I WAS BLEEDING the first time I saw the Japanese mirror. I had been cleaning the side counter in Mr. Colella’s Curio Shoppe, and an unexpected piece of metal had sliced open my fingertip.
Crying out in rage, I threw my rag to the counter, stuck my bleeding finger into my mouth, and stamped my foot. I probably would have stamped again, except I noticed Mr. Colella giving me a warning stare.
I took a deep breath and tried to get my temper under control. I knew I might lose my job if I didn’t watch myself, and I didn’t want that to happen. Not only did I really need the money, I actually liked working with the strange junk the old man kept in his antique shop.
I took my finger from my mouth to look at the cut. It went straight across my fingertip. And it hurt like crazy. All those nerves so close to the surface, I guess.
Scanning the countertop, I found what had snagged me—the top of a screw Mr. Colella had used to make a repair and hadn’t wound deeply enough into the wood.
I was still hunting for a Band-Aid when Mr. Colella shouted, “Jonathan, come here. I need your help.”
Pressing thumb against fingertip to stem the bleeding, I went to the back room.
Mr. Colella was standing in front of a large wooden crate. “Open this,” he said, handing me a crowbar. “Gently.”
The mirror inside the crate—a Japanese mirror, according to Mr. Colella—was nearly eight feet tall. The glass was surrounded by a wooden frame carved with interlocking designs and finished in black lacquer. I couldn’t help but imagine strange messages hidden among those whorling symbols. Though the silvering behind the glass had worn thin in two or three places, for the most part the reflection it gave was clean and pure.
“Not bad, eh?” said Mr. Colella, once I had all the packing pulled away. He pulled at the ends of his gray mustache, always a sign that he was pleased with an item.
“What do you think you’ll get for it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s in good condition; it’s a little unusual. Given its age, it could go for maybe three thousand. Maybe a little more, if I find the right buyer.”
My heart sank. For a moment I had considered trying to buy the mirror myself.
Either Mr. Colella didn’t see my disappointment or he chose to ignore it. “Here,” he said, handing me one of his seemingly endless supply of rags. “Polish.”
“Probably wouldn’t have fit in my room anyway,” I muttered as I went to fetch a stepladder so I could reach the top.
Half an hour later I stood back to admire my work but got caught up examining my reflection instead. You could have talked to me all you wanted about inner beauty; I preferred having it outside, where it counted. Not so handsome it scared people off, but definitely good-looking. A little too much like my father, though. Sometimes it startled me when I glanced in a mirror and found myself staring at someone who looked just like the guy in the old army photo on our mantelpiece.
Suddenly I noticed a small streak of blood on the mirror. Glancing down at my finger, I saw that the cut had reopened while I was working. I rubbed the rag over the blood, but the mirror wouldn’t come clean. I spit on a different finger and tried to rub the blood away. No luck.
I was starting to get angry when the tinkle of the bell above the door announced a customer.
When I came back an hour later, the stain was gone.
Guess Mr. Colella took care of it, I thought, hoping he wouldn’t be angry with me for doing an incomplete job. It wouldn’t be fair, of course. But like my late father, Mr. Colella tended to yell at me for things that weren’t my fault.
I could hardly complain, given my own temper. The thought caused me to scowl at my reflection. Big brown eyes and a try-to-catch-me smile might make it easy to get girls; my sudden bursts of anger sure made it hard to keep them. I rolled my eyes as I remembered yesterday’s argument with Gina, which had ended with her slapping me and shouting, “I don’t care how cute you are, Jonathan Rawson, I won’t be treated this way!”
I put my fingers to my cheek, remembering the slap. Last night I had figured it was time to move on. But Gina was special. Maybe I should apologize for a change.
Looking in the mirror to practice my rueful expression, I noticed the beginnings of a pimple beside my nose. I prodded the spot with my fingertips but couldn’t feel any bump. Maybe if I was careful it would go away without blossoming into a full-fledged zit.
That seemed to be the case, for when I checked myself in the bathroom mirror at home that night, my skin was smooth and clear.
Whoa! I thought. Could this be the beginning of the end for zit-osis? What a relief that would be!
I called Gina to apologize. She was cautious but finally agreed to go out with me on Saturday. I don’t know who was more surprised by my apology: Gina, or me.
