What most people don’t know is that I can view your world through any mirror. Everyone who summons my powers believes I only reside in one “magic mirror.” That old narcissistic queen who tried to poison her pretty stepdaughter thought so; the prince-turned-beast with the enchantress’s hand mirror through so; I’m sure even that blonde girl who entered her dreamland through her looking glass must’ve thought that one mirror was special. Honestly, it would bother you people if you knew I am present in any reflective surface, rather than just one “magical” place.
But she knows better. That’s why she scrawled her lava-red lipstick letter on a random mirror—in this case, the one in some seedy bathroom—knowing I would find it. It was clear that the message was for me, because she wrote it backwards and flipped around. For me, on the opposite side, it read perfectly straight and right side forwards:
“Mirror mirror, everywhere,
Come and find me, if you dare.
I may not reach you where you hide,
To save your friend, open the doorway wide.”
I already knew which “friend” she spoke of. I immediately projected myself to the body-length standing mirror that my pursuer had conveniently placed in the darkened room where she and her hostage were waiting. Seated on a chair, looking very troubled and lost, was six-year-old Cassie--who never admired her reflection, because she is blind; who never asked about her future, because she was happy with the present; who never needed me to give her illusions, because all she ever wanted was the truth.
And there was Bloody Mary, grinning crookedly as she watched my visage appear.
“Ah, there you are,” she said, strolling over to the mirror. “You know what I want. Just open the doorway, and she is free to go.”
“I can’t open the mirror for you,” I replied. Ever since that one Halloween night, when some children chanted Bloody Mary’s name three times into a bathroom mirror and summoned her, Mary has been trapped on the living side. She has wanted me to open the mirror again to let other spirits out to join her reckless, and often harmful, poltergeist pranks.
She grimaces. “You know what I’ll do to her if you don’t do as I say.”
Poltergeists like Mary are capable of far nastier things than writing messages in lipstick. Hurting little children wasn’t something beyond her.
Mary spun around to see Cassie, who was standing and pointing at her.
“Bloody Mary…” Cassie said again.
Mary’s face contorted in panic and fury. She lunged at Cassie, her fingers twisted into claws aimed at the child’s throat.
“Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary,” I spat out as quickly as I could.
Then there she was, on the same side of the mirror as I. Her fury at being bound in my realm was short-lived, however, as I enveloped her in my icy essence.
“Mary, Mary, trapped in here…I’m going to teach you real fear…”