by Matt Schorr

The old woman clutched her prayer beads in a gnarled fist. Her knuckles were white and swollen, with skin like stretched paper. A crucifix jittered beneath her trembling hand, a sign of both her age and fear.

“I can’t have it in my house anymore,” she breathed, her voice a coarse whisper. “I just can’t. I won’t.”

Father Hannigan nodded toward the bedroom door. “It’s in there?”

The woman inhaled through her teeth. “Quiet,” she hissed. “It’ll hear you.”

He lowered his head, offering an unspoken apology.

The woman closed her eyes and muttered a fervent prayer. The words were indiscernible.

“Yes,” she said at last. “In there. Please, be careful.”

The priest laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and placed his head against hers. He closed his eyes. “I will,” he assured her. “You stay out here.”

He then turned from her to face the door. Behind him, the old woman resumed her murmured prayers, clutching the beads against her chin while uttering indecipherable pleas. She backed away, moving to the center of the hall. Her eyes clamped shut, giving the appearance of an unending wince on her face.

Hannigan reached for the doorknob but stopped. He gritted his teeth and reached into his pocket to withdraw a silver flask. He paused a moment, listening for the old woman’s muttered prayers, before taking a quick gulp. The slight burn that slithered into his belly offered a momentary feeling of energy.

It wouldn’t last long, he knew, but maybe it would linger just enough.

If it didn’t, the flask was far from empty.

Hannigan turned the knob, slow and careful, and eased the door open, exposing utter darkness on the other side.

The room, he saw, was devoid of light. He pulled out his cell phone and switched on its flashlight, but the room seemed to gobble up whatever illumination it offered. Its pitiable gleam shone on the floor, spotlighting broken and discarded dolls. The tiny, lifeless faces stared up at him with dead, yet somehow accusing eyes.

Hannigan reached into his pocket again and wrapped his fingers around the flask. Two thoughts warred in his brain, each demanding his attention while attempting to stamp out the other.

Get out, the first demanded. Now.

The other insisted, Stay, but drink more.

These thoughts quieted for a moment, however, when Hannigan noticed the subtle yet undeniable sound of breathing. It was soft and steady, slow and rhythmic, almost like a sleeping child. And yet, there was something … off … about it. The pitch was too high, resembling the whine of a wounded animal.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

Drink. Drink. Drink.

Hannigan squeezed the flask hard. One of his knuckles even cracked under the strain. He closed his eyes and took a breath, then slid his hand out and resumed walking through the room.

The flask remained in his pocket.

He turned the flashlight to shine on the bed in the center of the room. The brown covers were drawn up to matching pillows, giving it a tidy appearance save for a single corner pulled back just enough to reveal a white sheet beneath.

“Who are you?” Hannigan said to the dark. “What do you hope to accomplish here?”

There was no answer, but the shrill breathing continued. It paused when he spoke, as if whatever drew those strange breaths was taking a moment to consider him.

Then, dismiss him.

Something crunched under Hannigan’s foot, and panic exploded in his chest. He lurched to one side and aimed the flashlight at the floor with a trembling hand. The light skittered about on the off-white carpet until it found the cracked visage of a porcelain doll. The tiny, blonde girl glared back at him with one eye. The other, Hannigan guessed, dislodged when he stepped on it.

“Sorry, kid,” he muttered.

He looked up again, and the flashlight reflected off a surface at the far end of the room. It glimmered and winked – another eye, Hannigan mused – in the darkness.

Over here, the eye seemed to tell him. This way.

Meanwhile, the internal battle to leave or drink raged in Hannigan’s brain. Both thoughts were more insistent than ever, and they began merging into a third idea.

Drink. Then leave. Then drink some more.

Instead, Hannigan pressed through the dark, following after the reflected light that gleamed back at him like a beacon. This way, Father. This way.

Drink.

Stay.

Get out.

All the while, the breathing continued. Its rhythm never altered, keeping a steady and even pace.

When Hannigan reached the source of reflected light, he frowned. His flashlight illuminated a large mirror positioned atop a mahogany nightstand. In it, his reflection – dressed as he was in a traditional black shirt and priest’s collar – frowned back at him. Like him, the reflection also had salt and pepper hair and a matching goatee that came to a sharp point beneath his chin.

Hannigan placed his phone on the nightstand, with the light positioned to shine on the mirror. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the flask once more. He stared at it for several moments, then looked at his reflection.

“Just so you know, I’m not impressed,” he said.

The Hannigan in the mirror returned his nonplussed expression.

“Frightening an old woman?” he pressed. “That’s small. Weak.”

He glanced at the flask again and sighed. The war of words in his brain had settled into an uncomfortable ceasefire. Now only a single thought floated in his head: What’s one more sip gonna matter?

He gritted his teeth, sighed again, and deposited the flask in his pocket once more.

