Phantasmagoria: an illusion created through the use of lanterns to project images onto walls or through translucent screens. Popularized in 19th century Europe.
Phantasmagoria: a phantasm or illusion as created by the imagination.
Phantasmagoria
Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die.
Yesterday I got so old it made me want to cry.
The Cure
Lydia pressed her fingers against the cool surface of the mirror half expecting it to give way like water against her touch. However, the glass remained firm and as she dragged her fingers away, left long translucent smears against the flawless facade. She leaned away from the mirror and rested her elbows against the desk of the vanity table where she once kept fat, medieval candles, various photos of the passion of the Christ, and the old-fashioned powder and black and red make up of her adolescence.
Delia had left everything untouched with the exception of the heavy drape over the mirror. The make up had rotted in its elaborate cases and the candles had collected dust and muck in their delicate holders. The long heavy curtain: velvet and hand picked by her father were faded and rotten, possible to crumble at any sudden movement.
She rapped her knuckles against the glass abruptly, rocking the ornate mirror back and forth in its place. It was difficult to believe that at one time in her life, she spent so much time starring into the mirror and supposedly going on adventures with a giant spider, a talking skeleton, an angsty prince, and her best friend—
It was all vivid. Like the Wizard of Oz or James and the Giant Peach. Nevertheless, it all could have been simply A Beautiful Mind…
Though I know I should be weary…
It may have been all the candles. She had put them everywhere. On her shelves, on the floor, by her bed, at her desk. The smell and lack of human contact could have assisted in her unstable mind.
Still I venture someplace scary…
Or maybe it was the loss of her mother. The retreat back into herself to escape the disappointments of reality.
Ghostly hauntings I turn loose…
"Say it."
Perhaps the effect of such a long separation from this particular room…. Her desire to keep away from it so strong she avoided visiting Charles and Delia until it was absolutely necessary.
Beetlejuice…
Until they were both snatched from her life as rapidly as – as he had been brought in.
"Say it again."
She could almost hear his voice. Distant and soft like a fog of dreams, calling to her from beyond the grave….
Beetlejuice…
A labyrinth. A Goblin King, perhaps. Enveloping her in the horrors she had invented so long ago.
"One more time, babes, and I'm all yours."
"Lydia?"
The call of her name seemed to shake her directly out from her momentary coma like a cold hand at the base of her neck. She looked around the room, with its dusty curtain, soiled carpet, and rotten cosmetics then sighed, gripping the edge of the desk. Her eyes left the mirror and she struggled to her feet. She wiped her hands off on the blue jeans she wore before she straightened her back.
But as she headed for the door, she was stopped; pulled back as if by an external force. She was paused at the door, both her hands clutching the frame when she felt a cool almost familiar sensation that seemed to reach out and touch her; spreading slowly throughout her body. Lydia's head lolled to the side and her back arched; her limbs seemed to go limp, giving her the impression of a marionette.
Lydia fancied that she had suddenly entered a dream.
A dream of stripes and snakes. Spiders and dancing skeletons. Bones tap dancing against the carpeted floors as if they were made of stone. A red cloth was placed over her head and rested comfortably against her breast.
The stripes seemed to surround her; envelope her in its embrace and swim mercilessly about her head.
But none of it seemed unfamiliar. Not even in the least bit violating. It almost made her feel… nostalgic.
Beetlejuice
"Lydia?"
She snapped back again, the mists and stripes were gone and her ears were ringing. She looked back down at her clothes and found that she was still in her white shirt and blue jeans. That red spider web sweater… if it was still—or ever in her closet, she did not care to check.
"Yes!" she shouted to her husband, a sudden and delayed chill passing over her. "Yes! I'm coming!"
She hurried out of the room, shaking off the unfamiliar nostalgia and leaving behind her the memories of her childhood, the horrors of imagination, and the lone figure that pressed up against the glass of her mirror and climbed out.
This story's gone through about three edits and quite frankly, I'm rather tired of looking at it. It's imperfect, but I doubt I'll do anything to it anytime soon. I haven't posted or written anything in a while and I've had this weighing on my mind since March or April. Constructive criticism is highly appreciated and greatly encouraged.