Halloween I.F. – “Going Dark” – Day 8

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The mirror was on Fern’s mind. Might as well spend some time demystifying it like they’d discussed. Hell, why not follow Bannick’s suggestions and really get into it—just to prove to themself how silly they’ve been?

Libations would be a fun idea. They were pretty traditional as offerings, and while Fern didn’t really want to pour anything out on the ground down there and then have to clean it up later, this place was fully stocked with bowls of various sizes.

They took down two little bowls and poured milk into one and beer into the other. They did think for a second about putting both in one bowl (what did they call that, the White Gilgamesh, and one of the worst drinks of all time?) but the idea almost made them gag, so separate bowls it was. Besides, this way, it’d be even better proof—if a spirit had their choice of offering, the aforementioned witchy folks out in their cottages couldn’t put the lack of paranormal behaviour down to “just not liking milk.”

Carrying them carefully, they headed down the basement stairs, nudging the light switch on with an elbow as they went. Everything was as they’d left it, which did make them feel a little better, if no less stupid about it.

Fern put the two bowls down in front of the mirror and then stared at its uncanny surface again. They did not like the experience. Again, it was hard to put their finger on the subtle ways it felt wrong, but it didn’t feel like themself staring back, an experience they’d had to struggle with for too many years to really love having it crop up again. 

Probably the only thing it was a portal to was dysphoria.

Bannick had suggested an incantation, which felt dumb as hell to do now that they were here standing in front of it, but they supposed there was nobody who could judge them. Fundamentally, it was like a writing exercise, right?

They cleared their throat and tried to imagine what kind of portal they’d want if such a thing were real. Where would they go? Somewhere just… not here, probably. They didn’t want to die, but there were times they wanted to just disappear and wake up in a better future, or something like that. Go somewhere otherworldly. Become a mystery themself: disappearing from a locked cottage, all their things left here, their shoes at the door, no sign they’d walked out. Even if this were that kind of portal, they didn’t think they’d do that to people they cared about.

Maybe better to try for an opposite: a way for someone who felt trapped the way Fern often did to come out and just live freely. They cleared their throat and tried to come up with some kind of recitation. Harder to do on the fly, without looking at a written script. But still…

“To those who are held away from the self they wish to be, for those who look to leave their circumstances but cannot find a way out that suits them, to those struggling against the self others want them to be, I leave this offering of milk and ale. Come and claim it, if you can.”

Not a terrible one, Fern decided, and pushed their hand against the glass.

It was slightly cool to the touch, but warmed rapidly under their palm. A wave of tiredness washed over them, nearly dizzying; it had been a long fucking day, and now they were digesting a heavy meal. Pasta was so good until about half an hour after you ate it, Fern thought.

They pulled their hand back; it felt sticky, sweaty. They shook their head to try to clear away the fog of exhaustion; while they were down here, there was more they wanted to get done. They could head to bed after that.

The cellar had kept popping into their mind since cooking. It’d be good to know what was in there if they did run low on groceries, or even wanted to supplement what they’d brought. Surely it wouldn’t have been left here if they weren’t allowed to use it, even if the door had been locked. 

They headed over, pushed the tapestry aside, and unlocked the door again, pushing it open and fumbling for the switch. The same rows of the root cellar greeted them as they headed in. Glancing at the jars, though, second thoughts began to claw through the sleep-haze that had washed over them. 

The jars looked interesting—canned okra, carrots, green beans, pickles, beets—but many of them were dusty, and, without knowing how old they were, Fern wasn’t sure how safe they’d be. If they’d been canned properly, they were theoretically edible indefinitely, though whether they’d be tasty after a while, that was another question. If they weren’t, the worst case scenario was poisoning. Botulism. All those dreadful things. It was a big risk, when Fern already had groceries. But surely the cans weren’t that old, if the building was still in use.

Why were there so many shelves? Had they always been here? Was it always this winding? Fern leaned heavily on a shelf for a second, then rounded a corner. The shelves were so narrow, Fern was beginning to feel like the ball in one of those tiltable mazes, rocked this way and that until eventually they’d find a hole and fall into it—

No hole, when they rounded another corner, but… another door at the end?

