Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963

Mirror, Mirror by Pauline K. Prilucik

Those who look upon Alice in Wonderland with disdain should definitely pass this story by lest the psychic powers of this mirror foment a psychosis.

It was September 15, 1898. The Spanish-American war was over. The town of Patuka was celebrating. Everyone who was hale and healthy enough to trudge down to the depot had turned out to welcome back the volunteers.

The fireman’s band was playing. And the children, bobbing up and down like frogs in a mill pond, were spilling flowers and fruit over the immaculately swept platform. Everyone was jabbering and jittery with excitement. It wasn’t often that something this important happened in Patuka.

Someone began shouting that he saw smoke rising from the engine stack about a half mile away. The tracks were low, in the valley along the river bank. The train wasn’t visible yet.

Then everyone heard the whistle and began cheering. And before the band found the page and the people could start singing, the train had pulled in and the soldiers tumbled out, laughing, hullabalooing, like a pack of broncos at round-up time.

John Trumbal jumped down from the last car wearing a civilian suit. He greeted his neighbors gayly, then turned to help a lady down from the car.

The station rang with laughter and cheers and kisses and tears... until the woman clutching Trumbal’s hand stepped down. Instantly she evoked a startling change in the atmosphere. Everyone became quiet, hushed, self-conscious, as though a hostile stranger were spying on an intimate family affair. It was odd! It was unexplainable!

She was beautiful — the most beautiful woman the town had ever seen. She was tall, almost as tall as John Trumbal, and slender as a willow reed. She had hair so black it shone blue in the sunlight. Iridescent glowing eyes, shimmering green and yellow like a cat’s, peered from a pale, flawless face. Full, moist lips smiled at them distantly. The men in Patuka afterwards swore she had the warmest looking lips and the coldest looking eyes they had ever seen.

John Trumbal introduced her as his wife. John’s wife had died some years before and left him with a boy. He always used to talk about marrying again, but no one had ever dreamed of his coming home from the war with a bride... and such a bride!

The young Mrs. Trumbal seemed very anxious about a large flat crate the porters were unloading from the last car. She persuaded her husband to leave off greeting friends to tend to its safe storage in the wagon. And she would not budge from the side of that wagon until John Trumbal mounted the buckboard and agreed to. start for home. The townspeople of Patuka watched their departure with relief.

The new Mrs. Trumbal was greeted in her new home by John’s eleven-year-old son, Luke, John’s brother, Andrew, and an elderly housekeeper called Emma.

Asti, Mrs. Trumbal, greeted them with haughty, chilling reserve. And shortly after arriving she seemed seized with a strange fit of resdessness and discomfort. While they were talking her lips began suddenly to tremble and she grew very pale. She clutched her breast and gasped desperately for breath. She pleaded weariness and asked to be shown to her room, requesting that the mysterious huge crate be brought to her and unpacked.

John and his brother lugged the crate into the downstairs bedroom while Luke fetched tools. Asti pranced impatiently about the room as they pried apart the slats which formed the box and folded back the numerous quilts which protected the contents of the crate. Excitedly, Asti herself threw aside the last remnants of packing and revealed the contents.

It was a mirror of monstrous proportions. The heavy gilt frame was elaborately carved with legions of tiny heads laced together by a tenacious, leafy vine. The faces on these Lilliputian heads were strikingly lifelike, their faces reflecting the gamut of emotions. Some grimaced ingratiatingly. Some stared with listless guile, some with apathy, some grinned lecherously, some wept despairingly. It was grotesque how each little face took on such a fantastically life-like quality. The searching eyes, the delicately formed ears, the incredible variety of noses were intriguing. It was as though each little head had been molded by a master from a living face.

John felt a shudder chill his spine as he examined the mirror. His wife, however, sighed with relief when she saw the mirror was undamaged.

“Hang it right away, John,” she pleaded. “I’m so tired.”

John looked at her, not quite understanding her meaning. Her native tongue was Spanish and she often had trouble expressing herself in English.

John and his brother struggled to get the mirror on end. Then they mounted it on a hastily constructed bracket on the wall in the bedroom. It was so huge that, with the frame, it extended from the floor to the ceiling.

Once it was in place, Asti stood before it glowering eagerly at her ravishing image in the mirror. John and his brother stood behind her, their faces aglow with admiration. She was so beautiful! It was no wonder she took such pleasure in her reflection. But Emma, who stood watching at the open door, was less impressed by the vision. She was a rather plain, outspoken, prudish old woman. To her it was a bad sign, an evil sign, to have a young female take such pleasure in her own image.

As soon as Asti was certain the mirror was properly secured on the wall she pleaded exhaustion, and begged to have some time alone to rest.

This sudden exhaustion, and the need to rest alone became an established practice of young Mrs. Trumbal. She reserved a few hours for her solitary pursuits each day. She would retire to her room and bolt the door. For at least an hour absolute silence reigned in that lower bedroom. A peculiar, almost sepulchral, atmosphere invaded the whole house during the hours of Asti’s seclusion. And when, at last, she unbolted the door she always appeared most refreshed and in good spirits.

