Graham Masterton - Mirror

Ramone had said, as they drove home along Santa Monica with the warm gasoline-fumy breeze blowing in their faces, 'Sometimes you have to make a deliberate effort to forget things, you know that? Otherwise you'd end up crazy. I forgot Lugosi already. He never happened. He was nothing but a figment of my imagination. When you forget, there's no pain. And who needs pain?'

'I'm trying to forget that my stomach is having a protest march,' Martin replied.

'What's the matter, you don't like Spanish food?'

'Each individual piece is okay, but somehow they don't seem to cohabit in my stomach very well. I can hear the sausages arguing with the squid. What are you doing here, eight-legs, this stomach isn't big enough for the two of us.'

Ramone had slapped him on the shoulder. 'Heyy, come on, you're going to be all right. What you need is a nice big glass of Fundador.'

'Ramone,' Martin had insisted. 'I'm going to take you home.'

He had dropped Ramone off; gripped his hand for a second as a thank-you; and then headed back toward his apartment. He parked awkwardly, his rear wheels well away from the curb, but he decided that whatever was good enough for Hunter was good enough for him. He switched off the car stereo, cutting off Simply Red in midfalsetto, and vaulted out of the car without opening the door.

He had only just pushed his key into the lock, however, when the landing lights were switched on, and by the time he had stepped into the hall, Mr Capelli appeared at the head of the stairs, in his lurid gold bathrobe and his monogrammed slippers. 'Martin? Martin? Is that you? I've been calling all over!'

'Oh, hello, Mr Capelli. How are you doing? Did you have to wear that robe? I'm feeling a little nauseous.'

'Is Emilio with you?' Mr Capelli demanded, ignoring his gibe.

'Emilio? Of course not. I've been out with Ramone.'

Mr Capelli came halfway down the stairs, and then stopped, holding the railing, looking gray-faced and serious. 'Emilio is gone, Martin. Disappeared.

'What do you mean, gone?' asked Martin, trying to keep a steady eye on Mr Capelli in spite of three bottles of Spanish rose. Then, 'Gone? Gone where?'

'How should I know? One minute he was playing on the stairs with his toy cars; then his grandmother called him in for his bath; and he was gone.'

'He didn't go upstairs, did he? He didn't go up to my apartment?'

'How should I know? I don't know where he went!'

Martin clasped Mr Capelli's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. 'Don't worry, Mr Capelli, we'll find him. Everything's going to be fine.'

'But where is he? He never wandered off before.'

'Listen, really, he's going to be fine.'

'We called the police,' said Mr Capelli. 'We called the police straightaway.'

'And what did they say?'

'Well, they said they were going to put out a bulletin, what else could they do? But still no word.'

Martin said, 'Please — if you hear anything — don't forget to tell me, okay?'

'I tell you, I tell you.' Mr Capelli was deeply distressed. First to lose his daughter; then to lose his daughter's only child.

Martin climbed the stairs to his apartment. He had locked the door before he went out, but Mr Capelli had a drawerful of spare keys, and it was quite possible that Emilio had found one and let himself in. He prayed not. But he had a terrible feeling that the playmate in the mirror had proved irresistible and that Emilio had come upstairs to see him. He opened the door and went inside. He listened. No voices, no singing. Silence. He waited for a little while, and then he walked along the hallway and opened the sitting-room door.

The room was empty. Only the sofa, only the desk, only the mirror, with its chilly, uncompromising surface. Martin stepped slowly in, his shoes sounding loudly on the bare boards, his heart silently racing. Pickle-di-pickle-di-pickle-di-pickle.

He approached the mirror, reached out his hand, and touched it. It was cold, unyielding.

'Emilio?' he called quietly.

There was no reply. Only the sound of nighttime traffic on Highland; only the drone of an airplane headed toward Bur-bank. Only the wind, tapping at the Venetian blinds like Blind Pew groping his way toward the Admiral Benbow.

'Emilio?'

Again, no answer. Martin stood for a long time in front of the mirror, quivering cold, wondering what the hell he was going to do. Because what could he do if Emilio had actually disappeared into the mirror, looking for Boofuls? How could he find him? How could he get him out? And what, finally, could he tell Mr and Mrs Capelli? That his obsession with Boofuls had lost them their only grandchild? How could he possibly compensate them for that?

He felt a chill in his body that was worse than the chill of death. It was the chill of total helplessness; of total loss.

Mr Capelli came into the room and stood staring at him.

'You called out Emilio,' he said.

'I, uh -'

'You called out Emilio. Why did you do that?'

Mr Capelli, I have to be honest.'

'Honest, yes,' said Mr Capelli. 'Be honest. Be honest and tell me what you really think, that your mirror has taken Emilio. Your mirror has taken my grandson!'

Martin rubbed his aching head. 'Mr Capelli, I have no way of telling. You saw what happened before - you saw the way he was almost sucked into it. Well, I locked the door when I left the apartment this morning, but it's possible, isn't it, that Emilio might have found one of your spare keys? And if he did that. . .'

He paused. He didn't really know what to say.

Mr Capelli shuffled forward in his slippers and peered into the mirror. All he could see, however, was his own gray face and Martin's empty sitting room.

'If the mirror has taken him,' he said in a thick voice, without looking around, 'what can we do? How can we get him back?'

'I have no idea,' Martin admitted.

Mr Capelli kept on staring at his own reflection. 'There isn't anybody who knows about these things? You talked about finding a priest. Maybe a priest would know. My own priest, Father Lucas.'

Martin swallowed. 'I had somebody here this morning . .. a kind of a medium called Homer Theobald. I'm afraid he wouldn't go near it.'

'He wouldn't go near this mirror? Did he say why not?'

'Well, he said it was - powerful, dangerous, I don't know.'

'And he wouldn't help?'

Martin shook his head.

'Maybe I can talk to him,' said Mr Capelli. 'Maybe I can persuade him.'

'I don't think so, Mr Capelli. Homer Theobald died this afternoon. He had some kind of hemorrhage. I don't know whether it had anything to do with the mirror, but believe me, it seems like the mirror doesn't like to be crossed.'

Mr Capelli said, 'I'm going to call Father Lucas.'

'All right,' Martin agreed. 'I guess anything's better than sitting on our hands.'

Mr Capelli went downstairs. Martin waited for a while, watching the mirror in the hope that Emilio might reappear; then he went through to the bathroom and took a hot shower. By the time Mr Capelli came back he had sobered up, and coffee was perking in the kitchen.

'Did you talk to the priest?' Martin asked him.

'I talked to his housekeeper. She says he's at the hospital, somebody's dying, he has to give them the last rites. He's going to call me when he returns home.'

Martin poured out coffee. 'In that case, there isn't anything else we can do, is there? Just sit tight and hope that Emilio hasn't gone into the mirror; and that the cops find him.'

Mr Capelli went through to the sitting room, and Martin followed him.

'I never dreamed such a terrible thing could happen,' said Mr Capelli. He approached the mirror and touched its surface with both hands. 'I never dreamed.'

He turned around and there were tears streaming down his cheeks. 'You don't know what Emilio means to me, Martin. You just don't know. He's all I have left, all I have left. And now I can't find him, I feel like I've lost my own soul.'