No. They felt a full body rejection of the idea, whiny and tired. It was too late in the day to deal with more doors, but not knowing was worse. They pushed off the shelf and went to the door, pulling it open. Only darkness seemed to be beyond, so they stuck an arm in, feeling around for a switch, and fell.

They were staring at the mirror. There was a man standing in it as if on the other side of the doorway, but he had no face, just a hole, a space, a gap where a face ought to be. It vanished into darkness that looked too deep for his skull. There was something wrong with him, similar to the way the mirror was warped. His body was wrong somehow, uncanny. Fern couldn’t put a finger on it, twisted limbs, maybe? A distortion? That lack of face, the lack of face, no face at all? The man stuck his faceless head and shoulders through the mirror toward Fern, beginning to push his way free. Fern couldn’t run, or move. The world felt slow. The man’s head tilted, hair showering down—what color was it? He laughed at Fern, not unkindly. It sounded like a susurration, a voice—

There were voices outside. Fern was in the living room, standing and listening to them, facing the window, not a mirror at all. A tree brushed against the window and Fern howled at it in outrage, leaning on the display unit to slam a hand into the glass in return and make it rattle. The tree and Fern batted at each other, the glass the only thing separating them, a sudden absurdity. BANG. BANG. BANG. The glass rotated horizontal— 

Fern looked up from the surface of the writing desk in the bedroom at the sound of something slamming into something else, hard. BANG. BANG. BANG. They pushed their chair back from the desk (BANG!) and peeked out into the hallway. The sound was coming from the locked second bedroom. Something was slamming hard into the other side of it, hammering on it like they were begging to be let out. The sign on the door was fluttering every time the person inside hit it. Fear gripped Fern and a scream bubbled up. They tried to keep it in, afraid that the sound of their voice would alert whoever was in there—

They stared out the window. Someone outside was screaming. It hurts, it hurts. Save me! A feeling like a dagger stabbed through Fern’s chest. They tried to grab at it, but their hand wasn’t being responsive. Instead they slowly doubled over. I’ll make it worth your while, the voice continued sweetly, as if it hadn’t just been screaming in pain.

Beneath the ground, a sound started up. Fern knelt to hear it. Not quite a pulse but something shifting. Fern ran their hands over the floorboards of the living room as if they could figure it out that way, and their hand brushed over a hoof. They looked up to see the faceless man standing there. Hell, Fern wanted answers; they opened their mouth, but the man shushed them at once, a finger in front of where a mouth should be. “No. He’ll hear you. Can’t you tell? He’s hungry.”

Fern could tell. There was a yawning hunger here. A mouth opening wide under them. Fern began to throw food in: canned jars from the cellar, their pasta, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what it wanted, it wasn’t what Fern wanted. It, they, needed more, more, more, always more. They yearned to be free, free, let them out, let them out, let them out—

***

Fern woke in bed with a jolt, struggling upright. Their mouth was dry and throat hoarse from screaming or snoring, and when they put a trembling hand on the pillow to help push themself up they realized that it was wet. Probably snoring, then.

They couldn’t remember exactly when they’d fallen asleep, whether they’d even entered the cellar last night or if that had been part of the dream. They vaguely remembered stumbling back up the stairs half asleep, just a fragment of oh, yeah, that happened that didn’t have any real detail associated with it.

It had been a weird dream, but just a dream, and not even the worst of the nightmares they’d had. No wonder, with all the weird shit in this house. As with most nightmares, they grimly did their best to dismiss it.

Fern sat up to get out of bed, then groaned, realizing that in their exhaustion they hadn’t even got undressed the night before. Their legs felt numb from where their jeans had twisted around them as they’d tossed and turned. 

Well, the first order of business was a shower, that was for sure. The second was… hmm, maybe to take a cell phone picture of those weird photographs for later, just to get it out of their head.

But after that… it was unusual to have a day so open, theirs to do whatever they wished with it, and nobody at all to expect anything of them, but frankly, they could do anything they wanted. 

Which just made it harder to figure out where to start.

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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