure he’d hit the bastard, it didn’t waver. It barrelled down the 534 without even a blink of tail lights.
Francis half-raised the Sigarms, then lowered it again.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered to the ground. And then again: “Son of a bitch!”
II.
It was ten miles back into town.
Before he made the trek, he had to lock up; no sense in getting robbed twice on one day.
He’d left the keys in the sweatbox out back. But when he came back inside, he spied the remains of the broken phone and decided to tidy up first. No point in hurrying: even if he ran the entire way, the son of a bitch would still be long gone by the time he made it to the sheriff’s station. Free and easy across state lines, judging by the direction he was headed in.
And good riddance. Already the sharp edges of the encounter had begun to dull, made to fit into his experience of the world. Sure, the guy had been creepy, but the rest of it— just his mind, riled up by recent events.
After he picked the phone up off the floor, he moved to the door, meaning to lock up, when he found a fallen floor lamp, its orb of carved glass lying shattered about it. With a pained expression, he righted it. Irreplaceable. What a waste.
He tested the base, found it to be level.
Strange.
Going back to get the broom, his eyes fell on the book still lying on the counter. The one the man had left behind. Shaking his head, he went into the workspace.
But when he came back the second time, carrying the dustpan full of priceless glass, his lit on it again. Tossing the shards in the trash (not without a painful twinge), he figured it was probably not a bad idea to take it with him into town. The way he’d been looking at it made clear that it was very important to him.
In fact, there might even be name, or something inside. Or the name of the place where he bought it.
Francis went back inside, slid the book towards him. His thumb ran across one of the filigrees worked into the silver clasps with a sound of approval. Undoing the clasps with care, he opened the smooth leather cover.
The pages within were thick, with rough, uneven edges. The paper felt smooth, almost greasy. A type of parchment, yellowed and subtly veined.
The first page was blank. The second had only the single word, scrawled in big, black letters that looked handwritten.
“Necronomicon,” he muttered. The hell did that mean?
He flipped trough the pages. Yes, it was handwritten, the words penned in a looping, spider-thin script. The ink gleamed in the light, a hint of burnished copper running through the black.
Settling on a random passage, he was surprised to find the text was written in English.
… on this great stone Altar where the glory of His likeness was first carven and from which all other of its like were drawn. Still now it stands, at the threshold of His domain, where the first Rites were held, where the sacred Words were first uttered, beneath Their infernal constellations, waiting for the Starspawn to awake from His long slumber.
Still now, the sea roils with its crimes, longing to set right its injustice! Phtng-Berrzgtxn! Shorragnr! The earth will be lashed with Their wrath for a thousand years and all will be born and die in the ceaseless dark of Their creation. Only the righteous will be spared and made to instruct their fellows, so they might gaze upon the majesty of Their being also. So they might serve the fleeting gasp that is their lives in service to the Great Old Ones, who are everlasting. But worms we are! burrowing in the earth that is Their divine right! Theirs is this world and all worlds, now until the end of time itself.
Remember! Remember ye Great Cthulu and His terrible dream in which all are held!
Lä! Do not despair! Their time is approaching. Its signs ever-present. Even now they touch the borders between worlds, longing to reclaim…
Some time later, Francis looked up, blinking the space beyond the counter into focus. His tongue slid along the roof of his mouth, trying to chase away the dryness. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he squeezed his eyes shut. He had the ghost of a headache, no doubt brought on by the elaborate script and its strange words.
When he opened his eyes again, the frown creasing his brow remained. The room still didn’t look right. At first he’d thought it was some momentary confusion after being immersed in the text but no… no, there was something.
He glanced up at the lights, found that they were shining as bright as ever.
Lowering his gaze, he saw the darkness pressing against the windows.
Francis checked his watch. The digital readout made it 22:40.
What… the… hell?
He’d been locking up around one. Between then and now, he’d managed to lose track of almost ten hours. That couldn’t be.
And yet, when he moved, he winced at the stiffness of his muscles, let out a stifled groan at the painful twinge in his back.
Have I been… reading this entire time?
He didn’t think so. But it was hard to remember. When he tried, his thoughts slithered through his grasp like eels, leaving him empty-handed.
Looking down at the opened book with a touch of unease, he swung it shut, its pages joining with a soft thud that stirred the quiet in all the wrong ways.
Suddenly anxious to get home, Francis grabbed the keys and rounded the counter. Then he hurried along the path that ran in front of the mirrors, selecting the right key as he went. He didn’t want to waste another second getting out of here. Halfway up the aisle he glanced to the side, eyes already turning away… before snapping back.
He took two more faltering steps, then froze and stared deeply into one of the mirrors.
One of the empty mirrors.
Well, not empty. The room behind him was still there, down to the last detail. But he wasn’t. As far as the mirror was concerned, Francis wasn’t there.