Humming contentedly, I returned to my desk, where I was building a miniature room for my little sister, Mindy. It was mostly for her birthday. But it was also a way of apologizing to her for all the times I had yelled at her over the last year.
The project had turned out to be a bigger time-sink than I expected. But Mindy had been wanting one of these rooms for years. Our father had promised to make her one several times, but (as usual) he hadn’t come through. And now he was gone.
Despite how tricky it was, I found I actually enjoyed the work. And I was really proud of it. I loved seeing each piece come to its final polished perfection. That was one good thing about my job at Mr. Colella’s: I had learned a lot about working with wood.
I spent an hour carefully sanding and staining the chair I had finished assembling the night before. When I finally grew so tired I was afraid I would botch the work, I threw Beau, our golden retriever, off the bed and climbed between the sheets.
The next morning my mother overcooked the eggs. “Sorry, Jon,” she said, as she placed the rubbery hen-fruit in front of me. “I’m not functioning on all cylinders yet. I don’t think they’re making the coffee as strong as they used to.”
“No problem,” I said, kissing her on the cheek. “I can manage a tough yolk every now and then.”
“Is this my kid?” she asked, widening her eyes and putting a hand on my forehead. “The one who used to have a tantrum if his eggs weren’t runny enough to use up all his toast?”
“For Pete’s sake, Ma,” I said, ducking away from her hand.
School went well, and I had a good time with Gina during art. So I was in a good mood when I got to Mr. Colella’s shop.
Mr. Colella, unfortunately, was not. He was standing in front of the Japanese mirror—which was now in the display area—rubbing a rag almost violently over the glass.
A touch of coldness seized my chest when I saw the red streak that marred the surface of the mirror.
“I would have sworn I wiped this off yesterday,” said Mr. Colella. He turned and handed me the rag. “Here. You take care of it. And do it right this time!”
He stomped off, banging his leg on an old oak dresser.
I studied the mirror. The red streak was longer than I remembered.
As I reached forward to rub it with the rag, the stain disappeared.
I flinched back as if I had been burned. I stared at the mirror, then focused on my own reflection. The spot I had noticed the day before had erupted into an ugly pimple after all.
I put my finger to my face.
The skin was smooth.
I dropped the rag and grabbed both edges of the mirror, as if I could anchor it into reality. I don’t know how long I stood there.
Mr. Colella’s voice wrenched me from my trance. “Come on, glamour boy. That mirror’s not the only thing in the shop. Get to work!”
I turned away from the mirror. I thought about quickly turning back, to see if it still showed the pimple, and realized I was afraid to do so. I hurried over to Mr. Colella, grateful for an excuse not to have to face myself again.
I avoided the mirror throughout the afternoon.
But if I could avoid it physically, I couldn’t keep it out of my thoughts. I tried and discarded a dozen different explanations for the altered reflection: a flaw in the glass, a trick of light, a momentary daydream. Finally I told myself it had simply been an unlikely combination of all of those things, and that I was getting myself wound up over nothing.
My mother met me at the door with a worried look on her face. “Jon, I’m sorry . . .”
I knew that tone. Something had happened that was going to make me angry, and she was trying to avert the explosion.
“What is it?” I asked tensely.
“Beau . . .” She waved her hands helplessly. “Well, you should have put it away when you were done last night!”
A sick feeling grabbed me. Pushing past my mother, I ran to my room. I saw the mess with my eyes, but I felt it with my stomach, as solidly as if someone had landed a punch right below my ribs. The miniature room—the five pieces of oak furniture I’d so lovingly crafted, the walls I’d so carefully measured and papered—lay in the center of the rug, reduced to nothing more than a pile of wet splinters and dog slobber.
Beau slunk in, drooping his tail and looking guilty.
“You stupid dog!” I shrieked, raising my hand.
“Jonathan!” cried my mother, as Beau whimpered and cowered away.
To my surprise, the storm of anger passed as quickly as it had come. I lowered my hand. Filled with sorrow, I knelt to gather the sodden remains of three months of work. They felt slimy in my hands.
“I’d like to be alone for a little while,” I said softly.
Looking at me in astonishment, my mother grabbed Beau by the collar. “I’ll call you when supper is ready.” But instead of leaving the room, she pushed Beau out, closed the door, and put her arms around me. “It’s just that you look so much like your father when you get mad,” she whispered.
