The Black Glass Window of Room 32

The Black Glass Window of Room 32

He found the door ajar, ready to accept his entrance. He had told them before to lock it while he was away. Right before he entered he was greeted by one of his many workers.

“Good evenin’ boss,” said the short stubby man in an all but too western accent. Luther had hired him because he had worked for his father back in the good old days when the town was new.

“Good evenin there, all went well today?” he said, adding in “I hope.”

“Yes boss, all accordin to your orders boss, how go your huntin?”

Luther had been out all day hunting buffalo, or at least that’s what he told his workers.

“Good, now if you’ll please, I am very tired and would like to get some sleep.”

The short man left him to his business, pretending like he didn’t know what Luther had in store for that night. In reality, he knew everything Luther was about to do. After he was gone, Luther walked into the room locking the door behind him.

The room was very small, with nothing but a hat stand, a bed, and a small desk to fill its wall space. The bed was covered with a hand-knit blue wool blanket that matched the aqua-themed wallpaper. The hat stand, worn from many years of use, had only one extension left on its frail body, perfect for Luther’s brown fur hat. The desk, and the small chair that accompanied it, sat squarely in front of the room’s only other defining feature, a tall window filled with a dark black glass.

Luther pulled the chair out and sat calmly for a moment before opening one of the drawers of the desk. From it he produced a small brown journal locked with a flimsy thread tie. After flipping to the newest blank page he produced once again from the drawer a quill feather and a small bottle of ink. He touched the delicate spine to the page and began to write.

“Through his orders I dueled Mr. Dubar today. Also through his orders, I assured my victory. Before the match began I went to visit Dubar’s wife and told her I was from the Sheriffs office. I would have believed she would have recognized the town mayor, but she was oblivious to my real intentions. There, at her house, I replaced Dubar’s bullets with a few of my own concoction. Needles to address, Mr. Dubar is now layin six feet under.”

Luther tilted back in the chair and laid the quill down on the side of the journal. He flipped back a few pages being careful not to smear the fresh ink. He read one of his entries that had not been written more than a week ago.

“The Baker used to provide a good service to our town. Kept my saloon filled with liquor, provided food for the church banquets, and always made sure to make my priorities his priorities. However, today he tried to leave Bushnell. Today, that man whom I had made a friend, tried to leave my city. I was angry, but not so angry as to perform the actions that I was asked to perform. A public hanging, was not in my agenda today.”

Luther began to tear up and stared at the window that was in front of him. Instead of seeing the outside world, Luther could only see a dark version of his reflection staring back at his eyes. Luther began to wonder how much longer till midnight was left when he heard the chime of the clock downstairs in the hotel’s main hall. Suddenly, Luther’s reflection disappeared and was replaced with that of another mans.

“Good evening son, did you complete today’s business?” said this new reflection.

“Yes dad, but” Luther was stopped mid-sentence,

“No buts son, I told you, I made this town, and I will decide what’s going to happen in it.”

“Dad you can’t keep controlling me like this, I killed a man today dad, I killed a” Luther was cut off again.

“And he deserved to die son, he was trying to take this town over.”

“You don’t know that for sure dad, he could of,” another interruption

“HE COULD HAVE NOTHIN! He was a rotten seed and this town is better off with him gone!”

“Fine dad, I’ll let it go, so if you don’t mind I think I’ll retire to bed.”

“Not so fast son, we haven’t been over tomorrows business.”

“Oh of course, how could I forget,” Luther finished sarcastically.

For the next hour or so Luther’s father told him all the things he would have to do in town the next day. It was the usual order of events, followed by more bad news. Luther was once again asked to commit the murder of a man his father felt was bringing the town’s overall welfare down.

“Not another innocent man dad, I just can’t do it again so soon,” Luther said.

“They are never innocent son, never,” his father retorted.

“And what about the baker dad, what about him, he never hurt nobody!”

“SHUT IT BOY! I’ve given my soul to remain here, and you wont’ take the pleasure of my town away from me.”

For twelve years after his father’s death, this possessed window had given him orders on how to run the town, control its people, and murder its villains.

“Dad, if I break the mirror, if you just let me,”

The chair was thrown back smashing against the wall and causing Luther to fall to the ground. He slowly got up and looked his father right in the eye. Luther was finally at his breaking point; he would have no further involvement in the bloody running of his father’s town.

“Dad I can free you, your soul can be at rest!”

The bottle of ink spun in circles throwing ink all around the room.

“ENOUGH NONSENSE! NOW YOU WILL DO WHAT YOUR FATHER ORDERS!”

Luther stood back and slowly placed his hand over the gun holster attached to his belt. A .45 colt revolver sat there, one of his father’s last mementos.

“No more murder,” Luther paused, looking has father right in the face, “Not anymore,” he ended with a chuckle.

Luther yanked out the revolver and let out bullet after bullet into the mirror. As each piece of lead came in contact with the dark glass it seemed to be absorbed into the reflection, doing no damage whatsoever. After the fourth shot Luther stopped as his father looked down and sighed.

“Now son, did you really think you could kill me with my own gun?”

All of a sudden a circle of fire appeared around Luther forcing him to gasp for the air that was now being burned away.

“Do you want to see what’s waitin for me in the afterlife?”

The flames grew higher and higher until the ceiling set on fire. Luther fell onto his knees as his father gave a laugh void of all mercy. Just as Luther thought he would die the flames disappeared.

“No,” spat Luther with the little breath he had.

“Yes son, that’s right, I wont be goin’ there anytime soon.”

“No,” Luther said looking up at his father, “No more murder,”

Luther ran forward and began to bang his hands against the window. Miniscule cracks appeared upon the reflective surface as his father started to scream. Suddenly the wool blanket began to levitate and, turning into a snake, wrapped itself around Luther’s throat.

“If my own son won’t run this town, I’ll just have to find someone who will.”

Luther grasped around for his gun, only half-conscious. Instead he found the weakened frame of the old hat stand. After using it to pull himself up, he grabbed it, and with the last of his breath, shoved it through the window. Instantaneously the snake turned back to cloth, and Luther fell back onto the door.

Through the now broken window the first light of dawn was making its way into the room. Luther, after sitting for a few minutes, got up and walked over to the desk where his journal was still sitting. He tore it in half and threw the pieces out of the window, glad to be done with the whole business. Just as he walked toward the door, the remaining shards of glass began to float.

Frantically he tried to unlock the door, but to no avail. He screamed once as the shards zipped through the air and into his body. Like a million little bullets he stood suffering one sharp pain after another. His body fell against the door and he slumped over, hand still on the knob. The body remained like that until noon, as if the noise of the battle could not escape the small-enclosed space. At about five after, a light breeze carried Luther’s hat out of the window and down onto the old dirt road. The short stubby worker found it there, and picked it up, twirling it in his hands. A look of disappointment crossed his face.

“Poor Luther,” he paused, “must have been a draw.”



Word Count: 1525