A Collection of Short Stories

The Mirror

Tonight was the first time I'd stepped foot in the new house. My parents had wanted to move into a house that was big enough to hold the rest of the family when the holidays rolled around, so we switched from our small farm house to the brown city beast. Our new abode was a three story, brown brick cube. The windows ran in straight lines down the front, back, and sides of the building. The front door sat smack in the middle of the house, the back door smack in the middle of the back. The house screamed "boring" and "unoriginal", most of the walls were painted white, the bedrooms and bathrooms all looked the same. The location was nice enough, there were actually neighbours within shouting distance and a few stores within walking distance. But the back yard was small, and the front yard was practically nonexistent. I didn't understand how this place was supposed to house all the little children come christmastime, but it suited my family of four just fine.

My bedroom was at the back of the building. The walls were as white as a dove's feathers, the floorboards a boring brown. The room had come with nothing but a dresser with a mirror attachment.

I walked into the sad little room, my footsteps creating quiet echoes that ricocheted off the bare walls. I set my bag down just inside the door, a feeling of unfamiliarity pressing down on my chest. I walked over to the mirror and studied it. The only thing the previous owners had left behind. The dresser was made of a dark wood, almost black in colour. The dresser had two columns of drawers, three down each side. There was a layer of dust covering the mirror, making it impossible to see any reflection.

 I reached my hand up to the mirror and swiped my finger across it, clearing a streak from the dust, a piece of my distorted reflection looked back at me. The dresser was obviously old, nicks and scratches made up a better portion of the wood. But I couldn't imagine why the previous owners of the house had left it behind.

Frowning, I reached up again to clear away the rest of the dust. The more dust I cleared, the more of me became visible. Once I had cleared the greater portion of the mirror, I took a step back and stared into it. My own reflection stared back at me, shaggy brown hair, dull brown eyes. Something in the top right corner of the mirror caught my attention. It was a handprint, a grease stain sort of handprint. I pulled my sweater over my wrist and reached up to wipe it off. After a few seconds of furiously scrubbing, I pulled my hand back, only to find that the handprint was still there.

I spit on my sweater, an unusual wave of determination taking over, and tried to clean the handprint off again. I achieved the same result. The stubborn grease-print would not come off the mirror. I studied the print from afar for a minute then hopped up onto the dresser to get a closer look at it. No...that couldn't be right.

The print was on the other side of the glass.

I went about the rest of the night feeling uneasy about the mirror. I had come back downstairs after discovering the prints' location and had asked my mother to call the previous owners to ask if they forgot the dresser. They had said it was a gift to us, and that they hadn't wanted the dresser anymore. I can only imagine why that might be so.

Dinner with my family was casual. We had a quick meal and each took a box back to our rooms so we could start unpacking. I had brought a box full of clothing back to my room, and my mother had suggested I store it in the dresser the previous owners had left here. I shrugged, trying to push the thought of the print to the back corner of my mind.

When I arrived in my room, I set the box down in the centre and walked back over to the mirror. I looked up at the top right corner only to discover that the print had vanished. Strange. Perhaps the long trip had messed with my brain and the print was something my weary mind had conjured up. The explanation satisfied me, and I headed back downstairs to help my father bring my bed up.