I laid my head on her shoulder. We both cried.
Monday afternoon Mr. Colella asked if I could stay late to close the shop while he went to an auction. I said I would have to check with my mother. I called, half hoping she would say no. But she okayed the extra hours, and even said she would pick me up after work.
After Mr. Colella left, I found myself glancing uneasily toward the mirror. I shook my head and busied myself with other chores. It was a quiet night; I didn’t have a single customer until nearly eight, when Mrs. Hubbard hobbled in. She was one of Mr. Colella’s best customers, and it was a relief to see her—though at that point I would have been glad to see anyone.
“Hi, Mrs. Hubbard,” I said cheerfully. “Can I help you?”
“Just looking tonight, Jonathan,” she replied. But a few minutes later she called me over to the mirror.
Reluctantly I crossed to join her.
“This is an interesting piece,” she said. “What can you tell me about it?”
“It was made in Japan, about three hundred years ago,” I said, trying to remember everything Mr. Colella had told me. “We don’t know the name of the craftsman, but from the style it appears to have been made in . . .”
I caught my breath. Couldn’t she see it?
“Made in Kyoto?” Mrs. Hubbard prompted, obviously thinking I had forgotten the name of the city.
I hadn’t forgotten anything. I was simply too frightened to speak. An inch-wide streak of red had slashed its way across the center of the mirror. That would have been bad enough. But it was the image in the glass that truly terrified me. Two people looked out at me, one a kindly looking elderly woman, the other a strangely altered version of myself. A scattering of open sores stretched from my nose across my right cheek to my hairy, pointed ear.
I glanced at Mrs. Hubbard. She was staring at me expectantly.
I looked back at the mirror.
My reflection smiled at me.
Mrs. Hubbard shook my arm. “Jonathan, are you all right?”
“Don’t you see?” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“See what?” she asked, taking a step away from me.
“Nothing. I’m sorry!”
I put my hands over my eyes and pressed them into my face.
She took another step back. “I’ll come to see Mr. Colella about the mirror tomorrow.” She paused, then looked at me with concern. “Listen to an old woman, Jonathan. I’ve had my time with mirrors. Don’t let them get to you. They’re useful, but the truth is, they always lie. Everything is backwards in a mirror. And whatever you see is never more than just a part of you.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
She looked at me more closely, then furrowed her brow and said again, “I’ll talk to Mr. Colella about the mirror tomorrow.”
“No, wait!” But it was too late. She had scurried from the shop, leaving me alone with the mirror.
I sidled back to the counter, unwilling to turn my back on the mirror, equally unwilling to look at it. I considered calling my mother and asking her to pick me up early, but couldn’t figure out what to give as a reason.
When nine o’clock came I was standing by the door with my hand on the light switch, ready to scoot out as soon as I saw Mom’s car.
Tuesday was a good day. Not having to go to the shop, I found myself at peace with the world. Things seemed to be on track with Gina, and the minor annoyances that normally would have made my temper flare seemed unable to affect my good mood.
Wednesday afternoon I went to work determined to confront the mirror.
It was gone.
“Mrs. Hubbard bought it yesterday morning,” said Mr. Colella. “Said she was going to put it in her front hall. She has a lot of oriental stuff, you know. She and her husband used to live in Japan, before he died. Anyway, I thought you’d be glad it was gone, since it seemed to make you nervous.” He paused and looked at me quizzically. “Don’t know why. You’re a good-looking kid. You shouldn’t worry about that kind of thing.”
I nodded and set to work, uncertain whether I was relieved or disappointed that the mirror was gone.
Over the next few months I forced myself to forget the mirror. The forgetting was made easier by the fact that my life was taking a turn for the better, as Jonathan the Wild and Temperamental was slowly replaced by Jonathan the Calm and Strong.
“A pleasure to be with” was the way people spoke of me now—the same people who had once avoided me because of my temper. I felt more able to focus on things. My schoolwork improved, and my grades went up. I had more friends.
When I started volunteering at the hospital Gina nicknamed me Saint Jonathan. At first it was a joke, but after a while she began saying it seriously, and I sensed that my unswerving calm was actually beginning to worry her.
