Impish

CHAPTER 17: MIRROR MURDER MAZE

When I wake up, it's in a place I don't recognize. I am on a concrete floor, laying on my back with freezing-cold air coming from floor-level vents all around me. The ceiling is high above my head, like I'm in some sort of industrial warehouse. The walls don't look that way, though. There are mirrors all around me, forming a room with halls branching off in all directions. It is simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.

Static crackles over speakers I can't see. The sound comes from all directions. In a low, sultry tone, some disembodied voice chuckles, "This is your final test! Learn the truth, darling. Face yourself. Good luck! You're going to need it."

It doesn't sound like Jeb. The voice is higher, more breathy, unfamiliar. It can't be him.

I push myself up off the ground. Immediately, I know that something is different. Something is off. And then I realize what it is. My clothes have changed again, into a replica of what Angela Baker wore in Sleepaway Camp 2, khaki shorts and all. I don't know what this getup says about me or what it's supposed to mean. Is this some sort of insinuation that I am the villain in my own story? Because I resent that, and I don't know what else it could mean. I'm at a loss.

I hop up to my feet and begin to walk, to familiarize myself with my surroundings. There's a lot to see. My purse is back, at least. I hadn't noticed how naked I felt without it.

I seem to be in a maze made out of mirrors. How am I supposed to find the truth in this room? Does the answer have to do with looking at myself? With looking deep into my soul? I don't know what I'm supposed to do, either here or in general. That inspires a certain type of panic in me as I look around and try to find meaning in all this.

And that's when I hear it.

The sound of a chainsaw echoes in the distance. It's somewhere too far away to pinpoint and too close to be good for my health. In the opposite direction, there is the sound of something sharp and metal scraping across glass. I try to figure out what it is, but all I can think of is scissors or nails on a chalkboard.

I almost freeze thanks to the sound and the feeling of being caught, but I snap myself out of it. I can do this. If I really am the slasher and the final girl, the heroine and the antagonist, then I think I can manage to survive what is coming for me. I can keep myself from getting torn apart.

I start walking in one direction, trying to be as quiet as possible. The mirrors are disorienting. I can't tell which way I'm going, just that I'm in this glass labyrinth with no clear way out. Some of the mirrors are warped and distorted, like the ones found in funhouses all across the country. Some have ornate frames in near-ancient colors and metallic tones. Most of them are normal, though, with sharp edges that blur into each other and create the illusion of long sheets of glass reflecting me into infinity. It invents boundaries that are both clear and unclear. I keep catching myself in their smooth surfaces, with all my flaws apparent in the unblemished glass. I don't like it, the way that I am confronted with myself at every turn. It's disconcerting. It's freaking me out.

I can hear the chainsaw growing closer. Someone else's breathing echoes through the halls. I still can't figure out how I'm supposed to get out of here or what I'm supposed to be doing. There comes a point when I don't know how long I have been in this stupid maze. I don't know whether it has been minutes or hours or days. All I know is that I'm here, I'm walking, and I'm terrified. My veins are filled with ice and dread.

Maybe there's no way out of here. I'm trapped. I'm sure of it. I'm stuck in this world of mirror and repeated reflections, this infinite plane of self loathing and quick-beating hearts. I keep seeing things I don't want to see, from memories of different versions of myself in some of the mirrors to weird smudges that seem to move and scream when I look too closely at them.