John’s ardour cooled inexplicably. He could not explain. Asti was affectionate, dutiful... but when he touched her he shuddered. He was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that he had formed an uncanny aversion to his wife. There was something about her that seemed aged... musty, wrinkled. He knew it was insane. She was young, beautiful... Guilt and regret so obsessed him he avoided her, absorbing his time with farm chores and trips to town.

Andrew’s reaction to Asti was entirely different. Andrew behaved as though he were possessed. He fawned, he made foolish pretences to see her. His eyes followed her every move. His attentions and solicitude became urgent... pressing. His brother’s wife was clearly annoyed. His amorous attentions were quite un desired.

And then, a very strange thing happened. Andrew disappeared! He simply vanished. There were no clues indicating where he might have gone. The sheriff and John were puzzled. How could a man just evaporate? And that was just what seemed to have happened. No one had seen him leaving town.

It was after this that Emma began spying on her mistress. She began to slip into the bedroom when Mrs. Trumbal was out walking. Each day when she was sure that her mistress had left the farm, she began to poke through the luggage that still stood everywhere about the room. She examined all the personal articles that Mrs. Trumbal had laid out upon the dresser. She fingered the jewels and sniffed the fine perfumes. She ran her rough palm over the fine silk and satin garments that were folded in the drawers. They were very elegant, but rather old fashioned for such a young woman, and everything had a strange odor about it... as though it had been stored in a damp cellar for a very long time.

And the mirror was peculiar. It was so large! It dominated the room. To move about in that room, within the range of the reflection of that mirror, was like having an enormous, fiendish eye following every motion, every gesture that was made. It left Emma moist with cold each time she entered the room. Still... she could not resist returning time and time again to poke about that weird, forbidding room.

She began a methodical study of the intricate little heads that composed the frame of the mirror. One afternoon as her eyes pored over the carvings, she noticed one face that had a definite familiarity about it. She ran her fingers over the finely rounded cheeks and felt, the hollow of the eyes, and the sharp edge of the chin. There was something just too, too familiar about this face. She leaned closer, her nose almost touching the frame. Her breath caused, moisture to form on the surface of the glass. She strained to see every last detail of the face. She thought and thought. Then... suddenly, it was clear!

She gasped, her face flushed with the horror she felt. Of course she recognized the face! Of course! Hadn’t she seen that face every day for nearly twenty years? Of course! Of course! It was Andrew!

She spun about. She wanted to find John and tell him right away! Perhaps he would know what it was all about. Then she smelled it... air that was cool and stale and dank as a mountain cave. She glanced into the mirror and saw Asti! Emma looked behind her. She was alone in the room. No one stood behind her to throw that reflection into the mirror. Asti was in the mirror. She was on the other side of the glass looking out at Emma. Her eyes were flashing. Her lips were parted. Her teeth were bared... She looked fiendish!

Emma screamed. Asti reached one white, cold, clawlike hand through the glass of the mirror and caught hold of Emma’s arm!

No one could think of any reason why Emma would want to leave the farm. She had worked for John Trumbal for over twenty years, and until quite recently had always seemed quite happy at her job. She had raised young Luke lovingly. She had kept their humble little house a home with selfless devotion. No one could imagine what would make Emma leave so suddenly, or where she could have gone. She had no other family. She had some money saved, but, upon investigation, it was discovered she had not even taken that with her. The sheriff and John suspected foul play, but no evidence could be found, and Emma’s disappearance remained a mystery.

A strange, awesome stillness cloaked the farm now. Neighbors whipped their horses to a trot when they passed. Visitors were rare. The Trumbal farm was wreathed by the menace of strange, ominous tragedy. Of course there was no visible change... It was just felt. Felt and feared!

Luke, contaminated by this aura of fear and suspicion surrounding his home, was shunned by his school friends and former playmates. The new girl, Mary Ellen, who came from town each day to cook and clean, was a shy, drab, moody creature. She evaded all the boy’s overtures of friendship. More and more Luke sought the companionship of Asti.

One afternoon Asti and the boy made plans to explore the river bank north of the farm. They had agreed to meet by the well after lunch, but it grew late, and Luke still sat alone on the stone wall, dropping pebbles into the black throat of the well. Finally he grew impatient and ambled back to the house. He stood outside Asti’s bedroom window. The curtains were closed, but at the very bottom the fabric had caught on the sill and was folded back. It left a sliver of an opening. Through this, Luke peered into the room.

It took a moment, for his eyes to accustom themselves to the shadowy dimness of the room. When they did, he saw Asti moving around before the mirror. She was combing her hair and fastening the buttons on her dress. Then, suddenly, Luke rubbed his eyes. It was impossible! Incredible! She was not in front of the mirror. She was in it!

Quickly Asti stepped out of the mirror, and the silver surface of the mirror was restored. Luke tried to stifle his gasp, but it was too late. Asti must have heard... or sensed the boy’s presence. Slowly she approached the window. And before Luke could make his fear-frozen feet budge, she threw aside the curtain and smiled.

Catching his hand in a talon-like grip she said softly, “How naughty you are, Luke, to peep through the window like this.”

“I was waiting for you...” stammered the boy.

