The Horrorglass

It was a late November morning around 6 a.m., still at least an hour before dawn. Ratigan had risen from his nocturnal repose, and, still surrounded by darkness, rubbed his eyes, lit the sconce near the small wooden washstand, which dimly illuminated the area around a very large oval mirror that hung over it. He took the ewer and poured unpleasantly cold water over his face, then took the strop that lay on the washstand and with the flexible leather strip, polished the blade of his razor. Having applied some soap, once he estimated the blade to be sufficiently sharp, he held it closely towards his cheek and began to shave, all the while regarding himself attentively in the looking-glass.

Suddenly, as an impulsive reaction to an utterly strange and terrifying vision, Ratigan tossed the razor aside in fright, gasping. An indescribably repulsive figure, with a ghastly grin, had, for a split-second, stared back at him. Shivering, Ratigan attempted to recompose himself, rubbed his eyes, yet beheld his own reflection as he was used to seeing it. What in Heaven's name had that horrid thing in the mirror been? Surely nothing but a figment of his fancy, his rational self suspected. He had slept little and was therefore rather prone to drowsy delirium. He squinted his eyes and looked into the mirror again; the terrible figure was gone. So it had been merely a mirage! Ratigan shook his head and muttered at his embarrassing fallacy, since he had almost believed that the thing he had seen had been real. He bent down to the floor and grasped the razor, which was slightly wet and foamy, and resumed his shave, almost conceitedly smiling at the sight of his own image being gradually groomed.

It was not long until he started once again, this time even more violently than before, and actually screamed. The beastly apparition had appeared anew, but did not seem to fade away. As if fixed into the speculum, it remained visible, and seemed to have replaced Ratigan's reflection. He was too much aghast to do anything about it, but nor did he know what unearthly thing it was that was haunting him; heart hammering, paralysed, and with his yellow eyes wide open, he gazed into the semi-glossy surface that displayed something other than what stood before it. However, what terrified him most was that there was a certain similarity between the detestable phantom and himself; but by no means did it correspond to his actual physiognomy.

A savage, feral rat with dark grey fur, quite larger and heavier than Ratigan himself, in tattered, dirty old clothing, stared at him, red eyes blazing, and exposing its sharp fangs in a vicious, diabolical grin. Though Ratigan had let go of his razor in shock, the rat in the mirror suddenly revealed the blade, firmly grasped in its clawed right hand and... began to move, as if prepared to strike at its corporal counterpart, though Ratigan still stood there, immobile. Petrified with horror, self-proclaimed omnipotent Ratigan cowered away from the phantasmal blow like a child desperately trying to evade a wrathful parent's spanking, covering his head in his hands, as if waiting for the barbaric figure to reach out to him through the vitreous boundary which still separated them.

"GO AWAY!" Ratigan cried, but the hideous mock reflection persisted, grinning even wider. All of a sudden, Ratigan heard familiar female voices calling his name, first whispering, then gradually growing more audible. Since there was no one else except for him in the flat, and his neighbour who lived three storeys downstairs alone never received anyone, especially not in the early hours of the morning, Ratigan had the uncanny feeling that the voices belonged to some unearthly spectres that had entered his space to haunt him. Or was it only a hallucination, an illusion in his mind? Of this he was uncertain, which only further increased his dread, for anything that was not of this world was most definitely beyond his control. His auditory attention was then directed towards the sound of water trickling down the eaves gutter, amidst which he thought he heard someone sobbing. Ratigan forced himself to look away from the mirror and his eyes darted through the room, up, down, left, right, and behind him, but there was no one he could see – until he faced the glass again, which by then appeared to be surrounded by small clouds of smoke.

"What in hell's name—" Ratigan exclaimed, breathing fast and showered in pearls of sweat, yet unable to restrain his curiosity in spite of the surreal circumstances, continued to gaze into the looking-glass, dreading what would appear next. The sobbing grew louder, as did the whispers "Padraic! Padraic Ratigan!" that seemed to echo through the dimly lit room and Ratigan's paranoid mind. And then it came – an image that awakened his guilty conscience like possibly nothing else could have.

From the curtains of the smoky haze appeared, in the tarnished mirror, to the right and left from the ghastly large rat, two female figures – rats also – like ghosts, first barely visible save their silhouettes, until they gradually became more recognizable to the one who was sighting them. Surely his eyes must have been deceiving him – or not? The voices from across the room now seemed to be coming from the lips of the two figures in front of him.

