Toby Asks About Retirement

The mirror in the foyer was a heavy, gilt-framed monstrosity that Graham had dragged home from a Parisian estate sale. He said it was "18th century, with original mercury glass." I said it made everyone look like they were underwater.

I stood in front of it now. My reflection was murky. Distorted. The silvering was flaking at the edges, creating black spots that looked like holes in the world.

Or holes in me.

"You're fading," Graham whispered.

He was standing right behind me. Close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, but far enough away that he wasn't touching me. He knew better than to touch me when I was looking in the mirror.

"I'm not fading," I said to my reflection. "I'm just tired."

"Look closer," he murmured. "Your edges are blurring. You're becoming... transparent."

I leaned in.

My skin did look pale. Translucent, almost. The dark circles under my eyes were purple bruises against the white. My hair, usually a vibrant auburn, looked dull and matted in the dim light.

But I wasn't fading. I was solid. I was flesh and bone and rage.

"It's the light," I said. "This hallway is a dungeon."

"It's not the light, Merritt. It's the illness. It's eating you. Piece by piece."

He reached out and touched my shoulder. His hand was heavy.

"Can you feel it?" he asked. "The emptiness?"

I slapped his hand away.

"Don't touch me."

"See?" he said, stepping back. "Aggression. Irritability. Another symptom."

He walked past me into the kitchen. I watched him go.

I looked back at the mirror.

For a second—just a split second—I thought I saw something.

Behind my reflection.

A shadow. A shape.

Standing at the top of the stairs.

I spun around.

The stairs were empty. The hallway was empty. The house was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of Graham filling the kettle.

"Hello?" I called out.

My voice echoed in the high ceiling.

Nothing.

Just the house settling. Just the wind. Just the paranoia Graham was feeding me like sugar pills.

I turned back to the mirror.

My reflection stared back. But something was wrong.

My eyes.

In the mirror, my eyes looked... different. Wider. More terrified.

And my mouth.

I wasn't smiling. My lips were pressed into a thin line.

But in the mirror...

My reflection was smiling.

A slow, creeping smile that didn't reach the eyes.

I blinked.

The smile was gone. My reflection matched my face again.

I backed away. My heart was hammering against my ribs.

*Hallucination.*

That's what Dr. Aris would say. That's what Graham would say.

*Visual disturbances. Disassociation.*

But I knew what I saw.

I wasn't crazy.

Someone had been standing behind the glass. Or projecting onto it.

Or maybe...

Maybe the mirror wasn't a mirror.

I walked up to it. I touched the glass. It was cold. Solid.

I pressed my face against it, trying to see through the murk.

Nothing. Just the silver backing.

"Merritt?" Graham called from the kitchen. "Tea is ready."

I jumped.

"Coming," I said.

I walked into the kitchen. Graham was pouring chamomile into two mugs. He looked the picture of domestic tranquility.

"Here," he said, sliding a mug toward me. "Drink up. It'll help with the... nerves."

I looked at the tea. It was pale yellow. Innocent.

"I saw something," I said.

Graham paused. He looked up. "What did you see?"

"In the mirror. A shadow. And my reflection... it smiled at me."

Graham put down the kettle. He walked around the island. He took my hands in his.

"Oh, honey," he said softly. "That sounds terrifying."

"It was," I whispered. "It was real."

"I know it felt real," he said. "But mirrors can't smile, Merritt. Shadows don't move on their own."

He squeezed my hands.

"It's the stress," he said. "The pressure. Your mind is trying to make sense of the... fragmentation."

*Fragmentation.*

Another clinical word. Another weapon.

"I'm not fragmented," I said, pulling my hands away. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."

"Take your tea," he said. "And your pill. The orange one."

I grabbed the mug. I grabbed the pill organizer.

I walked upstairs.

I didn't drink the tea. I poured it into the potted plant in the hallway—a ficus that was already dying, probably from a diet of tranquilizers.

I went into the bedroom. I locked the door.

I went to the mirror. The full-length one on the closet door.

I stared at myself.

"I see you," I whispered.

My reflection stared back. Silent. Still.

I covered it.

I grabbed a sheet from the linen closet and draped it over the glass. I couldn't look at it anymore. I couldn't risk seeing the smile again.

I lay down on the bed. I stared at the ceiling.

Was I losing it?

Maybe Graham was right. Maybe the stress *was* breaking me. Maybe I was projecting my own fear onto the glass.

But then I remembered the text.

*She knows.*

And the locket.

*SOON.*

Someone was in the house. Or watching the house. Someone who knew Graham's secrets.

And they were trying to tell me something.

I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep.

But every time I drifted off, I saw the smile. The terrified eyes. The ghost in the mirror.

*Click.*

A sound.

From the hallway.

The sound of a lock turning.

My bedroom door handle jiggled.

I sat up. "Graham?"

Silence.

"Graham, is that you?"

No answer.

The handle jiggled again. Harder.

I got out of bed. I walked to the door. I pressed my ear against the wood.

Breathing.

Heavy, ragged breathing.

On the other side of the door.

"Go away," I whispered.

"Open the door, Merritt," a voice said.

It wasn't Graham.

It was a woman's voice.

Low. Rasping.

And terrifyingly familiar.

It sounded like me.

"Open the door," the voice said again. "We need to talk."