Moving along the mirrors, he saw with rising alarm that the only thing moving with him was the room’s reflection. Even the big one— the one from Romania— refused to acknowledge his existence. Francis stood in front of it, heart thudding, crossing his arms in front of him in a big double wave and— nothing. Nothing but the empty, overstuffed room behind him. He could even see the nesting dolls on the dresser behind him— which should have been impossible. Everything, except his own mirror image.
Or wait.
Scouring the glass, it dawned on him. He realised what had puzzled him about the room. It hadn’t been the darkness outside, it was—
He swivelled, making sure.
Yes… yes, that was it! He wasn’t the only thing being ignored. The light from the chandeliers no longer reflected in the surface of the mirrors. That’s what he’d noticed when he looked up from the book! A subtle dimming, now that the glare from the ceiling lights was no longer being bounced around the room. He saw it, in the glass: the absence of the spotted halo formed by the dust particles, the disappearance of the thin, prismatic edge along the beveled cut. Somehow, the mirrors were consuming the light, instead of giving it back.
As soon as the thought formed, he saw that it was true. The blinding golden sparks at the heart of the flame-shaped bulbs had soften to a deep yellow, and the sparkle from cut glass beads garlanding the chandeliers had dulled to a mere gleam.
He expected their lustre to return when he put his back to the mirror, but it didn’t. Instead the glow faded even more, shadows bleeding out from the corners, until, with a final blooming breath, the bulbs gave out and all was darkness.
For a few beats, Francis listened to his own quick, shallow breathing, hoping the lights might come back on. When it became clear they wouldn’t, he crept up the inside of the path towards the counter, so as to not bump one of the mirrors.The way they’d been hung, there was a very real possibility they could all come crashing down.
A handful of paces later he barked his shin against a chair. Grunting, he shoved it aside, only to hear something clatter down on the other side of the aisle. In any other circumstance he might’ve cared but right now he just wanted to get the hell out of here. Rubbing his shin, he moved forward.
Three steps later he bumped into one of the tall cabinets. It wobbled with the impact, threatened to fall. Francis reached out and grabbed it, breathing a sigh of relief. Then something struck him on the head with a thin metallic ping.
Sucking in breath through clenched teeth, he clapped his hands to his head.
“Son of a bitch!” he hissed, wincing as he removed the bottom hand. Rubbed the fingers together to check if he was bleeding.
Which was when he noticed he could see his fingers, pale and ghost-like, floating up from the shadows. It only lasted for a second or two, then darkness rushed back in.
Francis looked around, trying to find the source from the light. A passing car, maybe? It was gone now.
He’d gone another couple steps. Then he saw it again, a bluish white shine blooming further up the aisle. It looked like the light thrown by a flashlight. Francis watched as it crept up the wall, winked as it passed between frames, then resurfaced in the glass above it.
Wait.
The light swam from mirror to mirror, slipping underneath the frames without touching them. He watched as it traced loops high up on the wall, blinking as it passed from one glass to the next, before sinking back down.
It started to return.
Francis backed away, going back the way he’d come. The light sped up the wall, blinking on and off. It raced beside him for a beat or two as he moved up the aisle so he could cut across towards the front door. Then it blew passed him, stuttering between mirrors, pulling up short ahead.
As he neared, he saw the blue-white fleck was floating in the big mirror. It looked like an orb. Then he knew what it was, recognised it from a story his grandmother used to tell. It was a wisp.
A ghostlight.
He watched as it fluttered and bounced. It expanded for an instant before shrinking, becoming smaller and smaller as it dove deeper into the darkness beneath the glass. As it did, it stirred the inky surface into a filthy blackish-green. Like a comet, it arched left from mirror to mirror, before it rounded and came back to race up the other side. Each time it touched one of the frames, it came alive with a dark green pulse that rose and fell with an arrhythmic pulse. Slowly, the color brightened to a noxious, unnatural hue.
But that wasn’t all it showed.
Francis lips parted, began to tremble.
Buried beneath the green was a shadow that loomed up out of the ooze. A dark, monstrous shape that was pieced together by the mirrors along the wall. Yet even their combined effort could not encapsulate it in its entirety. It looked almost like a giant squid, lying down. But it wasn’t. Pushing up against the irregular surface of its head were the rudiments of a visage that defied close inspection. The lower half of its horrible face lost itself in a mass of tentacles that floated between the bubbles trapped in the viscous pulsing goo, stretching away in tangled segments of frames.
As he watched, one of the tentacles bumped off the mirrors, and Francis flinched as he saw the frames shake with the impact. It slid down with a squeaking sound that changed pitch as it passed from glass to glass, until it fell from view.
A shudder began to work through him. He wanted to go, wanted to flee for his life, but he couldn’t move. He was helpless, powerless except to watch as a narrow slit opened in the great pulpous mound, just for an instant, teasing the yellow of its eye beneath. Where, at last, he found his own reflection.
It was screaming.
Great unsettling atmosphere and teeth grinding suspense Ken!
Well I really liked this- great sci-fi feeling, things going on that makes me curious to find out - even though you did not seem to have much good to say about it in the intro! Definitely a keeper and a keep going IMO. 😊🙏🏼✨