Lou Hassar Tales: Woman in the Mirror

“So you haven’t seen anyone like that?”

It was the third time I’d asked the man. I couldn’t keep his attention. He kept looking over his shoulder, making me think he had indeed seen the person I was looking for and had been instructed to hide something from me.

Finally he sighed—perhaps too dramatically—and shook his head. “No, no one around here like that. I’ll pray to God I never see anyone around here like that.”

“You’d better.”

I left his cozy bungalow and walked into the middle of the sidewalk. The rain was falling, and while this usually excites me—come on, water from the sky—I only felt defeated now.

I’d been tracking someone for days now. Another who’d been successful in breaking out of the Black Stomach but whose escape came with dire consequences. He was just one among many who’d made it back to this world completely ruined by his experience within that otherworldly prison, so of course it was now my duty to bring him down.

He was insane. And deformed, which wouldn’t have been so bad had his deformities not granted him the classic claws-and-teeth combo. Add that to his insanity and you’ve got Jack the Ripper Revamped on your hands.

A hobo approached me. At least I thought he was at first. He was looking at me with rheumy eyes, the type I’d seen peering at me from the ground or at the street corners plenty of times on this block. Tired, hoping I could cut him a break.

“You’re looking for a certain someone.”

“Yes!” I said. I didn’t mean to exclaim it, either. I felt like I was letting my guard down. But now I wondered if this bum didn’t know where my man was? “Do you know him?”

“No, but I think I might be able to use your help. Think you might be interested in helping a guy out?”

No! I wanted answers for myself! But I felt like this guy knew more than I was giving him credit for. I couldn’t just dismiss a person like him.

“Yeah, I’ll check it out,” I said.

So I followed him through the rain, watched his sopping coat edge around oncoming pedestrians. With every passing second I felt more reluctant about abandoning the trail of my elusive charge.

He led me to a small flat four blocks away. There was a gray cat beside the door that watched us as we headed inside. I felt my face contort when I noticed one of its eyes was missing. The rain was bringing out the grease in its patches of fur. This creature was aging so gracelessly I thought it must have been deteriorating right before my eyes.

Inside, everything felt gray. Hazy, maybe, is a better word. There wasn’t much furniture that rose above the middle of the wall, not even lamps, so that when you stood you felt alone and vulnerable.

A mattress had been positioned next to the wall, and nearest to it was a dusty mirror with a golden frame.

“You’re not a normal investigator,” he said. “I’ve been watching you.”

“That’s not something you want to tell someone.”

“I don’t mean to sound that way, but I have, and you’re after something else. That’s why I was wondering if you could help me with this.”

“What?”

“The mirror. Just wait. Watch it.”

A face appeared. I held command of my legs before they could leap back. I gathered my composure and took a closer look.

The image was obscure, but it was a woman, and by God she looked so much like Cheri.

Cheri is a real remarkable case. She was swallowed by the Black Stomach and made it out alive. I’d actually been monitoring her for days, knowing she was coming close to escape, but I was amazed when a girl so young made it through with her sanity intact. She’s been staying with my friend Jena.

Cheri is a beautiful young lady. Every feature is fascinating to me. I’ve tried to point little subtleties out to Jena, like the way her face is shaped so fine and narrow but not to the point where she looks frail. It’s delicateness, really, and she wears it so well with her luminous eyes. Also, her hair is a kind of muted red. And this woman in the mirror looked very much like her.

Except this woman looked violent. Her dress was worn, and her knotted hair hung carelessly down over her shoulders. She was snarling at us. I could tell by her bullish eyes that the Black Stomach had already taken her mind.

“Who are you?” I asked. She didn’t even seem to hear me. She was locked too deep within her confines. If she was indeed using the mirror for what I suspected—a way back home—then she wasn’t quite close to breaking through.

“Is she a ghost?” the man asked. Fair question, and one I expected.

“No, she’s human, but she was taken by the Black Stomach. She’s trying to get out.”

“What’s the Black Stomach?”

"I can’t really tell you. It’s one of those ‘if-I-told-you-I’d-have-to-kill-you’ situations. But even I'm not too clear on the subject. I can tell you it’s something you’d never want to encounter.”

“Damn…is some kinda hostile country using it against us?”

I smiled. This was a new theory. Rubbish, but imaginative. “A man could never dream of making this.”

The woman was still scowling. “Is she going to come out of the mirror soon?” the man asked.

“I don’t know. It might be a while, if she even makes it at all. I’m going to come back here soon and check up on things. Don’t do anything with that mirror.”

He looked frightened. “What should I do if she comes through?”

“Leave.” I gave him a card with my number on it. “You can reach me at this number.”

