Mirror Image (37 page)

“What do you see?” he asked curiously, wondering if she saw the woman standing
behind
him.

“You … me,” the young woman smiled.

He urged her forward with his hand in the small of her back. Her flesh felt cold, clammy. When she was close to the glass, he reached over her shoulder to touch it, his fingers pointing to the darkness beyond her shoulders.

“What do you see there?” he asked again.

“Shadows,” she whispered. Her skin began to ripple with gooseflesh. Frankie had warned her about these guys—the crazies. Humor them, her friend had said, humor them and when you get your opportunity, run like hell. But make sure you get paid first. “What do you see?” she asked hoarsely.

“Shadows,” he said with a smile. He moved around behind her until his dim reflection in the glass was almost completely obscured by her body. With both hands he drew her hair back off her shoulders. “I think candlelight is more romantic, don't you?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Do you know there is an old wives' tale that if you stand a lighted candle before a mirror, you will see the face of your lover behind your left shoulder?” His face suddenly appeared over her left shoulder.

“Does this mean you're going to be my lover?” she asked coquettishly.

“Absolutely,” Frazer whispered, his hands at her hair again, then moving down to her throat, across her breasts, onto her slightly rounded stomach. The woman closed her eyes and rested her head back on his left shoulder. Maybe he wasn't that crazy after all, just Hollywood weird.

Frazer drew the knife out of his left sleeve. It was a twelve-inch mid-nineteenth century Japanese tantō. Designed for piercing lacquered armor, it slid effortlessly into the woman's flesh just above her groin. He felt the tremor run up her body and the fingers of his left hand locked around her throat as he savagely ripped upwards, eviscerating her, flooding the mirror with gore. He pressed the wildly spasming body against the glass with his weight, eyes and mouth wide with savage glee. This shouldn't be some nameless whore, it should be his slut of a wife. She was no better than them. They did it because they had to; she did it because she enjoyed the rutting. She was a beast, cattle. She should be in his arms now, with the knife buried between her breasts, her body cut open, slaughtered like the animal that she was. He threw back his head and screamed her name aloud, “Celiaaaaaaaaaaaa.…”

 

83

C
ELIA FRAZER
awoke in absolute agony.

She opened her mouth to scream, but it was as if an iron band was locked around her throat. The pain in her stomach was so intense, a spear of agony just above her groin.

It was her appendix … no it couldn't be, she'd had it taken out.

An ulcer, a burst ulcer, a bleeding ulcer.

She'd made love with Colin earlier that evening. They'd ended up on the floor with him pounding away as they both screamed and grunted their way to orgasm. He'd been buried so deeply insider her; maybe he'd damaged her, ruptured something …

Celia threw back the bedclothes and desperately attempted to raise her head to look at her stomach, every movement an agonizing effort. She was bathed with sweat, her hair sticking to her head. She managed to raise her head a couple of inches so that she could look at her reflection in the mirror of the dresser directly opposite the bed.

She could see nothing.

She blinked, not sure if the mirror was fogged or her eyes clouded.

And now she could see a thin red line on her flesh.

The pain was a live thing now, boiling inside her, ripping up through her body, pure and absolute anguish. Her head dropped back to the pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut, tears squeezing from beneath the firmly clenched lashes and then with a monumental effort she managed to lift her head the few inches to look into the glass again and saw that …

 … flesh was parting, skin folding back almost neatly, to reveal the raw muscle beneath, and then that, too, was peeling back to show glistening organs …

With a sudden wrench, her entire stomach burst open, lengths of intestines coiling onto her skin, curling onto the bedclothes. Blood and thick gobbets of flesh spattered everywhere, the walls, the ceiling, the mirror.

The pain took her, wave after wave washing over her body, in surges of ever-increasing intensity, finally concentrating on the spot between her breasts, where her heart hammered so hard it was difficult—no, impossible—to draw breath. A new pain, solid and cold blossomed beneath her left breast, slid up into her shoulder and tingled down along the length of her left arm.

