Over the next few months, I continued helping Mrs. Waverly with other odd jobs around the manor, such as repainting walls and fixing broken appliances, etc. At first, I only visited every few weeks, but soon all of my weekends were being consumed by Mrs. Waverly’s never-ending stream of projects. I suspected that she mostly enjoyed having me over for the company, though she wouldn’t admit it. I didn’t mind, though. The pay was good, and I enjoyed hearing the tales from her Odyssean life. Strangely, she never talked about her childhood, but I thought it best not to pry into an elderly woman’s past.
Eventually, we both agreed it was prudent for me to move into one of the many unoccupied bedrooms in the manor temporarily so that I wouldn’t waste so much time commuting.
After a few months of living at Waverly Manor, I realized the comfortable rhythm that I’d fallen into was turning me into a hermit. On the rare occasion I would go into town on an errand, people would shoot me weird looks. I naively thought the ludicrous, mean-spirited tales about Mrs. Waverly kidnapping and eating children would have ended by now, but soon even I was incorporated into the mythos as her craven helper; her “Igor,” if you will.
Despite these malicious rumors, Mrs. Waverly and I mostly spent our time fixing up the place, playing pinochle, and watching old movies. Life was good, except for the migraines, which had started shortly after I moved in. I figured it was some ancient and mysterious mold that could only live within the confines of her bizarre mansion, but Mrs. Waverly insisted that her home was clean and safe.
It wasn’t long before the first of my two wishes came true, and I fell in love. Her name was Agatha, and she had dark auburn hair and eyes like the cerulean sea. I’ll never forget the first thing she said to me:
“Sign for this,” she demanded. She wore a light blue USPS uniform, her hair pinned up tight under her hat, with one gorgeous, curly lock that had broken free and fallen down her freckled face. She was buried in a clipboard, and her foot was tapping like a machine gun. I was dumbstruck. This statuesque angel was standing in front of me, of all people.
I stared like an idiot.
She looked up and furrowed her brow. The foot tapping ceased.
“Oh God, not another one… CAN — YOU — UN — DER — STAND — ME?” she shouted. “Is your mother home? Who can sign for this?!”
“Sorry, sorry…” I mumbled. “I can sign it.”
I wish I could tell you that I said something witty to keep her from thinking I was dumb or hard of hearing, but instead, I silently scribbled my name and number, sans a lick of eye contact, and slammed the door in her face. My heart was pounding in my ears.
Miraculously, she called a few hours later.
“Hello, is this Edgar?” she said in a gentle, lilting voice.
“This is him,” I said. I decided to take a different tack and tried to sound enigmatic like one of the many dark and handsome, if problematic, protagonists from the old films Mrs. Waverly and I had been watching. I cleared my throat and lowered my voice an octave. “Just couldn’t stay away, could you? Well, you’re in luck because –”
“– Oh, so you’re the idiot who fucked up my delivery?!” Her fuzzy voice crackled through the phone speaker. “Well, it turns out, you’re not authorized for proxy signatures on Mrs. Waverly’s orders, so I have to have her redo it on my own time if I want to keep my job.”
*Click*
Second strike, but it did not deter me. Agatha returned in a huff, so I apologized for being such a dunce and was finally straightforward with her.
“I think you’re gorgeous. As long as you’re on your own time, would you please let me take you out to dinner to make up for the trouble?” I asked.
Earnestness won that day, and a few hours later, we were at an improv show on the first of many dates to come.
Over the next year, we sank irrevocably in love, with the natural splendor around Waverly Manor serving as backdrop. The sweetly scented symphony of flowers, of which there was one of every vibrant color imaginable, perfumed our budding love as we spent our days hiking through their luscious, flowing fields, running our outstretched palms through the silky blades of grass, and floating in azure waters like we were adrift in the cosmos, scattering crystalline gleams that danced across the riverbed. We cackled and howled, dazzled by borrowed sunbeams that reflected off the pale moon, and fused under the stars that filled the violet night sky; two halves of an ancient whole, finally reunited. Months passed in our dreamlike fantasy, but I knew after the first that I wanted — no, needed — to marry her.
Mrs. Waverly, who had come to care for Agatha like a daughter, admired our love and, without my asking, entrusted me with a precious heirloom: an antique gold ring set with an impeccable, oval-cut, powder-blue diamond. I kept it on my person every day, waiting for the right moment to pop the question.
I didn’t fully appreciate it then for what it was: the happiest time of my life. The three of us were a wonky, impromptu family, brought together under the homey shadow of the magnificent and magical Waverly Manor. I never thought I would find such immense joy in this world.
By that autumn, our hard work had paid off, and the mansion was almost completely restored to its former glory! We decided to throw a ball to commemorate the occasion, but considering that nobody in town would have anything to do with us, it was a party for three. The ladies in their shimmering gowns and I in one of Frank’s old tuxedos took turns waltzing under the crystal chandelier in the ballroom to a vintage crooner record that warbled on a dusty gramophone.
