The Beach House Mirror - Part 1 (Patreon)

Author's Note:

Strange things happen when we least expect them. Reality shifts like sand beneath our feet, or like glass that will not hold its shape. Sometimes, change comes not in the world around us, but in the reflection staring back. Here, at the beginning of this tale, we open the door to a lonely beach house, and step inside a story from The Fat Zone, where the ordinary bends and heaves into the uncanny… and the familiar grows into something far more intoxicating.

Enjoy - P.R.

Part 1: Arrival

The rain blew in sideways as Sarah-Jane wrestled the key into in the old brass lock. Her hair clung to her cheeks in drenched curls, her linen pants plastered to her legs, and the oversized tote containing half her life and most of her writing notes was beginning to leak.

With an infuriated grunt and an angry shove, the beach house door flew open.

“Cozy,” she muttered, stepping straight into the dim, cool kitchen and kicking the door shut behind her. The wind whistled through the window frames. Her sandals squelched on the hardwood floor. She was beginning to puddle. “Head to the beach, they said, get some sun, pah!”

The house smelled like cedar. It was aged, but welcoming. She flicked the light switch on. The house shifted from pale blue to low and warm, and a folded piece of paper rested on the hallway table beneath an old-style telephone. Her name was written in ink there: Sarah-Jane.

She peeled off her wet jacket and wiped her hand on her thigh before picking it up.

Welcome!Hope the drive wasn’t too miserable. You’ll find towels in the hall closet, fresh sheets on the bed, and extra blankets in the chest at the foot of it. Water heater is stubborn so let it run for at least a minute before it gets hot.You said you’re a writer! So was I! Best of luck! The attic is open if you need the extra space. It’s a little dusty, but you’re welcome to poke around. There’s an old mirror up there, I think. Might help you outline your characters ;)

Marianne

P.S. Thanks again for agreeing to check in on Moxie. He’s usually very sweet. Just don’t try to pick him up. Or stare at him. Or move too quickly.

Right on cue, a low and sinister yeowl echoed from the living room. Sarah-Jane peeked in to find the cat already sprawled in the middle of the sofa. It was black, squat, and glaring at her with over-dramatic suspicion. His tail flicked once in warning.

“Hey, Mox!,” she said carefully. “I won’t touch you if you don’t maul me. Deal?”

The cat blinked. Then slowly turned to face away from her, curling into a judgmental ball.

She looked over the note again. You said you’re a writer! So was I! 

What did that mean? I was a dreamer once too? Then adulthood came calling with a bunch of beach house bills to pay?

And what did she mean by outline my characters? 

Time to read into all that later, if she cared to. Right now she was shivering. 

She moved through the house until she found the bathroom, peeling off damp layers as she went. Cold rain still clung to her arms and legs. 

The shower hissed louder than Moxie when she turned the knob, then sputtered for a long ten seconds before surging to life. Steam rolled up as she stepped in, letting the warmth soak her chilled skin.

She found the soap and began to lather up. Her hands wandered over body. Down the smooth plane of her stomach, over her slim hips. Not bad, she thought absently, running her fingers over her thighs. She wasn’t super fit, but the family genes had been kind to her. She was still trim enough to pull off a two-piece or slinky dress if she needed to.

Robert, her boyfriend, certainly didn’t complain. Well, not about her body. Everything else was up for debate lately. 

“Time to get a proper job, SJ. Or before you know it, you’ll be up the duff with no real work experience behind you and then four years of motherhood at least. You’ll be unemployable.” 

She couldn’t believe he’d actually said that. The idea of breeding made her wince. Let alone producing something that shared his DNA. 

She towelled off in front of the sink mirror, trying to get a better look at herself. It only showed her from the waist up. No full-length mirror in the bathroom, or the bedroom either, she’d already noticed.

She pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a cropped sweater, something cute but casual enough for a solo dinner. Her stomach grumbled. The kitchen was stocked with plates and glasses and absolutely no food.

"Figures," she muttered, tossing her damp towel into the hamper.

She pulled out her phone, tapped on Deliveroo and ordered a… chicken salad from the local diner. It had a solid 107, 5 star reviews. 

The food arrived within 45 minutes. The woman who delivered it looked about Sarah-Jane’s age. She had a nice smile and curly blonde hair. A friendly face just when she needed one. 

“Are you Mirianne’s grand-daughter?” she asked. 

“No, I’m renting the place. Well, and cat-sitting. For the summer,” Sarah-Jane replied. 

“I did wonder. You don’t look like her.” 

“What does Mirianne look like?” she regretted the question as soon as it left her lips.

Someone’s about to get insulted. “Erm… you’re a lot smaller than she is… frame-wise” said the woman. 