The new pain took her and finally claimed her as she heard something bestial howl her name in the distance.

The bedside clock showed
2:22 A.M
.

*   *   *

J
ONATHAN FRAZER KNELT
on the floor of the guesthouse in the blood and tattered flesh of the woman and pressed himself against the glass, staring intently into it. He could see the image of Celia Frazer and her lover lying naked on a bed, arms and legs splayed. He focused on his wife: she had been torn apart from groin to breast.

*   *   *

C
OLIN MARINER AWOKE
with the dawn as usual. His dreams had been particularly vivid—he'd made love to a woman, heavy breasted, dark-eyed for what seemed like an eternity—and he was almost painfully aroused. He rolled over, his arm going across Celia Frazer's breasts.

And then he sat bolt upright recoiling from the chill of her flesh.

Scrambling from the bed, he looked down on the woman. Her eyes were wide open and glassy, her skin clammy, and even before he pressed his hand beneath her breast he knew there would be no pulse. Heart attack?

Colin closed her eyes and attempted to remember the prayers of his Catholic upbringing. He should say something. He was going to miss her; she'd been fun and he had genuinely liked her. But at least she'd died peacefully in her sleep after a night of lovemaking.

That was the way he wanted to go.

 

84

A
N ECSTATIC
shiver rippled through the enormous astral whirlpool, vibrating deep in its core. The pulse throbbed throughout the Otherworld, bringing dreamers all across the city abruptly awake, shivering from nightmares, while children awoke crying at shadows.

One by one, the dogs of Los Angeles began to howl, until the entire city echoed to what sounded like the cries of the damned.

*   *   *

I
N LOS FELIZ,
Joe Thompson came awake from a startlingly vivid erotic dream. He rolled over in the bed and turned to the digital alarm clock on the bedside table: the glowing green letters read 2:21
A.M
.

Jesus Christ! But if he'd told those people once, he'd told them a hundred times that their fucking dog kept him awake howling outside his window. And he'd just done a thirty-six hour straight shift at Walgreens because two of the other managers were sick and they were already short-staffed with cut backs.

When he worked days, the dog kept him awake at night.

When he worked nights their kids kept him awake during the day.

Well, right now, he'd just about had enough.

The big man staggered out of bed and pulled on a pair of ratty jeans over his plaid flannel sleep pants. He hauled on a polo neck sweater and slid his feet into ancient slippers before stamping into the kitchen. Pulling back the drapes he peered out into the high-walled backyard. The fucking dog was running around in a circle in
his
yard—wouldn't do it in its own yard, oh no—howling its head off.

Thompson wrenched the back door open and pitched an empty tin can at the animal. It missed and clattered off into the darkness, but the sudden sound made the animal stop, and it turned to face the big man, a growl beginning deep in its body. The dog was a nondescript mutt, but big and wiry with a mangy black coat that left hairs everywhere. Thompson reached for another can and tossed it at the dog. This one struck it squarely on the nose.

Without a sound, the animal leapt for the man. He saw it coming and slammed the door in its face, seeing his own reflection in the glass … but the animal kept coming, exploding inwards through the glass, its teeth finding and locking on his throat even as the shards of flying glass ripped into the big man's face, destroying his eyes, while simultaneously disemboweling the dog. It was 2:22
A.M
.

*   *   *

I
N CULVER CITY,
Kenneth Pearson awoke at 2:21
A.M
. with a pounding in his head that was positively frightening. He sat up in bed, holding his head in both hands, imagining he could actually feel it throb.

OK. So he couldn't drink … what was it, how much … an entire six-pack? Or was it two six-packs? So maybe six had been one too many … or seven too many.

Thankfully his parents were asleep when he got in; they would have been less than impressed. Drinking beers was something rowdy teenagers did, not well-educated kids. Mind you, at the time he could see the attraction of it, and he especially remembered the attractions of that girl … what was her name?

