Spectrophobia
Ciarán hated mirrors.
There were no mirrors in Ciarán Hyde’s house. Not a single one. Not in the hall, not in the bathroom, not above his dresser, nowhere. An absolute ban on all things shiny and reflective.
His neighbors were convinced he’d have no windows either if he could get away with it. Whispered behind his back about the tall, lanky young man with perpetually-disheveled black hair and haunted eyes. His odd behavior had made him a local curiosity to some, and an object of scorn to others.
“He’d actually be good-looking if he cleaned himself up a bit,” one woman mused, watching Ciarán hurry past some shop windows, pulling his coat collar higher like he was trying to shield himself from them.
“Being a little less strange wouldn’t hurt either,” her companion grumbled. “I daresay that’d do him more good than taking a hairbrush to that mess ever would.”
Children made a game of setting up mirrors as ‘traps’ for him, laughing when he’d cross the street or quicken his pace going past an alley. The day a boy came sprinting down the block at him holding a mirror up, Ciarán went white as a sheet and ran full-speed the other way. The cackling boy chased him all the way to his front door, banging on it and waving the mirror in front of the windows.
Ciarán didn’t leave the house for a week after that.
The one time someone actually decided to ask him why he feared mirrors, he looked deeply uncomfortable, avoiding their gaze.
“A bad experience,” he murmured. “A long time ago.”
He left before they could press further. That didn’t do him any favors, because the townsfolk just decided that there was no good reason for him to hate mirrors. That it was nothing but juvenile nonsense, something that he should have outgrown years ago.
Something that needed to be corrected.
Whispers buzzed through the small town of Hareford, a constant low thrum of people discussing what to do about ‘the Hyde problem’. Ways to force him to overcome what they saw as a ridiculous fear. “It’s for his own good,” they told each other. “He’ll thank us for this later”.
In the end, they decided that direct confrontation was the best course of action. If Ciarán Hyde would not look at a mirror willingly? Well.
They’d just have to make him.
The day no one would speak of later started as a normal Tuesday.
Ciarán had been making his weekly trip to the grocer’s; head down, shoulders hunched, taking his usual route that avoided every shop window or puddle that might catch his face. He was so focused on the ground that he didn’t notice them gathering until it was too late.
A group of townsfolk blocking the narrow street. Twenty, maybe thirty people. More coming up behind him, making sure he couldn’t run.
“Mr. Hyde.” The butcher stepped forward, meaty arms crossed. “We need to have a word.”
Ciarán’s eyes darted left, right — every escape route blocked. The bakery owner. The postman. That woman from the chemist’s. All watching him with that same expression: pity mixed with irritation.
“This has gone on long enough,” someone called out.
“You can’t live like this forever!”
“It’s unnatural.”
The crowd pressed in closer. Ciarán backed up against a brick wall, terrified. His bag of groceries fell to the pavement and scattered. No one moved to pick them up.
“We’re trying to help you,” the butcher said, and there was genuine belief in his voice. “You’re a young man. You should be out courting, working a real job, living a normal life. But you can’t do that while you’re running from your own shadow, can you?”
“Please.” Ciarán’s voice came out strangled. “Please, just leave me alone. Let me go.”
“…Not this time.”
A woman pushed her way through the crowd, something small and ovular in her grip; a hand mirror. Mrs. Muncie was a retired schoolteacher, known for her dour disposition and no-nonsense attitude towards misbehaving children. She’d been the loudest voice when it came to correcting Ciarán’s ‘aberrant behavior’, the most insistent that something ‘be done’ about him.
She marched over to Ciarán, scowling, and held the mirror up in front of his face.
“Look, you stupid bastard! It’s just your own damn reflection! It can’t hurt you! Look at it!”
Ciarán froze, his eyes squeezed shut as tight as he could.
“Open your eyes!” Mrs. Muncie shrieked, shaking the mirror at him. “Look at it!”
The crowd took up the chant. “Look! Look! Look!”
One person grabbed his arm, another his shoulder. Hands everywhere, prying at his face, trying to force his eyelids open so that he’d finally see how foolish he’d been. That there was absolutely nothing to worry about.
“NO!” He tried to pull free of the crowd, but it was no use. If he managed to shake off one hand, two more took their place. “No, please, you don’t understand!”
Just for a moment his eyes opened. It was only for a fraction of a second, but that was all it took for his reflection to change and warp, becoming a distorted version of him with hollow eyes and an ear-to-ear grin.
“Finally. I told you I’d get you all those years ago, didn’t I?”
The voice sounded like Ciarán’s but sharper, clearer, with a sardonic edge that no one had ever heard the reclusive man use.
Mrs. Muncie’s grip on the mirror faltered. The crowd went quiet, confusion rippling through them.
“What — “ she started.
The reflection’s grin widened further. “You know, I’ve been so patient. Watching from every shop window, every puddle, every doorknob. Waiting for you to slip up. Or in this case, for someone stupid enough to force you to.”
It chuckled.
“I know the fine lady holding up this mirror can’t see me from her angle, but she should know she’s put the biggest smile on my face. I couldn’t have done this without her.”
And with that his reflection reached out and grabbed him by the collar. Ciarán didn’t even have time to scream before he was pulled in, leaving Mrs. Muncie standing there trembling. The mirror fell from her hand, hit the ground and shattered, each shard reflecting a different angle of the street, the horrified crowd, the scattered groceries.
She stood there for a full minute staring at the broken glass before the screaming started.
To this day no one in Hareford will speak about the day Ciarán Hyde disappeared. They’ll make up stories about him finding a job or a wife and leaving town. Say that he had a family emergency far away. Anything to pretend that nothing ever happened.
The children stopped playing their mirror pranks. Stopped laughing about the strange man who ran from his reflection.
In the privacy of their own homes, people swear they still see him sometimes. Pressed against the inside of mirrors, tapping on the glass. Desperate. Pleading. Trying to warn them away.
And sometimes, just sometimes, when they catch their reflection at the wrong angle, in the wrong light, it’ll smile at them a little too wide.
A little too hungry.
Like whatever is in there had been waiting for them, too.
"We’re trying to help you,” the butcher said, and there was genuine belief in his voice. “You’re a young man. You should be out courting, working a real job, living a normal life. But you can’t do that while you’re running from your own shadow, can you?”
This sounds very much like the insinuating condescension autistic people have to deal with on a regular basis...
Oh, my, this is creepy/tragic good!