The night wound down, and all the activity had tired the old gal out, so Agatha and I carried Mrs. Waverly up to her pink, sparkly canopy bed that she had dubbed her “Fairy Kingdom.” Despite the gothic architecture of her home and the elderly woman’s overall brooding demeanor, her bedroom was a little girl’s dream, adorned with sequins and glitter galore.
“Did you know this is the very same bed I’ve had since I was a little girl?” she asked gleefully. “It always made me feel like a princess when I was young. I suppose it still does.”
“You’re really a sucker for an antique piece of furniture, huh?” I joked.
“Thank you both for giving me such a grand night in this place. I thought all of my joyful years were behind me before I met you two,” she cried, teardrops leaving a shiny trail down her cheeks.
The next morning, pale sunlight filtered through the tall windows in the ballroom, illuminating empty wine bottles and strewn party decorations that cast their long shadows over the still dance floor. Bits of dust from bygone eras floated in the sunbeams, as if kept aloft by their warmth. Light struck a crystal wine glass, showering the room in a rainbow of prismatic glare.
Up in Mrs. Waverly’s room, Agatha and I were discovering the old woman’s corpse, still dressed in her ball gown with a joyful, childish grin on her face.
The coroner’s autopsy identified it as a routine case of heart failure with no foul play suspected, but that didn’t stop the salacious rumors from ramping up across town. People were so inundated with true crime that they thought we must have killed her for the money. It didn’t help that she left the bulk of her large estate to us, but it goes without saying that we did nothing untoward. By the end, we both really loved her.
While it may seem like a dream to inherit such a gorgeous and valuable piece of property, between the taxes and the upkeep, Agatha and I swiftly decided to sell Waverly Estate and cash in on the opportunity. I figured Mrs. Waverly would have wanted us to get a fresh start and see the world like she and Frank had. But, unlike Mrs. Waverly, bless her heart, I would not be cheaping out and hiring a lone local man to do the move. This was a job for professionals. Many of them.
We spent the next month slowly packing up the manor, working from the top floor down to the basement. On the last day, I dismissed the movers early before conducting a final walkthrough because the men were complaining of debilitating headaches. Even though I had mostly grown accustomed to the dull knocking in my head, I could empathize. Besides, I had to hurry up and get ready because I had decided that night was the night. It was finally time to propose to Agatha.
On my rushed walkthrough of the manor, I noticed the movers had missed only one item: the peculiar mirror, still covered in the canvas that Mrs. Waverly had hurriedly tossed on it so long ago. Only now, a handwritten note in her scrawl, on black paper with white ink, was stuck to it. I put down the box cutter I was holding to examine it.
“DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, REMOVE THIS SHEET OR TOUCH THIS MIRROR!”
Mrs. Waverly had yet to lead me astray, so I turned to leave obediently. As I flipped the light switch off, a light tapping sound echoed through the darkened room. I switched the light back on.
*TAP, TAP, TAP*
There it was again. Like small stones against a glass pane, only there were no windows in the basement. The room was empty, save for the ominous specter of the canvas-covered mirror. I held my breath and listened closely.
*TAP, TAP, TAP, TAP, TAP, TAP*
This time, it was undeniable; the sound was coming from the mirror. I approached and warily tugged on the canvas. It slid into a heap on the ground, revealing my reflected self in the impeccably clean mirror. I waved my hand, and my reflection followed. I made a goofy face, and my image dutifully followed suit, just as a mirror should. Only after a few more erratic motions did I realize that the reflection was moving ever so slightly slower than I, as if it were on a delay.
A vicious migraine beset me, like a ball-peen hammer drumming along the crest of my skull. The tapping from the mirror returned, right on tempo with the pounding in my head. The pain escalated, and soon the tapping had turned into a meaty thunk.
*THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK, THUNK*
The mirror shook, and my reflection began moving on its own. My reflection was banging against the glass with one hand and beckoning me with the other. Like a deranged mime, he flashed a crooked grin and started dancing an insane jig backed only by the metronome pounding against my throbbing skull. The reflection paused intermittently to fall to his knees and plead desperately for me to approach the mirror.
He pointed to his head and mouthed, “Pain?” before rubbing his temples like he had a headache. He excitedly pointed at himself with both thumbs.
The throbbing in my skull was blinding. I was willing to do anything to end it. My reflection beckoned for me to put my head against the glass… The lovely, cool glass… Yes, that would make everything better… My head drummed… My vision faded… The mirror called to me… How did I make it across the room? Oh no. My forehead touched the mirror, and the pain subsided, but that moment of bliss was followed immediately by a hand gripping my hair, nearly ripping it from my scalp as I was pulled into the mirror.
