I Cover the Mirrors

I covered the mirrors with sheets.

Not just the hallway one. All of them.

The vanity in the bathroom. The full-length on the closet door. Even the small, circular mirror in the powder room downstairs. I draped them with towels, with pillowcases, with the white dress I had refused to wear.

"Merritt?" Graham asked, standing in the doorway of the bedroom. He was holding a cup of tea. Chamomile. The steam curled up in the dim light. "What are you doing?"

"I don't like them," I said. I was taping a pillowcase over the dresser mirror with masking tape. *Rip. Stick.* "They're wrong."

"Wrong how?"

"The reflection," I said, not looking at him. "It's... lagging. Like a bad Zoom call."

He stepped into the room. He set the tea on the nightstand.

"Lagging?" he asked gently.

"When I move," I said, "it takes a second for the reflection to catch up. And sometimes... sometimes it moves when I don't."

I turned to face him.

"I saw myself blink," I whispered. "When my eyes were open."

Graham sighed. A long, sad sound that was meant to convey infinite patience and profound heartbreak.

"Oh, honey," he said. "That's the disassociation. The Cotard's. You're losing your connection to your physical self. You don't recognize your own image."

He walked over to me. He tried to take my hand.

I pulled away.

"I know what I saw," I said. "And I saw a smile I didn't make."

"Mirrors don't lie, Merritt. Only minds do."

He reached for the pillowcase I had just taped up.

"Let's take this down," he said. "Hiding from yourself won't help."

"No!" I shouted. I blocked his hand. "Leave it!"

He stopped. He looked at me. His eyes were cold, calculating.

"You're escalating," he said. "This behavior... it's concerning."

"I just want them covered," I said. "Is that so much to ask? In my own house?"

"It's not just the mirrors," he said. "It's everything. The paranoia. The violence. The way you look at me like I'm a stranger."

"You *are* a stranger," I said. "The man I married wouldn't buy a grave for me while I'm still alive."

He stiffened.

"I bought it because I love you," he said. "Because I'm realistic."

He picked up the tea.

"Drink this," he said. "And take your pill. Please. For me."

I took the tea. I took the pill organizer.

I walked into the bathroom. I closed the door.

I poured the tea down the sink. I flushed the sugar pill.

I looked at the mirror. It was covered with a bath towel.

I lifted the corner. Just a peek.

My eye stared back. Blue. Bloodshot. Terrified.

And behind me... in the reflection...

The shower curtain moved.

I spun around.

The curtain was still.

I whipped it back.

Empty. Just the white tub. The gleaming chrome faucet.

But on the tile wall...

Written in steam...

*I AM NOT DEAD.*

The letters were fading. Dripping.

I hadn't run the shower. The room was cold.

I touched the words. My finger came away wet.

It wasn't steam.

It was oil.

Clear, odorless oil. Smeared on the tile to look like condensation.

Someone had been in here. Someone had written this.

To taunt me?

Or to warn me?

I wiped the words away with a towel.

I unlocked the door. I walked out.

"Did you take it?" Graham asked.

"Yes," I lied.

"Good."

He smiled.

"I'm going to work in the study for a bit," he said. "Try to sleep."

He kissed my forehead.

He left.

I waited until I heard his footsteps go downstairs. Until I heard the study door close.

Then I went to the closet.

I needed to see the crawl space again.

I needed to know if she was still there.

The Replacement. Or Elena. Or whoever was haunting my house.

I opened the closet door. I pushed aside the few remaining clothes.

I pressed the panel.

*Click.*

It opened.

I shined my phone light inside.

Empty.

The sleeping bag was gone. The water bottle was gone. The pictures were gone.

It was just a dusty hole.

He had cleaned it out.

He knew I found it.

I crawled inside. I swept the light over the floor.

Nothing. Not a crumb. Not a hair.

Wait.

In the corner. Stuck between the floorboards.

Something white.

I picked it up.

It was a piece of paper. Torn from a notebook.

I unfolded it.

It was a drawing.

A sketch.

Of a woman in a white dress. Lying in a coffin.

And standing over her...

A man in a tuxedo. Smiling.

And under the drawing, in jagged, frantic letters:

*SATURDAY.*

I stared at the paper. The drawing style... it was crude. Childlike.

But the lines were confident.

Leo.

Leo had drawn this.

Which meant Leo had been here. In the crawl space. With the Replacement.