A month later she broke up with me. Though she wouldn’t say why, I had a feeling that I was boring her. I should have been upset, but I wasn’t. For one thing, half a dozen girls had made it obvious that they would be available if Gina dropped out of the picture. I didn’t call any of them, though. Somehow I wasn’t that interested.
The horror started in school, oddly enough, where normality seemed to be embedded in the very walls. I was looking in the rest room mirror to adjust my hair when I saw a twisted, evil version of my own face staring back at me.
The image lasted for only a moment. But it left me gasping. Had I really seen it? Or was I having a nervous breakdown?
When I was preparing to go upstairs to bed that night, my mother put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I see such a change in you, Jonathan.”
I flinched. Had the evil I had seen in the mirror started to show on my face? My mother misread my reaction. “Don’t be upset. I was trying to tell you how pleased I am. I used to worry you were going to turn out like your father.”
I twisted away, started up the stairs.
“Jonathan, I’m sorry! That wasn’t fair. Your father had his good qualities. What I meant . . . What I was trying to say . . . was that I was afraid you would have his temper. That it would do to your life what it did to his.”
I paused on the stairs but didn’t speak.
“Anyway, you seem to be getting a handle on that. I’m pleased. And very proud.” She was silent for a moment. “Well, I just wanted to let you know I noticed,” she said at last. “Good night son.”
“Good night,” I whispered.
Upstairs, I lay staring into the darkness, shaking with terror as I remembered what had happened earlier that day. Finally I climbed out of bed and turned on the light. Whirling around, I saw it again in the mirror over my dresser: a horrifying version of my own face. Though it disappeared almost instantly, I no longer had any doubt that it was real.
Mirrors became my enemy. Though most of the time they were safe, I never knew when I would look into one and see the horrible face that was so much like my own, yet so filled with evil, leering out at me.
It grew worse—uglier and angrier—each time I saw it.
I prayed someone else would see it, so I would know I was not going mad. I also prayed that no one else would see it, for it was far too humiliating.
I stayed away from mirrors as much as possible, even cut my hair short so I wouldn’t have to worry about combing it.
“I’m worried about you, Jonathan,” said my mother, late that spring. “You seem a little . . . I don’t know, a little thin around the edges. Maybe you’re working too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I said, kissing her on the forehead.
It was a lie, and we both knew it.
“We’ve got a big house sale,” Mr. Colella told me one Friday afternoon. “Former customer passed away and left a huge collection of stuff. No kids. The nieces and nephews live a thousand miles away and all they want is the money. Anyway, I’ll need some extra help for the next few days. I want you to come with me.”
So the following morning Mr. Colella picked me up in the shop truck and we drove to a large old house. When I saw the mailbox, I caught my breath.
Mrs. Hubbard had lived there.
The Japanese mirror stood in the foyer, right where the old woman had told Mr. Colella she was planning to put it all those months ago.
I averted my head as we walked past.
Though I kept myself busy in other parts of the house, the mirror was on my mind all morning. When Mr. Colella left me to continue the inventory while he went to pick up lunch, I found myself drawn irresistibly back to the foyer. I hesitated to enter, but finally a curiosity stronger than terror drove me on—curiosity . . . and the hope that perhaps here I could find the answer to the strangeness that had overtaken my life.
I walked slowly toward the mirror. From the angle of my approach I could see the opposite wall reflected in its smooth surface. Everything seemed normal.
I stopped and took a deep breath, then stepped forward and planted myself in front of the mirror.
I screamed.
The wall in the mirror was the same wall that stood behind me. The pictures, the coat rack, and the umbrella stand were all the same. But where I should have seen myself crouched a creature more hideous than anything I had ever imagined.
Blood began to seep down from the top of the mirror. The creature raised its hands and reached forward, reached toward me, as if it wanted to snatch me through the glass.
I ran.
In the garden behind the house I threw myself to the ground and sobbed. What made the thing in the mirror so horrible was not horns or scales or anything demonic. What made it horrible was the smoldering rage twisting the features that were all too clearly my own. That, and the understanding that the anger I thought I had escaped for the last six months had been coming here. All my darkness—every vile thought, every angry moment, every instant since October when I had been less than my best—had collected in the mirror, slowly creating a beast that was now nearly strong enough to break out. It was a repository for all that was bad about myself, and what I had seen there was not merely terrifying, it was disgusting.
