The Beach House Mirror Part 2 (with images) (Patreon)

Deep Reflections

Sarah blinked and took a step back.

"Nope," she said out loud to no one, turning briskly on her heels. “Just a trick of the light, that’s all. Bad angles. I’m hungry, I couldn’t be hungry, could I? Nope. I’m tired… Whatever.”

She was halfway down the stairs before her heartbeat began to slow.

The air outside felt cold, the streets shining in uneven post-rain pools of amber street light. The pub was only a few minutes’ walk. A weathered, half-coastal dive named The Beehive. Blurry neon beer signs buzzed in the windows.

Sarah-Jane was hungry. No denying it. 

“Something fried. Anything.” she ordered from the waitress, who gave her an arched eye-brow in response. “We do have a menu, y’know.” she grumbled as she marched back to the till.

Sarah-Jane sat at a small table trying to assess what she’d seen. She could make absolutely no sense of it. Also, that salad hadn’t really touched the sides.

Wait! Whose thought was that? She took a large gulp from her pint, trying to pretend the mirror hadn’t wrecked her nerves as much as it had.

She pulled out her writing pad and stared at the blank page.

What was the story she came here to write? A woman… yes a woman… discovering her inner power? A tragic love story? A fantasy series set in a dragon-filled alternative past? God, she felt like such a hack. All of it suddenly felt vague and irrelevant. Her fingers gripped the pen tightly, knuckles white.

She tried to shake the image from her mind. The fuller figure, the not-quite-her proportions. Scratch that! The bloody nowhere-near-her-bloody-proportions. 

The knowing look in that reflection’s eyes. Her blessed fat self. 

Don’t say it! 

I’m just exhausted. The mirror’s warped. Or... haunted. She gave a short, brittle laugh under her breath. Yeah, I could settle for that. A haunted mirror. 

But the laughter didn’t last.

Because even as the greasy, grilled cheese sandwich with triple cooked chips arrived, Sarah-Jane couldn't shake the unease that prickled up the back of her neck.

“Hello again!” said a warm voice, as Tessa approached the table. She was about to sit when she noticed the writing pad. “Oh, I’d ask if you wanted company, but it looks like you’re working.” Then she looked at the greasy dinner sitting next to it. 

“Then again, maybe you had a bad take-away.”“No! The take-away was…” She didn’t want to admit she was having a second dinner. 

“That bloody cat went for it.” 

“Moxie ate your salad?” 

“Well, the chicken. I wasn’t going to pick through the scraps.” she forced a chuckle. 

Tessa nodded. “I’ve never liked that cat. The only one she’s ever warmed to is Marianne.” 

Sarah-Jane smiled, she liked Tessa, she knew it already. She thought she was funny. 

Then she remembered her description of Marianne. 

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

Sarah didn’t look it… for a split second in that mirror. She was someone else. She could have been Marianne. 

“So?” asked Tessa. “So?” replied, Sarah-Jane, sort of, out of habit. 

“Fancy a drink?” 

Sarah-Jane had to clear her head if she was going to be good company. “Yeah, I think so. I just need the bathroom.”

The ladies were cramped and a little too bright, but the mirror was clean.

She stood square in front of it, turning slightly to each side.

Normal.

Her jeans hugged her hips like always. Her sweater was snug but flattering. No belly. No phantom softness. She twisted at the waist, leaned in closer.

Normal.

“See?” she whispered. “Not crazy. Probably just…tired”

And yet her stomach fluttered. That tiny edge of panic still lingered. Like something had shifted. Not in the mirror, but inside her.

She wasn’t going back to the attic. Not ever. 

Well… not tonight anyway. 

But definitely not ever if she could help it. That was final.

She’d have a drink with Tessa. Smile. Ask her a little about herself. Be polite. Friendly. Then, she’d go back to the house, double lock the doors, curl up with her notebook and a blanket. Forget what happened, ever happened. Focus on her book. She came here to write. There was a story in her somewhere. 

Not the one that seemed to be creeping out from inside the attic. Not the one inside the mirror. Oh shut up Sarah-Jane! She told herself.

To be continued...

Author's note: Oh... poor Sarah-Jane seemed befuddled by her experience in the attic with the mirror. The problem with writer's I find, is that they're too curious not to follow the story. Sit tight, ladies and gentlemen, the next chapter and images to arrive from The Fat Zone soon.