“Thanks. But who are you?”

“Lou Hassar.”

“A-rab, eh?”

“I’m of Arabic descent, yes.”

“So your people definitely didn’t make whatever she’s trapped inside?”

“No, you bigot. And I hope you’re not thinking weapons of mass destruction, either.”

He chuckled. “Nah. Thanks, buddy.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“Andrew Ames.”

I left the flat and headed home. There was a message on my machine: “Hey, it’s Jena. You need to come over here as soon as possible.”

I was worried about Cheri. It was rare that someone made it out the way she did. I was thinking she’d been taken again.

Jena’s house is a bike ride away from mine, and I rode with renewed intensity, almost unheard of for me after a day’s work. When I got there, Jena and Cheri were sitting out on the front porch. They looked at me expectantly.

“What is it?”

I noticed the tears blotching Cheri’s eyes. It wasn’t right at all. Even when she’d made her escape and reentered the world confused and terrified, she hadn’t cried.

“My mom!”

I followed them into the house and to the bathroom, where I saw the same woman growling in the mirror. “Shit!”

“Can we help her?” Cheri asked.

“Who is this?” I said.

“My mom!”

“I don’t believe this. I just saw this woman in someone else’s mirror.”

“Whose?”

“A man named Andrew Ames. You know him?”

“No.”

I studied the woman. No deformities to note, but the insanity was there. The hunger for nothing but escape and nowhere to go from there.

“She’s too far gone, I think.”

Cheri glared at me with new eyes. Venomous. A hawk in place of the doe I thought I knew. “And what do you mean by that?”

“The Black Stomach’s destroyed her. She wants so desperately to get out, but it won’t matter.”

I need to tone down my honesty.

Cheri was at my feet. Her cheeks were wet with tears. I knelt down beside her, and she screamed. Jena held her and tried to get her to stand.

“Cheri, please…”

Jena shot me a look. “Let her do what she wants.”

I stepped out of the bathroom. I should have been thinking about Cheri, but now I could only think on the facts. The image of the woman seemed weaker here than it had at Andrew’s apartment. Maybe she was trying out different points from which to come through? Mirrors seemed logical. She probably equated them with portals, like from a fantasy story.

After Cheri’s unfortunate revelation, I did the only thing I could do. Wait. I wanted more sightings of the woman in the mirror. Ames only reported one, and Cheri emerged from her room just long enough to tell me in a quivering voice that she hadn’t seen her again.

And then I wondered if Cheri’s mother wasn’t appearing only to people she’d had relationships with before her capture. But that seemed preposterous. No one had the time or energy for that sort of methodology in the Black Stomach. And besides, Cheri had already told me that she’d never heard of a man named Andrew Ames. But her mother could have ties to people she didn’t know about, couldn’t she? I decided to go ahead and test my hypothesis. I brought Cheri to the man’s house.

“You’re sure your mother didn’t know this man?”

The three of us were standing in front of the apartment, and I was thankful that cat wasn’t around. I was also relieved Cheri hadn’t noticed when I’d said, “didn’t know this man” instead of “doesn’t.” A mistake like that could’ve upset her further, and right now I needed her to stay level.

Cheri shook her head. “She’s been coming to you?”

“In my mirror, time to time,” he said.

She seemed fascinated. “Has she said anything to you?”

“No, she only…growls.”

I needed to say something before Cheri let the news cut too deep.

“Well, then I can only assume that your mother’s choice of mirrors is random,” I said. Real solace there.

“But she is using them as outlets!” Cheri said, apparently unperturbed.

“It would seem that way.”

I wanted to stop being so damned calculated. I wanted to tell Cheri her mother would be safe. But I couldn’t, and I knew I couldn’t be close to Cheri right now, no matter how badly I wanted to show my affection, because I knew what I would have to do to her mother should she make it out. Cheri knew it, too, but she was desperate for an alternative.

That night my employers made a surprise visit to tell me I was doing a fine job with the Black Stomach refugees, but they left seeming rather bitter. I should really learn more about my employers. But I’ve never felt warm to them, because they insist on keeping me in the dark. I do this for the intrigue, because I’ve never been a skeptical man when it comes to things out of the ordinary. That’s why I believe in the Black Stomach and what I’m doing. Anyone who knows me well could tell you that.

In the morning I felt as if I’d had no sleep. Which was almost the truth. I still hadn’t found the man I’d been looking for before this business with Cheri’s mom started, and I was up all night thinking mostly on my failures.

But I thought too soon, because while making toast and scrambled eggs I got another call from Ames.

“I think she’s serious this time. You better not let this bitch get through m’ mirror.”