"Padraic!"

His name was apparently the only word the figures uttered. For a moment, Ratigan, extremely astonished, stepped closer to the mirror – the demonic brute that had stood between them had vanished, as earlier before! Instead, he saw himself – as he truly appeared, at that very instant – reflected in the looking-glass, standing between the two women. He could not cease to shake his head in utter disbelief. The women were none other than his departed mother and sister. He looked behind him – there was nobody there.

Ratigan retrogressed a few steps.

"Mother? ... Patricia?" he whispered, having mentally surrendered to the delusion.

He was going to attempt to touch the glass when in the twinkling of an eye, his reflection was again replaced by the monstrous, repulsive rodent holding the razor. Ratigan gasped. What was the meaning of this? What was that abhorrent, hellish fiend?

Suddenly, the savage beast cackled cruelly; this evolved into a maniacal laughter, as it held out its right arm and -

SLASH!

Ratigan let out a sharp scream as he simultaneously heard two splitting shrieks from both females – one following the other – and beheld the bloodthirsty animal strike them down with ease, like flies. They were dead!

"NO!"

Splashes of crimson liquid spattered the mirror. The monster was still laughing uncontrollably, while Ratigan's eyes poured instinctive tears of alarm, attempting to blink the blurry vision away. But as if it could not have got any worse, yet another phantasm appeared in front of him.

"You MURDERER!"

It was Miss Lizzy, his former mouse employee. Ratigan swallowed as he saw the girl yell at him through the looking-glass – or was she yelling at the brute? – in the fiercest, most enraged manner he would have never thought her capable of. That was not all.

"It was you! You had him murdered, you wretched, godforsaken creature!" And she began to weep, loudly and incessantly.

His sister's spectre appeared again, out of the pool of blood, and bellowed, so unlike the gentle, permissive thing she used to be, "It's all your fault! It was all your fault, all this time!"

And his mother's spectre emerged.

Simultaneously, the three injured creatures shouted, "WE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU! MURDERER!"

Ratigan covered his ears and eyes with his hands, but it was in vain. That final word echoed in his head, louder and louder. He threw himself on the floor, shuddering in the utmost anxiety, but the noises around him did not fade. On the contrary – they seemed to increase, as he heard more voices – men's vitriolic screaming.

"Villain!"

"Brute!"

"Savage monster!"

"He'll never get far... he's nothing but a damned-"

"SEWER RAT!"

Ratigan heard these words repeatedly, increasing in volume.

"SILENCE!" he bawled, unable to focus on a single sound, as they were all intermingled. Females, males, rats, mice, relatives, strangers - it was too much to bear. He would go insane! Or was he already insane? The noises simply would not stop. He pulled himself together and got up, facing the mirror, which appeared to be dripping with blood. The figures of his mother, sister, and Lizzy were gone; only the devilish beast, whose roaring, evil laughter still haunted the glassy surface and occasionally grinned at its spectator, who was frightened to death, remained visible.

In all his desperation, Ratigan grabbed the ewer and hurled it against the mirror with all the force he had in his shuddering limbs. As he had hoped, at least the upper half of it broke into myriad pieces, some larger, some smaller. The despicable image had finally vanished, as had the insufferable noises and accusations. Relieved, as if spared from eternal damnation, Ratigan wiped the sweat from his face. The cursed mirror was destroyed at last.

However, Ratigan's fear had turned into rage.

"How dare you!" he hissed at the disempowered broken looking-glass.

He started picking up the shards and cursed as he accidentally cut his forefinger on one of them. A drop of blood fell onto his trousers. Growling, he took a small porcelain bowl from the kitchen, which was merely a few steps away from his bedroom, filled it with water and washed his hands clean. His injured finger had stopped bleeding, though it had polluted the water and caused it to appear dull orange. Ratigan walked back into his room and while passing the mirror, he stopped.

"Impossible," he thought to himself, and his heart started pounding again.

Gradually, on the lower half of the mirror that had been spared from attack, a faint, ghostly message began to appear in letters seemingly seeping with scarlet liquid:

"For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath muttered perverseness"

He shrieked with terror. The looking-glass truly was cursed, and possibly by the Devil himself!