Or maybe... maybe Leo *was* the one in the crawl space.

I crawled out. I closed the panel.

I sat on the floor of the closet.

Saturday.

The party. The white dress. The coffin.

It wasn't a metaphor.

It was a plan.

I heard a noise.

Downstairs.

A door opening.

The front door.

I stood up. I walked to the bedroom window. I peeked through the blinds.

A car was in the driveway. A black sedan.

A man got out.

He was wearing a suit. He carried a black bag.

Dr. Aris.

He was here. Now.

It was 10:00 PM on a Tuesday.

Why was he here?

Graham walked out to meet him. They stood in the driveway, talking. Their breath puffed in the cold air.

Graham pointed at the house. At the bedroom window.

At me.

Dr. Aris nodded. He patted his bag.

They walked toward the front door.

My heart stopped.

They weren't waiting for Saturday.

They were doing it now.

The "emergency committal."

The syringe. The sedative. The car ride to Northlake.

I had to hide.

I ran to the door. I locked it.

I dragged the dresser in front of it.

It wouldn't hold them. Not for long.

I looked around the room.

The window? Too high. No ledge.

The vent? Too small.

The crawl space?

If they found me in there... there was no way out. I would be trapped.

I needed a weapon.

I ran to the bathroom. I grabbed the hairspray. And a lighter.

A flamethrower.

It was stupid. It was desperate. But it was all I had.

*Thump.*

Footsteps on the stairs. Two sets.

"Merritt?" Graham called out. "Dr. Aris is here to check on you."

"Go away!" I screamed.

"Merritt, open the door."

"I have a weapon!" I shouted. "I'll burn this house down!"

"She's manic," Dr. Aris said. His voice was muffled by the door. "We need to secure her."

*Thump.*

They hit the door. The dresser scraped against the floor.

*Thump.*

Again.

I backed into the bathroom.

I looked at the mirror. The towel had fallen off.

My reflection stared back.

And behind me... in the mirror...

The shower curtain moved.

I spun around.

"Who's there?"

The curtain rustled.

A hand appeared.

Small. Pale.

It pulled the curtain back.

Leo.

He was sitting in the tub. Curled into a ball.

He held the red truck.

He looked at me. His eyes were huge.

"Shhh," he whispered.

He pointed at the wall of the shower.

There was a panel. An access panel for the plumbing.

It was open.

A hole. Dark. Narrow.

"Go," he whispered. "The secret way."

"Leo," I breathed. "How..."

"Daddy doesn't know," he said. "Only Mommy knows."

*Mommy.*

Elena.

Elena had shown him the way.

*Thump.*

The bedroom door splintered.

"Merritt!" Graham roared.

I grabbed Leo.

"Come on," I said.

I pushed him into the hole.

"Go. Go fast."

He scrambled into the darkness.

I followed him.

I squeezed through the opening. I pulled the panel shut behind me.

I was in the walls.

It was tight. dusty. Pipes pressed against my back. Wires brushed my face.

I heard the bathroom door crash open.

"She's not here!" Graham shouted.

"Check the closet!" Dr. Aris yelled. "Check the crawl space!"

I held my breath.

I felt a small hand grab mine.

Leo.

He pulled me. Down.

We slid.

Down a chute. A laundry chute? No. A construction void.

We landed on something soft.

Insulation.

We were in the basement ceiling.

I could hear them upstairs. Stomping. Yelling.

"Find her!" Graham screamed. "She can't have gone far!"

Leo pulled me again.

We crawled along the beams.

To a vent.

He pushed the grate. It swung open.

We dropped.

Into the studio.

The foley pit.

We landed on the gravel.

*Crunch.*

Silence.

I listened.

No footsteps on the stairs. They were still searching the second floor.

We were safe. For a minute.

I looked at Leo.

"Where is your mommy?" I asked.

"She's waiting," he said.

"Where?"

"In the truck."

"What truck?"

"The big truck," he said. "Outside."

I stood up. I went to the small window. The one I had broken.

I looked out.

A moving truck.

Parked on the street. Behind the neighbor's hedge.

It wasn't a moving truck.

It was a surveillance van.

And sitting in the driver's seat...

A woman.

Elena.

She wasn't dead. She wasn't in Switzerland.

She was here.

And she was recording.

I grabbed Leo’s hand.

"Let's go," I said.

We climbed out the window.

We ran through the yard. Through the ferns.

Toward the van.

Toward the truth.