I backed away. I grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand.

"Who are you?" I shouted.

"I'm you," the voice said. "I'm the you that survives."

I stared at the door. My heart was a drum in my chest.

*I'm the you that survives.*

Was I hallucinating? Was this a psychotic break?

Or was this the Replacement?

"Go away!" I screamed. "I'm calling the police!"

"The police won't come," the voice said. "Graham told them you're having an episode. He told them to ignore the calls."

I fumbled for my phone. No signal.

Of course. The jammer. Or he had cut the line.

"What do you want?" I asked.

"I want to help you," the voice said. "Open the door. Before he comes back."

*Before he comes back.*

Graham wasn't out there?

I hesitated.

If this was a trap...

But if it wasn't...

If this was an ally...

I unlocked the door.

I opened it a crack. The lamp raised high.

The hallway was empty.

No one was there.

Just the long, dark corridor. And the mirror at the end.

The mirror I had covered.

The sheet was gone. It lay in a heap on the floor.

And in the glass...

Written in red lipstick.

*RUN.*

I stared at the word. The letters were jagged. Frantic.

*Rouge d'Armani Matte 400.*

My lipstick.

I hadn't put it there.

I looked down the hall. The door to the guest room was slightly ajar.

I walked toward it. The floorboards creaked under my bare feet.

I pushed the door open.

The room was dark. But a streetlamp outside cast a sliver of light across the bed.

Someone was sleeping in it.

A lump under the duvet.

I walked closer. "Hello?"

The lump didn't move.

I reached out. I pulled back the duvet.

It wasn't a person.

It was pillows. Arranged to look like a body.

And on the pillow...

A wig.

An auburn wig. Cut in my exact style.

And next to it...

A mask.

A clear plastic mask. The kind they use for burn victims. Or theater.

But this one had been painted.

It had my face painted on it. My eyes. My mouth.

And the mouth was smiling.

I screamed. I dropped the duvet. I backed away.

I bumped into something hard.

Arms went around me.

"Shhh," a voice whispered in my ear. Graham’s voice. "It's okay. It's just a dream."

I struggled. "Let me go! Who put that there?"

"Put what there?" he asked, holding me tight. "There's nothing there, Merritt."

He turned me around. He pointed at the bed.

The bed was empty. No pillows. No wig. No mask. Just a flat, made mattress.

"See?" he said softly. "Nothing."

I stared at the bed. It had been there. I saw it. I touched it.

"You moved it," I accused. "You moved it while I turned around."

"Merritt," he said, his voice dripping with patience. "We've been standing here the whole time. You walked in. You screamed. I caught you."

He stroked my hair.

"You're seeing things again, sweetie. The stress is getting to you."

I looked at him. He was wearing his pajamas. He looked sleepy. Concerned.

But his heart was beating fast. I could feel it against my back.

And he smelled...

He smelled of latex. And paint.

"You're lying," I whispered.

"Come back to bed," he said. "Take another pill. We'll talk in the morning."

He tried to lead me out of the room.

I pulled away.

"No," I said. "I'm sleeping in here."

"Merritt..."

"I'm sleeping in here!" I shouted. "Get out!"

He looked at me. His eyes went cold.

"Fine," he said. "If you want to sleep in the guest room, sleep in the guest room. lock the door. I don't want you wandering."

He walked out. He closed the door.

I heard the lock click from the outside.

He had locked me in.

I ran to the door. I tried the handle. Locked.

I was trapped.

I sank to the floor. I hugged my knees.

I wasn't crazy. I wasn't.

I looked at the bed again.

Under the bedframe... something glinted.

I crawled over. I reached under.

I pulled it out.

A tube of lipstick.

*Rouge d'Armani Matte 400.*

It was uncapped. The tip was smashed.

Red smears on the carpet.

He had missed it. He had cleaned up the bed, but he had missed the lipstick.

I clutched the tube in my hand.

It was proof. Physical proof.

I wasn't hallucinating. Someone had been in here. Someone had written on the mirror. Someone had staged the bed.

And Graham knew.

Because he smelled like the paint.

I stood up. I went to the window.

It was nailed shut.

Of course.

I looked out at the street.

A car was parked across the road. A black sedan. Engine running. Lights off.

I watched it.

The driver’s door opened.

A woman got out.

She was wearing a trench coat. My trench coat. The one Graham had donated.

She looked up at the window. At me.

She waved.

It was the Replacement.

She got back in the car. The car drove away.

I stood there, pressing the lipstick tube into my palm until it hurt.

They were taunting me. They were playing with me.

But they had made a mistake.

They had left a weapon.

I looked at the lipstick.

I walked to the wall. The cream-colored, pristine wall of the guest room.

And I started to write.

I wrote everything.

*HE IS GASLIGHTING ME.*
*THE PILLS ARE SUGAR.*
*THE TRUST FUND.*
*ELENA.*
*THE REPLACEMENT.*

I covered the wall in red letters. Huge, frantic scrawl.

If they came for me... if they took me away...

I would leave a manifesto.

I would leave a crime scene.

When I finished, the tube was empty. My hand was stained red.

I sat back and looked at my work.

It looked insane. It looked like the ravings of a madwoman.

But it was the truth.

And sometimes, the truth looks crazy until you see the receipt.

I curled up on the floor, under the window, and waited for the dawn.