“You’re all the same, you know,” he said, looking down at his pocket where the flask now resided. “Petty. Frail. Incapable of anything worth notice.”

The breathing stopped.

Hannigan looked up again.

His reflection, he saw, was different now. The light from his phone no longer illuminated its eyes, which now resembled two dark craters. The lines of his jaw and mouth seemed thicker and blacker, making his face appear stretched and drawn.

Not unlike a corpse, Hannigan thought.

The other Hannigan opened its mouth, no longer reflecting its source’s movements but acting on its own. Its teeth, only just visible in the dark, appeared stained with dark mucus that glistened in the weak illumination.

“Who the hell are you?” it demanded. “To speak to me that way?”

Its voice had a birdlike quality, like the caw of a large crow. There was also something cloying about it. Hearing the reflection speak created a nagging discomfort in Hannigan’s ears and gut, like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Another priest?” the reflection scoffed. “A holy man? A crusader for your glorious God?”

Its mouth twisted into what Hannigan assumed was a grin. Both corners turned upward, and its upper lip curled into a series of curves that showcased its blackened teeth.

Hannigan met its gaze as best he could, staring back at the black craters that were its eyes. “You first,” he said. “Who are you?”

“One of many,” it said.

“Aren’t you all…”

“I stand at Leviathan’s right hand,” it continued. “The great army of the deep. We are darkness. We are torment. We are oblivion.”

The reflection leaned forward. It placed both hands on the nightstand’s surface on its side of the mirror, and it seemed, for a moment, that it might lean right through.

“What are you?” it asked.

Hannigan took a breath before answering, willing his voice not to crack when he spoke. “I serve at the local parish.”

The reflection grunted and pushed itself upright again. “How small,” it remarked. “Which of us, do you think, is truly the frail one?”

Hannigan glanced at his pocket again and sighed. He withdrew the flask, removed the top and, before taking a long drought, sighed, “Me, I suppose.”

The reflection folded its arms. Its mouth twisted again, with one corner curling higher than the other. It was smirking, Hannigan decided.

“Alcohol?” it sneered. “You’re a walking cliché.”

“More like a contradiction,” Hannigan replied, holding the flask just beneath his chin and staring at it.

“Your God is running out of servants,” the reflection chuckled.

“Guys like me sure don’t help his cause,” Hannigan sighed.

“So, what is that?” the reflection pressed. “Whiskey? Hot and pungent?”

“Rum, actually,” Hannigan answered, still eyeing the flask. “And it’s a little watered down, to be honest.”

He took another long drought, and a small trickle escaped his mouth. It slid down his cheek toward his neck, leaving an icy trail on his face.

Hannigan reached up with his free hand to wipe the trickle away, then leaned forward and smeared the moisture off on the nightstand. It left a noticeable smudge just in front of the mirror.

When he looked up, he saw his reflection had mimicked his movements. Like him, it leaned over the nightstand, almost nose-to-nose with him. All that separated them was the mirror.

The reflection grinned again, revealing even more of its stained teeth than before. At this distance, Hannigan could see tiny, wriggling things squirming between them.

“I know your God, Father,” it hissed. “But who are you?”

It lunged. Both hands – with torn fingernails that hung on rotted strands of flesh, Hannigan saw – lurched forward. It curled both lips back, revealing all of its teeth, which now seemed sharp and jagged. Its eyes remained empty, black holes, but somewhere in their depths Hannigan recognized dark and malicious intent … the desire, the need to murder.

Both hands smacked into the mirror, however.

Its knuckles thudded hard, and several of the loose fingernails tumbled off. They fluttered down into the reflected darkness like torn bits of paper.

The other Hannigan leaned back, the snarl on its face now replaced with a look of pure confusion. “What is this?” it demanded.

Hannigan let out the breath he’d been holding and stepped back from the mirror. “Mostly Captain Morgan,” he said, “with a bit of holy water mixed in.”

He cast a final glance at the flask before returning it to his pocket. “That’s probably why it tastes so bad,” he added.

“No,” the reflection growled.

“Yeah,” Hannigan said. “You just got outwitted and imprisoned by a small town priest with a drinking problem. Now which of us, do you think, is the frail one?”

The reflection growled again and punched at the mirror. Its fist thudded hard, and more fingernails tumbled away.

The thing then leaned back, looked heavenward, opened its mouth, and unleashed a piercing howl. The sound clawed its way into the priest’s ears and sent painful tremors down his back.

He winced against the sound, then plucked his phone up from the nightstand. The last glimpse he saw of his reflection looked human once more, and it followed his movements yet again.

Hannigan turned and headed back toward the door. He stopped after a few steps and called back over his shoulder, “So you know, I’m going to tell the lady you’ve been terrorizing to bury this mirror in the backyard.”

The thing howled in the darkness behind him, but there was less strength in it. It almost, the priest thought, resembled a whimper.

“You should feel right at home there,” he said. “Great army of the deep and all.”