“Oh yes, I forgot.” She patted his cheek with her other hand. “Come inside. I want to show you something.”

The boy drew back, trembling. The hand was so cold. She smiled again, a friendly, beguiling smile, and released his hand.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not angry. Don’t be afraid. I just want to show you my Magic Mirror.”

“Magic...?” Luke blinked and scanned her face. It looked kind. Kind and beautiful.

“Yes. Don’t you want to see it?” She pulled the curtains aside, to clear the opening of the window.

A boy’s curiosity will sometimes foolishly conquer his fear. He climbed over the still and followed Asti to the mirror. The strange image had disappeared.

“You see,” purred her voice, “this is a very special mirror.”

The boy began to draw away again.

“Yes,” she caught his arm. “Every day I must go through this mirror to stay alive. I’m nearly five hundred years old, you know...” she added proudly.

“Let me go! Let me go!” shrieked the boy.

“No, no, dear. I can’t let you go. You see no one must know about my Magic Mirror. I cannot live without it. It is the door of my grave.”

The boy began whimpering. She stroked his hair gently and drew him closer to the mirror.

“This mirror,” she crooned, “is my passageway between life and death. Come, I’ll show you.”

She hummed softly and pulled the boy still nearer the mirror.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid. It won’t hurt. Come with me. Come with me, dear. It won’t hurt. I know. I’ve been through many times.”

They reached the mirror. She kept moving till she had half penetrated the glass. Then she turned and tried to coax him toward her.

The boy screamed. The silvery image of the mirror dissolved into a moist, craggy corridor. He could smell the musty, mossy odor of a cavern. The black hollow formed a cave, a cavern... a tomb!

Luke’s throat ached with shrieking. He clawed the air to stave off the inevitable. Panic lent him strength. He kicked and screamed and clutched the frame to resist her steady, powerful tow. Part of him already seemed to be falling... falling, falling or flying. He screamed loudly. His throat already was raw with crying... and steadily more and more of him was falling...

He half heard someone pounding on the door. He mustered what was left of his strength and shrieked aloud again. He heard the sharp rap of an ax on the door handle. The door sprang open and he saw his father charge across the room toward the mirror.

John clutched the boy’s extended hand in a painfully firm grip. He felt the inhuman strength behind Asti’s towing. John was frantic. He saw his son being drawn deeper and deeper into the glass. He saw the image of his wife, clinging to Luke’s other arm, smiling triumphantly, fiendishly, and succeeding, with the aid of unimaginable supernatural powers, in pulling John’s son away from him. John could feel the boy slipping. He tightened his grip. The boy now looked at him from the other side of the glass with indescribably frightened eyes. John still held his son’s hand. He was determined to hold on to that hand. He held... He held... His feet slipped ahead. His strength could not match the power of this evil. But still he held. He held so firm, with such a vice-like grip, he felt his own hand drawn through the filmy surface of the glass. He screamed when he saw its image in the glass... but he would not let go! He would not let go!

Then there was a scream! A terrible, ghastly, nightmarish, pain-racked scream. And later — John knew it was his own scream he had heard.

All of a sudden, the two images, his son and Asti, had vanished! The glass became a mirror once again, and he saw only himself. He saw only himself... and not the hand that had passed the line of reality into sheer horror. There was pain... a pain that enveloped him and brought him to his knees. Darkness flooded around him and he sank...

When he awoke, Mary Ellen stood over him, and so did the sheriff and several men from town. When Mary Ellen had heard the screaming and commotion she had been too frightened to enter the bedroom. She had fled into town to get help. Now they all stood over him, their faces grim and sad, all looking as though they did not know what to say.

John Trumbal tried to sit but found himself too weak. There was a terrible pain in his right arm. He looked, and found it was swaddled in towels that were crimson. He looked up at them questioningly. Still no one spoke.

Finally Mary Ellen, hysterical, weeping, whimpered, “Your arm, Mr. Trumbal... Your arm is gone!”

John looked at the mirror. It was just an ordinary mirror. It was incomprehensible that this vile instrument of the devil could look like any ordinary mirror.

He was weak, but he crawled forward on his knees and tapped the silvery surface of the mirror. His own image mocked him as he tapped the glass. It was, after all, only a glass!

His eyes suddenly caught the significance of the carvings. He had never really noticed them before. He stared aghast at the pathetic, suffering, miniature heads. His eyes scanned the gallery of miserable faces... until... He gave a wretched cry! He held out his remaining hand and sobbed.

Luke, his childish, gleeful face, twisted in unendurable agony, was imprisoned in the tentacled embrace of that carved vine. The harsh grain of the gilt lined his face with unweepable tears for all eternity.

John Trumbal howled in insufferable grief. He slammed his fist against the mirror until it shattered into a thousand shimmering slivers. The men standing near the mirror at the time swore they heard a woman moan as the glass broke and scattered over the floor.

For a long time the Patuka Fireman’s Band did not even practice. The children were admonished to hurry home from school and to play indoors. There was little laughter, cheering or celebrating. It took time for Patuka to recover from its tussle with the supernatural... But it did. And today, Patuka is back to normal. It is very much the same as it was that day in September back in 1898.