My mother had said I looked “thin around the edges.” Now I understood why. Too much of me had gone into the mirror.
I thought back to the bits of information Mr. Colella had dropped in his usual terse way as we were working. “She died of a heart attack,” he had said at one point, for no reason that I could make out. “They found her body in the foyer,” he had commented later.
A chill ran over me as I concluded that my other self had scared Mrs. Hubbard to death.
I sat up and wiped my face.
“All right, Saint Jonathan. Now what do you do?”
The answer was simple. The creature had to be destroyed.
But what would that mean to me? The creature was part of me, was me, in a way. If I killed it, would I die, too?
Well, saints never hesitated to die for a good cause. Or would this be like committing suicide?
“Jonathan?”
It was Mr. Colella, back with lunch. I took a breath and forced myself to be calm. “Be right there,” I called.
I found a hose and washed the tears and dirt from my face.
“What were you doing?” asked Mr. Colella sharply, when I appeared at the door of the kitchen.
I felt an instant of anger at Mr. Colella’s tone, then felt the anger disappear. This was a sensation I had experienced often over the last several months. At first I had welcomed it. After a while the feeling had become so familiar that I usually ignored it. Now, though, it horrified me, for I finally understood that it meant I had just fed my terrible alter ego.
No more free ride, I thought. I’ve got to teach myself to be calm for real.
Doing so took most of my energy for the rest of the day. By the time I went to bed I was exhausted from trying to control my anger. Even so, sleep would not come, and when the alarm I had set to go off at two began to beep, I was still wide awake.
I reached out and snapped it off. Moving slowly, I climbed from my bed and dressed.
Half an hour later I pulled my bike to a halt in front of the Hubbard house. A cool wind whispered around me, making leaves rustle in the darkness. As I traveled up the sidewalk, the nearly full moon sent a long shadow stretching ahead of me.
I fumbled in my pocket for the key Mr. Colella had given me earlier that day. Once I had it, I paused. It wasn’t too late to turn back.
But the thing waiting inside belonged to me.
So I unlocked the door and stepped into the foyer.
“Hello, brother.”
I caught my breath. The voice came from the mirror. Had the creature known I was coming? Could it read my mind?
I turned on the light and it appeared immediately, a ravaged parody of my own face staring out from the mirror.
“I’ve been waiting for you, Saint Jonathan,” it hissed.
I took a step backward.
The image should have moved back as well, away from me. It didn’t. It stayed exactly where it was.
“It’s too late for that kind of game, Saint Jonathan. I have a life of my own now. Your mother was right you know. You are getting thinner. Soon there won’t be anything left of you. All that goodness will vanish like a puff of smoke in the wind.” It laughed. “That’s when I’ll come back and take over your body. It won’t be like dying, not at all like dying. I’m too much a part of you for that, the biggest part of you. Just a few more days—a few more days and we’ll be together again.”
The eyes looking out at me glowed with an unholy fire.
“Oh, the things we’ll do then, Jonathan! We’ll start with your sister, probably. Or maybe your mother. Yes, maybe your mother. That would be nice, don’t you think?”
“Stop!” I shouted. I felt the surge of my anger flow into the thing in the mirror and suddenly realized it was goading me, pushing me to give it more strength, more power.
I did the only thing I could think of. Moving as slowly and calmly as I could manage, I turned to the umbrella stand behind me.
I picked it up.
Then I threw it into the mirror.
The glass shattered. The pieces crashed and tinkled to the floor.
My sense of triumph lasted only a second. With a sudden hiss a flare of blue light crackled around the black lacquer frame.
A moment later my other self came crawling over the edge.
“How kind of you to set me free. Earlier than I expected. But not unwelcome. No, not unwelcome at all.”
It lunged at me. I screamed and jumped back as my own face, burning with hatred, riddled with oozing sores, surged up at me. I dodged to the right, racing around the creature. It clutched at me. I jumped forward, tripped over the black lacquer frame—and fell into the world of the mirror.
The creature followed close behind me. I could hear it scrabbling on the floor, panting, not from exertion, but from a lust to possess me.
“I don’t want you!” I cried as I ran through the mirror version of Mrs. Hubbard’s house. “I don’t want you. You’re not part of me anymore!”