“Nice save!” chuckled Sarah-Jane. 

The woman smirked. “I am often told I should think before I speak.”

She held out a hand. “I’m Tessa. I live down the beach. If you’re here for the whole Summer maybe I could show you around sometime?”

She’s forward. 

Sarah-Jane introduced herself. “I’d love that. I’ve put the boyfriend on ice for three months, and the besties too, I’m bloody sick of them. It’ll be nice to have some new company. When I’m not writing that is.” “A writer huh? That’s impressive! What do you write?”“Books” she replied confidently. And then with slightly less confidence… “Romance books. Well, it’s only one book as of now. Might be the only one if I don’t get my socks on. Publisher’s threatening to pull the plug.” 

“Oh! Best leave you to it then! Good luck!” That’s my number on the app. Let me know when you need some human time!” 

“Thanks! I will!” 

The chicken salad was superb, and made Sarah-Jane feel like a proper adult for not indulging in something greasier. Having settled at the kitchen table, she pulled out her laptop and writing notes. 

She spread them across the surface to organise them. To make sense of the still-vague ideas she was playing around with. It didn’t really work. She opened the laptop. Stared at an empty word doc for 15 minutes. 

Writers block was real and seriously threatening to implode her early writer’s promise. It also distracted her. Big time. Out of nowhere a random thought struck her. 

What exactly did Marianne look like? She toured the house. There were no photos of her here. It wasn’t an entirely random thought, she supposed. It had come from what Tessa had said. 

“you’re a lot smaller than she is… frame-wise” 

The thought stuck in her brain like gum to her shoe. How big was her host exactly? 

“You’re a writer! So was I?”

Why couldn’t she forget that either? What had Marianne given it up for? Did she know something that Sarah didn’t? The secret to happiness? To writing? To overcoming writer’s block? She didn’t know why she wanted to know just how big Marianne was. Just that, to know her, to know the body that defined her, might… help her, in some way. Connect her to something bigger than herself. 

“God, I’m thinking bollocks!” she sighed.”No! Wait!” 

Something lit up inside her  She recognised it for what it was. Her last book had begun almost by accident. By her curiosity of an old neighbour that lived down the street. It was happening again! Maybe, the mystery of Marianne is what I need to get this book going! At least page one. I can deal with page two when I get there! 

She stood up and paced a little. 

“C’mon universe,” she begged. “Give me something to go on. Let me picture her.”

The lights flickered and then went out. 

“Oh great!” 

She found the mini torch on her phone and started rummaging through the drawers. No candles or lighter. 

Then, a new thought, a useful one too: the attic. Marianne had mentioned a mirror up there. Shame she hadn’t mentioned candles. No matter. Maybe she’d find some up there, in an old box or something. She chuckled to herself. “There’s that sense of romanticism I’ve been missing.” 

She turned the torch onto the cat, who gave her an incredulous side-eye. “What’s the attic like, Mox?” 

The cat hissed and leaped from the sofa into the shadows. 

“That shit, huh?” 

She crept up the narrow attic stairs barefoot, heart thudding softly. It smelled rather musty, like the back shelves of her old school library. If only she’d spent more time reading than making out with Henry Watkins, she might have her second book by now. 

She entered the attic. A slant-roofed room with wooden beams, it was dim, but not completely dark. The sun had gone down, but the moonlight poured in. A dusty bulb hung from the middle of the roof with a pull cord. She pulled it. No luck. 

She began to pull the linen cloths off of furniture long discarded. A very sturdy looking chaise-lounge, then a cabinet. She opened the drawers. Empty except for the husk of a long-dead spider. 

And then there it was, as Marianne had written it would be. 

Against the far wall, half-covered with a linen sheet, stood the mirror. Almost seven feet tall, arched and framed in tarnished silver.  It seemed to hum faintly in the quiet. She tilted her head and listened.

Sarah-Jane stepped closer. Her reflection was obscured by the hanging sheet. She pulled it away. The light bulb flickered briefly. Only for half a second. But long enough. 

There, in the dusty surface, stood her reflection.

Except… it wasn’t her.

At first glance, she thought it was just the light.

The mirror’s surface was dim and slightly fogged from attic dust. Sarah-Jane stepped closer, squinting, but what she saw made her stop short.

The woman in the glass had her face, sure. Same eyes, same curls. Only the face looked much softer. Her high cheek bones had diffused into a rounder face somehow. But the real shock was her body. God, the body…was off. Thicker. Much thicker. Softer. Her arms, much, much rounder. Her belly… not her stomach, but her belly… it was enormous. A huge beachball of a belly. Her reflection smiled. 

Wait! Did that mean she was smiling?

To be continued...