He shook his head savagely … and instantly wished he hadn't. The pain in his head was excruciating, and he needed to puke. Christ, his parents were sure to hear him throwing up. He'd have to use the downstairs bathroom.

The young man staggered out of bed, and discovered that he was still dressed, but his brand new Levi's jeans were stained and the heavy black leather motorcycle jacket hanging on the end of the bed had a long strip hanging off it.

Fuck!
That jacket had cost him a fortune.

With his stomach roiling, he hurried down the stairs and ducked into the toilet in the narrow corridor between the kitchen and the stairs. Leaning straight-armed against the sink, he stared into the mirror, squinting against the pain in his head. He felt like he was going to die. Kenneth squeezed his eyes shut, feeling beads of sweat begin to pop out on his skin. He rested his forehead against the cool glass. Why had he ever agreed to go out with the rest of them? It wasn't as if he even liked beer, it wasn't as if he even liked alcohol; good, old-fashioned fizzy Coke was his drink.

The pain had become a regular throbbing, which abruptly intensified to absolute agony. Kenneth Pearson spasmed, his head snapping back and forward and then smashing into the glass. The throbbing instantly eased. Another tremor sent his head into the glass again, and the incredible pulsing agony lifted, though it had been replaced by a cooler, liquid pain. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pounded his face—again and again—into the broken mirror, until there was no more sensation … until there was nothing. It was 2:22
A.M
.

*   *   *

I
N STUDIO CITY,
Sandra Lopez was not exactly drunk; she'd only had two, or was it three, glasses of wine. She was mellow, she was relaxed, and humming gently along to one of the golden oldies on the late night radio station. She half remembered the original appearance of the song, but that was no indication of her age. Songs that were only a year old were turning up as golden oldies or classics nowadays. They had a short shelf life.

The lights on Coldwater Canyon turned from orange to red and she slowed the Nissan, allowing it to roll to a stop. She locked the doors. She'd heard of lone women being attacked in their cars while they sat at traffic lights, and while this was not one of the seedier parts of the city, she was still taking no chances.

The lights changed. She was already moving as she glanced in her rear view mirror …

And something in the back of her car looked at her with large black eyes. A scream caught in her throat, became a whimper. She tried to look away, but found she couldn't. She tried to stop the car, but couldn't. Her right foot was stuck to the accelerator, pressing it deep to the floor. She pressed her left foot hard on the brake, the engine howling, tires burning against the asphalt as she gained speed.

The eyes crinkled as if someone was smiling.

And the spell was broken.

Sandra Lopez managed to scream once more, as her headlights illuminated the massive plate glass windows of an electrical showroom, hidden behind metal security grilles. The car hit the grille, ripping most of it out of its frame, bringing it down around the car, entangling it as it continued on into the shop front: televisions, DVD players, cameras, and computers, most of which were still plugged in, exploding into showering sparks and acrid smoke.

Several hours later when the car was cut free by the fire department, it was discovered that the falling metal grille had sheared through the windshield of the car, completely severing the woman's head.

Twenty-two people died in bizarre circumstances and freak accidents across Los Angeles. They all died at the same time: 2:22
A.M.

*   *   *

I
T TOOK NO
more than a heartbeat to regain control. But that had been enough. The overload shivered out across the Otherworld, upsetting the delicate balance between the two planes of existence.

Little damage had been done, and it had drawn some sustenance from the deaths. But it would have to be very careful now. Very careful. This was the critical time. Freedom had never been so close.

Never had it been so vulnerable.

 

85

I
T HAD
been a shitty day. Every so often you got them when one thing just piled on top of the other. By noon, she knew that this was going to be one of those days.

Twenty-two bizarre deaths—suicides, freak accidents—added to the usual night toll of Los Angeles misery. The press was having a field day and the TV and radio were full of experts with increasingly bizarre theories. Government and/or alien mind rays was the current favorite.