“I’ve always been part of you,” laughed the creature. “And now you will be part of me . . . Saint Jonathan.”
The last words were spit out with such contempt that I felt my fear double. If this thing that hated me so much were to catch me, what would it do to me? What would it do to those I loved?
I stumbled around a corner, regained my balance, saw a door and a stairwell. I took the stairs rather than the door, because to lead this thing out of the house and into the world—even the mirror world—was too awful.
I was halfway up the stairs when I heard my mother’s voice call, “Jonathan! Jonathan, wait for me!”
I turned back. But the voice had come from the creature. It was standing at the base of the stairs, leering up at me. A string of drool dangled from its pendulous lower lip.
I turned to run, and gasped. Above me, floating at the top of the stairs, was Mrs. Hubbard. A pale glow surrounded her translucent figure.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hubbard!” I cried. “I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t mean for you to die!”
“Don’t be foolish!” she snapped. “Listen to me, Jonathan. Remember what I told you. Mirrors always lie. Everything is backwards here. Now you have to want him more than he wants you.”
“What do you mean?”
But her image vanished, shimmering out of sight like a reflection in a pond when the water is disturbed.
A snarl from behind sent me bolting the rest of the way up the stairs.
You have to want him more than he wants you.
I stumbled along a hallway.
“Jonathan, you’re mine. Stop running.”
Stop running. That wouldn’t be good enough. I had to stop being afraid. The creature was feeding on my fear, growing stronger every moment.
You have to want him more than he wants you.
I stopped. Heart pounding, I turned to face the creature.
It paused, looking wary.
Summoning every ounce of courage I possessed, I spread my arms and whispered, “Come back.”
The creature’s eyes widened. It hissed in alarm.
I took a step toward it.
It backed away, still hissing.
I took another step. It turned and ran. I raced after it, caught it with a flying tackle at the head of the stairs.
“No!” it screamed, struggling to escape my grasp. “Get back!”
I was too sure to let go now. I clutched it to me, for it was my own. Screaming, it clawed its way forward until it managed to pull both itself and me over the edge of the stairs.
We tumbled down, rolling over and over, thumping and bouncing. It felt as if I were trapped in a cement mixer, but I didn’t let go. When we hit the bottom, I was on top. Wrapping my arms around the creature, I pulled it to me and whispered, “You’re mine. You’re mine, and I claim you.”
I could feel it wavering, growing thinner in my arms. But it was still struggling, still real and solid.
Stronger now, I pinned it to the floor. I stared at that fierce and horrid face—my own face, twisted and ravaged by all my anger. Pushing past my disgust, my revulsion, I pressed my cheek to the creature’s.
“You’re mine,” I whispered in its ear. “Welcome home.”
Then I held it as close to my heart as I could, and howled in sorrow and triumph as my lost anger seared its way back into my soul.
The beast vanished from beneath me.
I collapsed to the floor, where I lay for a long time, weeping but whole, Saint Jonathan no longer.
“Not bad, kid,” said a deep, dear voice, once so familiar, now nearly forgotten. “Not bad at all.”
I looked up and saw my father smiling down at me, translucent and shimmering as Mrs. Hubbard had been.
I reached toward him, but he shook his head sadly and began to fade from sight. “Can’t do it, kid. I’m breaking the rules as it is. But I wanted to let you know you did good.”
“Don’t go! I need you!”
“I know. You always did. And I was never there.”
He shimmered back into view and stepped closer. Fearful, I started to draw back but forced myself to stay.
My father lifted his hand. I whimpered at the sight. How often when I was five, six, seven had I seen that hand rise like this to strike me? But there was no anger now, only deep, enduring sorrow as the memory of flesh came down to brush against my cheek.
I swiped at a tear, trying to hide it, too aware of how my tears had always stirred my father’s wrath.
“I always loved you, Jonathan,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I was just too dumb to say it.”
He put his arms around me, embracing me as I had embraced the creature, and though no touch could be felt it was as real as salt and as deep as love itself.
Then, before I could say a word, he was gone.
After a time I got to my feet.
Moving slowly, I walked toward the mirror’s frame. I glanced back only once.
There was nothing behind me.
Turning, I stepped through the black lacquer frame, back to where my own sweet, harsh world lay waiting.