Haggopian and Other Stories

…for while the Surface of the Glass is still—even as the Crystal Pool of Yith-Shesh, even as the Lake of Hali when the Swimmers are not at the Frothing—and while its Gates are locked in all the Hours of Day; yet, at the Witching Hour, One who knows—even One who guesses—may see in it all the Shades and Shapes of Night and the Pit, wearing the Visage of Those who saw before. And though the Glass may lie forgotten for ever its Power may not die, and it should be known:

That is not dead which can for ever lie;

And with strange aeons even death may die…

For many moments I pondered that weird passage and the even weirder couplet which terminated it, and the minutes ticked by in a solemn silence hitherto outside my experience at The Aspens.

It was the distant chime of the half-hour which roused me from my reverie to continue my reading of Brown-Farley’s diary. I purposely put my face away from the mirror and leaned back in my chair, thoughtfully scanning the pages. But there were only one or two pages left to read, and as best I can remember the remainder of that disjointed narrative rambled on in this manner:

10th. The nightmares on the London—all the way out from Alexandria to Liverpool—Christ knows I wish I’d flown. Not a single night’s sleep. Appears the so-called “legends” are not so fanciful as they seemed. Either that or my nerves are going! Possibly it’s just the echo of a guilty conscience. If that old fool Abu hadn’t been so damned close-mouthed—if he’d been satisfied with the opium and brandy instead of demanding money—and for what, I ask? There was no need for all that rough stuff. And his poxy waffle about “only wanting to protect me”. Rubbish! The old beggar’d long since cleaned the place out except for the mirror… That damned mirror! Have to get a grip on myself. What state must my nerves be in that I need to cover the thing up at night? Perhaps I’ve read too much from the Necronomicon! I wouldn’t be the first fool to fall for that blasted book’s hocus-pocus. Alhazred must have been as mad as Nitocris herself. Yet I suppose it’s possible that it’s all just imagination; there are drugs that can give the same effects, I’m sure. Could it be that the mirror has a hidden mechanism somewhere which releases some toxic powder or other at intervals? But what kind of mechanism would still be working so perfectly after the centuries that glass must have seen? And why always at midnight? Damned funny! And those dreams! There is one sure way to settle it, of course. I’ll give it a few more days and if things get no better, well—we’ll have to wait and see.

13th. That’s it, then. Tonight we’ll have it out in the open. I mean, what good’s a bloody psychiatrist who insists I’m perfectly well when I know I’m ill? That mirror’s behind it all! “Face your problems,” the fool said, “and if you do they cease to bother you.” That’s what I’ll do, then, tonight.

13th. Night. There, I’ve sat myself down and it’s eleven already. I’ll wait ’til the stroke of midnight and then I’ll take the cover off the glass and we’ll see what we’ll see. God! That a man like me should twitch like this! Who’d believe that only a few months ago I was steady as a rock? And all for a bloody mirror. I’ll just have a smoke and a glass. That’s better. Twenty minutes to go; good—soon be over now—p’raps tonight I’ll get a bit of sleep for a change! The way the place goes suddenly quiet, as though the whole house were waiting for something to happen. I’m damned glad I sent Johnson home. It’d be no good to let him see me looking like this. What a God-awful state to get oneself into! Five minutes to go. I’m tempted to take the cover off the mirror right now! There—midnight! Now we’ll have it!

And that was all there was!

I read it through again, slowly, wondering what there was in it which so alarmed me. And what a coincidence, I thought, reading that last line for the second time; for even as I did so the distant clock, muffled somewhere by the city’s mists, chimed out the hour of twelve.

I thank God, now, that he sent that far-off chime to my ears. I am sure it could only have been an act of Providence which caused me to glance round upon hearing it. For that still glass—that mirror which is quiet as the crystal pool of Yith-Shesh all the hours of day—was still no longer!