Written By: Alyssa Viveiros
A laugh echoes through the room as another’s fate is sealed. Worried eyes follow suit making the laughter an eruption booming through the building and deafening the ego of the lone individual. The majority feel guilty unable to express it as the need to fit in takes precedence. Countless days of aggression and judgment. It becomes overwhelming to the herd. Desire becomes jealousy becomes desperation. Delusions of power are tempting to those below. Everyday like clockwork, the crowd could bow at the image of a celebrity walking the red carpet before them.
When the curtains open, the main act appears and all eyes stare, watching and waiting. Waiting for mistakes, watching for signs of imperfectness. There is no hiding from the fixations that fester like a disease. There is hope for remorse to set in as strong as survivor guilt, but there wasn’t enough space in the tiny bathroom with the crowding insecurity.
Settling in, the nightly routine begins with perplexity in the mirror by the reflection staring back. Eventually blemishes blur to smoothness along the skin. The overhead light combats the darkness from the window on the right and casts shadows across the surface.
Yet, in the late hour, windy and ghastly chords bounce off the walls of the bathroom. First, it is faint, as if a whisper, but does not gain any attention, easily mistaken for the patter of rain. The melody begins to increase with no lyrics but hums. Finally, the song receives the attention it demands. The bathroom door slams open with a thunder strike, “Turn the music down, it’s late!” but is only met with a dark room and a body laying still and unbothered on the bed in silence. Feeling deluded by the late hour, sleep creeps in.
Like clockwork, the days pass with mirrors that are so endless, yet there is a feeling that light is somewhere there. Reaching out while gripping the sink just below, it could almost be touched, for it is not a blemish on the skin but one deep in the reflection of the mirror. The thunder blasting in the background is not a distraction from this temptation. Nor are the rhythmic notes that can be heard although no location can be distinguished.
Again, the mirror glances back in aggression. The looking glass, like the storm, is combative as it reveals deformity. The dampened eyes still yearn for that light that seems tangible. Yearning for connection. Hands meet the cool glass as it is caressed. The song does not stop playing, but the record stops and the speakers blow with the lights following suit.
No longer standing on the crisp tile, the sharp blades of grass meet with feet. The moistened eyes are replaced with a soaked body, and the song carries on through the corners of the mind. The whining of horses could be heard just over the song but none could be seen. The open field feels encroaching. The lightning strikes are enough to make out how vast the space truly is before being met with nothingness once more. The lightning strikes again almost as if in a panic before his presence is made.
Horror and confusion become encapsulating. The outside space is unfamiliar and distant from the restroom that had been there moments before. A phantom appears, spewing hot breath onto the frigid beads on the face. Pure terror, an understatement for the sight of the specter that stood with eyes as bright as the lights in the mirror, yet not as close. As quick as a blink, warmth and tile return.
For the next couple of days, the mirror sits lonely. The flicker of the unwanted guest is enough to deter the mirror’s reflection but the mirror’s wrath is burning. Its call deafening, it began to overcome the volume of the song and the storm that rages on. It cries; it can’t be ignored forever.
The need for a glance is impossible to go unregistered. The mirror orders to be addressed with the song that is easily forgotten over the booming desire of the mirror. Starving, needing one look to curb hunger as the individual is insatiable. Predator meets prey. It is obvious that the mark on the mirror remains, but this time it has grown. Trading off, the mirror’s screams subside as rain pours viciously. Regardless of answering the mirror’s call, the anxiety does not diminish. Heartbeats grow more rapid and breath becomes short. In an attempt to dispose of the mark, the mirror grows a long thin crack that dances across its being. It seems as if there isn’t enough air in the room. Now maybe the room was too small. A peek at the floor and another at the mirror where the light from the mark is so close. So close that it reaches out from behind, shattering the mirror in the process. Dogs howl and blood pours from the ears as the voices are piercing. Two hands grip onto the sink to steady the trashing underneath. Screaming was no use, inaudible over the song.
The meadow has reappeared, the field full of shadows with the light from the mirror dancing between them all. The rain comes down cold in waves causing sight to blur. There is uncertainty as to if these figures seem to be coming closer or moving away as thunder and song continues to blare on.
Eyes close in disbelief, yet despite the terror, there is a moment of silence. Just one. It is enough for that moment, as silence has not been heard for so very long. Way before the song was ever played, way before the storms and way before the mirror. Perfectionism was pointless and there is certainly no need for idolization, but it is too late. The quiet is hushed by the song rushing back in once more.
Eyes open and the specter is inches away. Their position remains the same but the lights that are shining through the dark cypher come closer and closer. The hood on the ghastly figure vanishes as it whispers just to be heard over the melody of the horses, dogs and rain. Feelings of dread and terror are an understatement. The wraiths are inescapable as they surround. An attempt is made to locate any remnants of that bathroom. A small clearing in the group is convincing enough to take a chance on and feet move as quickly as they can, but the unwelcome guests who follow in pursuit are close behind. They have no doubts about their victim. There is not even a measurable distance made before they catch up. The one outstretches its shredded hands turning all it touches into dust. As skin meets skin, fate is sealed and permanence sets in. No amount of desperation could be enough to change the situation and it might just be that the desperation is what they desired. Memories begin to fade, breaking apart in pieces and dragging hope along in tow. And with that, like the mirror, I was no more.
—
They were said to have ridden the storm for all eternity. No one knew why they rode or what their purpose was. They continue on collecting souls that would be erased from time. To continue this journey they thrive off of strong energy and have found victims via the negativity they put out into the world. Feeding on chaos and strife in any form energizes their search for more. The strongest collectors have found that it is not how many violent acts have occurred, or how many they have oppressed or how much they may have stolen, but it is the narcissism of insecurity they find the most nourishing.
So all memories of the collected fade. A pang of remembrance may persist from time to time but the search for a source would be pointless.
It is said that the warnings of the riders are not to be taken lightly, for once they are seen, they can only be shaken by a change in ways.
Listen for their song, listen for their horses, listen for the storm. Beware the Wild Hunt.
***
The daylight would come as if it were on a wheel. The house would be filled with conversation and liveliness. The curtains open as if an invitation. There would be no more storms. The frames unmoving from the mantle. The bedroom that was shared is now for one. A mirror, scratch free, would be shining on the bathroom wall. Pieces stay missing, but the puzzle would not feel incomplete. It wouldn’t be from lack of effort. Yet if the choice were there, it would likely be the same. This would continue, not just today, but everyday.
