The Broken Mirror

Hey Everyone,

This week's story is called "The Broken Mirror" and was written for a prompt of a similar name. I would be delighted for any feedback!

The Broken Mirror

by James J Meadows III

John’s trembling fingers slid the first cylindrical shell into the magazine tube of his twelve-gauge shotgun. Then, he loaded the next cartridge.

Sweat rolling down his brow mingled with the beads already coating his cheeks before coursing through the long ravines of his face to rest upon the weathered lips. He licked the sweat off, not daring to take his hands from the gun even long enough to wipe it away.

A third cartridge, then a fourth and a fifth, filled the gun until there were no more shells left in the box. He pushed the box aside, his free hand coming to rest on the pump. He slid it backward and forward until he heard the familiar ‘click’ of the bullet entering the chamber.

Rising from his chair, John lowered the rifle in front of him and advanced carefully toward the bedroom door. He pressed his back against the side wall, reaching slowly toward the handle. Fingers wrapped gingerly around the icy metal knob, twisting it so slowly someone looking on might not even be able to tell it was turning. The act made no noise.

Once the knob was turned as far as it could go, John thrust the door open and lowered his rifle into the hall. No one was there. That was okay. He didn’t expect anyone to be there. He was just being cautious.

He knew where the killer was. The killer was in the attic. Advancing slowly into the hall, his eyes shot wildly in all directions. His breathing was sharp and fast; his body trembled to the point of being almost uncontrollable; and his eyes kept twitching. Yet the hands grasping the rifle were quite steady.

John reached the stairs leading to the second floor. Already, he could hear the distant taunts and laughter of the maniac: the maniac who had killed his children; the maniac who had killed his wife; the maniac who was responsible for all the bloody deaths that had occurred that night.

The laughter grew steadily louder as John approached the door leading to the attic.

“Come on!”

He could hear the maniac raving at him, the voice wild, frenzied, and delirious.

“If you think you’ve got the guts to do it! Come on! Let’s see what you’ve got!”

The door was open, but only a crack. John extended his foot, placing it against the inside of the door, and slid it open as slowly as possible. It gave a small creak. He only hoped the killer couldn’t hear it over his laughter.

Advancing slowly through the door, John ascended the stairs, his already trembling body cringing with every whine of each step as his weight came to rest upon it. He tried to be careful, treading as gingerly as possible. The laughter was growing wilder and more deranged with each step. John couldn’t imagine how the killer could hear him move over the laughter, yet he couldn’t shake the suspicion that everything was not what it seemed.

Sure enough, John had just emerged onto the top of the stairs when he found himself staring directly into the face of the killer. And the killer was staring right back at him.

His clothes were dirty and disheveled. Dried blood stains still glistened on his shirt, sleeves, and even his arms. His hair was messy, his hands were shaky, and there was a wild feral gleam in his eyes, reminiscent of a madman, one who had lost all touch with sanity and reason. In his hands, he gripped a shotgun, which he held at the ready.

“There you are,” John heard his adversary jeer. “Armed and all! Now we just have to see if you have the courage to use it!”

Gaffaws of hard, crazed laughter filled John’s ears as his adversary mocked his incompetence. Rage burned in John’s heart coupled with a thirst for vengeance, which no words could possibly describe. John lifted his gun, pointing it straight at the killer’s head. As he did so, the killer raised his gun. For a moment, they stood motionless, each holding their weapons pointed directly at the other’s forehead. 

It was a long tense moment. After which John heard the killer say, “What did I tell you, you just don’t got the guts. But I do.”

Boom!

The sound of John’s shotgun echoed through the attic, stinging his ears as the kickback nearly threw him down the stairs. The bullet hits its mark. Glass and wood shattered, exploding against the impact, covering the floor with the shards and debris of the now obliterated mirror.

There was a brief pause. Then the rifle fell from John’s hands. With a cry of agony, John collapsed to the floor, gripping his hair in his hands. Images flooded his mind as everything came back to him. 

He could hear the screams, the cries, the shouting as the people died at his hands. He hadn’t meant to kill them. He didn’t want to kill them. He was trying to defend them from the killer. But there was no other killer. 

He shook his head, trying to get the images and visions out of his mind, trying to come to grips with the realization of what he had done, praying that it was all just a horrible nightmare, begging God that he would wake up and discover none of it was true.

As he did so, he heard laughter, wild maniacal laughter coming from the second-floor bathroom. All memories faded from his mind. It was the killer, the killer who had murdered his family. He picked up the gun and with slow deliberate steps, descended the staircase, following the sound of the killer’s laugh. He pressed his back against the wall as he descended, trembling hands gripping the loaded shotgun.

He still had plenty of bullets. And there were lots of mirrors in the house.