I opened my eyes. The pounding had ceased, but panic quickly set in as I realized I was no longer in the basement of Mrs. Waverly’s estate. I was surrounded by an empty, perfectly white, infinite plane of existence. There was no ground or floor, only sterile, disorienting, dimensionless space that somehow felt both empty and claustrophobic. The only thing that broke the endless blankness was an oval-shaped window that looked into the Waverly Manor basement.
I realized that I had been transported into the mirror, which seemed to be some sort of alternate dimension. I pressed up against the glass, searching for a way to pry the window loose, when suddenly a man leaped before the other side of the glass and shouted.
“Haha! Got you!” he laughed and slapped his knee. “Finally, I’m free! Oh, God! The nightmare has ended! I’m free!”
The man wore a ragged, ill-fitting suit that seemed straight out of an old movie from the early 1900’s.
“That old bitch thought she could get the best of me, huh!” He cackled to himself maniacally. “Thought she could trap me in that mirror forever, huh?!”
“What is going on!?” I screamed. The man did not regard me as he ranted.
Eventually, he cast his gaze back towards me, as if he had suddenly remembered I existed. As his eyes fell on me, my appearance transformed. My clothes changed into the same outfit he was wearing, and my hands were now entirely unfamiliar to me. I felt around my body and realized everything was a stranger’s: skin, hair, teeth, eyes, nails. I had become his reflection, this mysterious man from the mirror.
“Sorry, buddy,” the Reflected Man spat. “Nothing personal. I would have trapped Jesus Christ himself if it meant escaping that hell hole.”
“What the fuck is going on!?!” I roared. I was met with the unnatural silence of the mirror realm, devoid of any noise outside of my own pounding heart.
“Ah, sorry, buddy. I can’t hear you,” he chuckled. “This magic mirror is a ‘one-way’ kind of deal. But I’ll do you better than that bitch did me. You’re going to be trapped in there until someone else touches this cursed glass. You’ll look like anyone who looks right in the mirror, so if you want to keep up the ruse and stay alive, you ought to do the reflectin’ yourself. Wouldn’t want someone freakin’ out and shatterin’ the glass, would you? I reckon you wouldn’t die, just trap yourself forever. But you’re welcome to try. Maybe you’ll find someone as dumb as you are.”
Pin pricks traveled up the crest of my spine and tingled my skull. I’m going to pass out… This must be a dream, it must be —
“That’s how she got me. I broke into this decrepit old house back in ’36 looking for things I could hock for a few bucks. There were always rumors about the old, abandoned place on the hill, but I figured those hicks in town were all full of it. I worked my way to the basement and found a bunch of creepy junk covered in tarps. That’s when I heard the tapping.”
A phantom tapping sound echoed through my dizzied brain.
*TAP, TAP, TAP*
The Reflected Man bent forward and touched his toes, then leaned back, arms outstretched like a bat about to take flight.
“And I’ll be damned if my curiosity didn’t get the best of me.” He chuckled at first, but his laughter quickly devolved into desperate sobs. “I was gone for so long! Are my kids alive?! What year is it?!”
I was too preoccupied with my own situation to respond, and even if I wasn’t, I didn’t know how to communicate via pantomime to the Reflected Man that he had been trapped for 90 years and his immediate family was likely long dead.
“Edgar!”
My heart dropped as Agatha called out from the top of the basement stairs.
“Edgar! Where are you, dear? We have dinner reservations, and you know how they’ll charge us if we’re late again…”
The Reflected Man’s eyes grew vast and vacant.
“Is that her?” he whispered. “That bitch that trapped me here?”
I shook my head raggedly.
“No! That’s not Mrs. Waverly! That’s my wife! Leave her alone!” I screamed, but nobody heard.
I fell to my knees and clasped my hands together in a prayer motion, begging him to leave her alone.
“She was just a child, maybe five or six years old when she trapped me in here,” The Reflected Man thought out loud. “Duped by a little girl and left to rot for eternity! She is the devil! Satan! Pure evil!”
“Edgar, did you say something?” Agatha’s gentle voice grew closer.
“But if she’s still here, then it couldn’t have been too long… Maybe my kids are still alive!” he exclaimed. His face reddened as a downcast rage overtook him. “My children… my babies… who grew up without a father! All because of her!”
He picked up the box cutter I had dropped earlier and flicked it open, the sharp blade glinting under hot orange light coming from the incandescent bulbs above.
The Reflected Man looked back at me and apologized, “I know you ain’t did nothing wrong, but she has to pay. I’m sorry.”
He left, and the lights flicked off in the hallway, followed by wet slashing sounds and Agatha’s bloodcurdling screams. I bashed my fists against the mirror portal until they were bloodied and broken, but it was no use. A few moments later, my hands had completely repaired themselves.
The Reflected Man returned, soaked in blood. He silently tossed the canvas tarp back over the mirror, sealing off my only connection with the real world. My body’s appearance transformed back into my own, providing me with the modicum of comfort of being in my own skin again as I sobbed.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Part 3 will be out 4/17/26!
Millerwiller 