MirrorWorld

Images of her drowning son, just out of reach, flashed back into her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut and calmed herself with a deep breath. She’d been crying when she woke. Sobbing. The tears had faded when she realized it had been a nightmare, though the white, salty streaks crisscrossing her cheeks remained.

She’d checked on Simon immediately. He slept soundly, his stuffed triceratops clutched in his arms. His eight-year-old chest rose and fell with each gentle breath. This was his last night in this house, at least for a while. They’d already moved into their furnished apartment across town, but he’d requested one last night, nearly in tears. How could she say “no”? Seeing him sound asleep and peaceful had calmed her, but a sense of dread, that time was short, increased with each downward step.

There were three clocks in the house: an antique grandfather clock in the foyer, six steps below her; a designer clock hung in the kitchen, the numbers centered above ’50s-style bathing-suit-clad women; and a cheap plastic number in her husband’s rarely used office. Their out-of-sync ticking filled the home with a sense of haste.

She descended into the foyer, opened the grandfather clock, and caught its pendulum, stopping its operation. She glanced through the living room to her husband’s office, where the second offender ticked away. As was often the case, her husband wasn’t home. Working late. Again. She didn’t mind. They’d soon be together more often, and his work was important. But she longed for his strong, calming presence. He would be able to unravel the fear twisting around her.

So can wine, she thought.

Ignoring the office clock, which she wouldn’t be able to hear from the kitchen, she entered the dining room and skirted the table, feeling her way through the dark. As her fingers slid over the top of the hutch’s faux weathered surface, goose bumps sprang to life on her arms. She couldn’t see anything, but the fine hairs standing on end tickled her skin.

She hadn’t heard or seen anything other than the kitchen’s ticking clock, but she sensed something … horrible. Someone is in the room, she thought, and said, “Hello?” She immediately felt foolish. If a malicious burglar lay in wait, he wouldn’t reply.

After three silent steps back, she slid her hand across the canvas-textured wallpaper and stopped when she found the round plastic dimmer switch. She twisted the small knob clockwise until it stopped. It clicked when she pushed it in.

The eight-bulb chandelier hanging over the table, seven if you didn’t count the blown bulb, illuminated the room with a suddenness that made Maya squint. She fought against closing her eyes, scouring the room for danger that did not exist. The only aberration in the room was the stacks of empty moving boxes, waiting to be filled and moved to the new apartment.

A warm breeze, like breath, on the nape of her neck spun her around. She screamed and swung out with hooked fingers, some primal part of her rising to the surface to defend the modern woman.

But she was alone. Still.

“Dammit.” She stood for a moment, hands on the hutch. Her heart beat hard in her chest, the flow of blood through her body carrying unnecessary and uncomfortable adrenaline. Her stomach muscles quivered.

She searched the room again, confirming her paranoia.

Maya continued toward the kitchen, peeking through the doorway before entering. The sensation of being followed chewed at the base of her skull, commanding her to turn around. The room stood empty. She had no doubt, though her instincts disagreed.

She flicked on the kitchen light, revealing nothing more horrifying than a collection of dirty dishes. While her husband liked things neat and tidy, she let messes pile up before giving them any attention.

Twelve conservatively dressed bathing beauties looked down at her from the ticking designer clock. The gentle click of each passing second felt like a hammer striking an anvil. She looked at the clock and then toward the cupboard above the stove, where she kept the wine.

Wine first, she thought, then the clock.

The Pinot Noir, about the only wine she had a marginal palate for, opened with a loud pop. The tangy scent made her nose scrunch. She wasn’t a fan of how wine tasted. She rated the various types by degrees of nasty. Her interest in the drink had nothing to do with taste or the rustic flavor of oak, hints of boysenberry, or whatever bullshit they put on the label. It simply put her to sleep. Fast. And that was exactly what she needed.