“Don’t call her a bitch,” I said sleepily. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

Thinking back on this moment, I realized I should have called Cheri. But at the time just I canned my eggs and scarfed down the toast on the way to my bike.

Out on the street I was starting to feel conflicted—here comes the supposed mysterious investigator on his bicycle to save the day! Maybe this job would be more satisfying if I had a sports car to match.

Trivial thoughts aside, I set my trusty bike down in the alley beside his house and knocked lightly. I didn’t want to scare him. He was probably already spooked shitless by whatever was going on inside the apartment. He opened the door and just stared at me. His eyes were grossly bloodshot. I guessed he’d gotten about as much sleep as I had. Wordlessly, we walked over to the mirror.

I was amazed at the definition of her appearance. I could make out the tiny chapped lines in her lips and a gallery of bruises in different places. It was almost as if she was standing in the room with us. Ames had taken the time to dust off the glass, but the clarity could be attributed to something more: she was closer to escaping.

And then one foot slid through the glass and planted itself upon the floor. There were no broken shards. As if the mirror were a curtain. She heaved her body forward and freed herself entirely. Cheri’s mother in the flesh. It was then that I noticed her diseased hand. Her left was raw and totally blackened. The veins leading up from the wound were bulging and purplish, an ugly highway of sickness.

“Shit, you got anything sharp?”

The woman roared in my ear. It rocketed Andrew into action. Within seconds I had a kitchen knife in my hand.

As I backed away from the woman, wondering where and how to strike, I thought of Cheri. I was about to kill her mom. I’d lose her to this; I knew it. She’d never forgive me, and she would never let herself understand.

I remembered what my employers had said to me: “Most of the time escapees of the Black Stomach will be maddened beyond retrieval and diseased beyond cure. It’s possible for them to contaminate others. There is no other option but elimination.”

Kill or be killed in so many words. Their words, not mine.

I’ve only used a knife twice before this occasion. Once when I was a kid and my uncle taught me to skin an animal—not enjoyable at all. And once when my employers directed me to end the life of another escapee. That hadn’t been easy, but this would be harder. This felt too personal.

I breathed and stabbed downward.

I was on the ground. The knife had missed its mark. I thanked the Lord it was still in my hand and not hers. I saw her now reaching out toward Ames with an animal’s hunger. Reaching with her infected hand.

“Don’t let her touch you!” I said. I got up quickly.

I drove the blade home this time, dug it straight into her back. She screamed. I’d forgotten a person could scream that loud. And it only grew louder as I forced the weapon deeper, pushing through bone and muscle. Ames was on his knees. I was just focusing on the knife’s handle.

When her cries ended I removed it.

“That was no woman,” he said.

I looked at her again and realized just how terrible she looked. Whatever toxins she’d been subjected to in the Black Stomach were eating her body away. The knife wound itself was already a filthy yellow crater. She was actually decaying right before our eyes. Pretty soon there’d be nothing left.

“You’ll have a bit of a mess to clean up, but I’ll leave you to it.” I try to avoid clean-up duty as much as possible, and I thought this guy could handle it.

Before he could protest, I was back on my bike.

I told Cheri the news that evening. It was probably one of the worst moments of my life. Maybe worse than actually having to kill her mother. She just looked at me when I told her. There were no tears this time, just the slightest shake of her head. And then she went up to her room and locked the door. I followed, despite Jena’s objection, and listened for a while at her door. She was weeping inside, trying her best to quiet her grief.

When I got home that night, one of my employers was waiting for me at the front door. It was the well-dressed one. His hairstyle was always different. This time it was slicked back with gel, a tad basic for him.

“Mr. Hassar.”

“That’s me. What is it this time?”

“You’re in a spot of trouble.”

“Just a spot?”

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

I had a retort, but I swallowed it and let the bastard inside. I sat down on the couch and waited for him to take the chair.

“Aren’t you going to offer me something to drink?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Well.”

“Tell me about my spot of trouble.”

“You’ve gone lax on one of our recent escapees. A very dangerous one, I’m told.”

“I’ve been tracking him. Something came up, though. Another escapee, in fact.”

“Oh? Well they’ll be pleased to hear that. Assuming you dealt with them, of course.”

“I did.”

“Excellent. Just know, Mr. Hassar, that if this man becomes too dangerous you will be visited again. And when that happens, you’d damn well better offer your employers drinks. You’ll need to do anything to save your ass.”

He left then, making a point to stomp his feet and slam the door behind him. I rose from the couch and poured myself a drink. I gulped it down and had another glass. The night was lit up as always outside my window, and I wondered if Cheri’s light was on as well. I set down my glass and arranged myself in a jumble on the floor, where I relaxed myself into a cold bed of guilt.