Chapter Twenty-Eight #3
“I’ll be happy to hold your hand, if you need it. But I’m actually stopping to ask a few questions about an allegedly haunted mirror.”
Tending the shop today was a young woman named Maevis with a lilting English accent.
“Why is that mirror covered?” Harper asked after introducing herself and Ellen, and explaining that they were not in the market for tattoos. At least not today. “Did…No one died here, did they?”
Maevis laughed. “That would be bad for business, wouldn’t it?
Someone dying during a tattoo session. No, the owner is fascinated by haunted things, but she’s also careful.
In this case, she says there are some kinds of spirits within the mirror.
If a person were to stare into it too long, or they were vulnerable in some way, it might be… bad.”
“Is that right?” Harper knew some of this folklore, of course, but in general she had steered clear of researching mirrors and the legends around them. She had always found them too unsettling.
Maevis nodded. “Historically, mirrors were not a cosmetic accessory, you know. That’s such a reflection—pardon the pun—of our obsession with beauty.”
“As in Narcissus? The fascination with presentation and looks?”
“Partly, but more so. They say a mirror can be a doorway, a portal through which spirits and demons can pass into our physical world. In prehistory, any shiny surface was regarded as a spirit doorway and used to summon spirits into the world. In Mesoamerica, they were tools for divination and scrying. The word tēzcatl means both ‘eye’ and ‘mirror.’ ”
Harper remembered her ex-husband, Grant, telling her that the Aztecs were fascinated by mirrors and other reflective surfaces, and kept a bowl of water with a knife in it by the entrances to their homes. They believed a witch looking into it would see her soul pierced by the knife and flee.
“In ancient Greece,” Maevis continued, “the witches of Thessaly wrote their oracles in human blood on mirrors, and Pythagoras had a magic mirror he held up to the moon to see the future. Romans skilled in mirror reading were called specularii, and the mirror was called a speculum, because it helped them to see.”
“And here I thought a speculum was something used at women’s health appointments,” said Ellen. She had made herself comfortable on a small couch and was paging through a large album of tattoo designs.
“Different kind of speculum,” said Maevis. “Though they both allow a practitioner to see, I suppose.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about the subject,” said Harper.
Maevis shrugged. “I looked it up when the owner hung this mirror. Too curious for my own good, I guess.”
“Has anyone been brave enough to lift the cloth and gaze into the looking glass?” Harper asked, studying the shrouded object.
Maevis laughed. “Not yet, at least not while I’ve been working here.
I don’t know if it’s evil, per se, or just that mirrors, in general, can be potent.
I read that if a person sees their reflection in a room where someone has died, for example, it can be an omen of their own death.
And mirrors are sometimes covered in sick rooms in the belief that when the soul is weakened it is more vulnerable to possession, or in homes where someone has died, so the soul doesn’t get confused and get trapped in the mirror. Or something along those lines.”
“I saw a shrouded mirror at the Perles Mansion,” said Harper.
“Oh wow, I heard about that poor woman who was found there, in the garden.”
“Are these designs all yours, Maevis?” Ellen asked, looking up from the album.
“They are! Thanks for asking.”
“You’re a true artist, hon.”
“Thank you,” said Maevis.
“I can never decide, though.” Ellen continued flipping through the pages. “That’s my biggest problem. Too many options.”
“A lot of people start with a little one, then keep going,” said Maevis. “No need to decide on just one.”
“Oh, that’s a good point. Right now, it’s between a classic anchor, and this little cupid, how cute!
Or maybe the statue of David…Look, Harper.
” Ellen held the album out for Harper to see.
“I’m going to think about it, Maevis, and I’ll be back.
I’m dying to be an old lady with a tattoo. My son will be appalled.”
“Oh, Harper, since you mentioned the Perles Mansion,” Maevis said. “Check this out. It’s from there. The owner loves to collect old photos, especially of local people.”
The image was tarnished around the edges, but it showed a pretty, dark-haired woman in a fine gown, seated on a chair with a large black dog at her side. Her expression was serious, even sad, as was typical of poses back then; the dog’s face was blurred.
“Not sure if it’s a daguerreotype or a tintype,” Maevis said. “But it’s old, that’s for sure. Back then you had to stay still in front of the camera for a long time—I don’t think the dog was cooperating.”
Harper swallowed, hard. The requiem soared in her mind. Though the face she had seen in the mirror had been distorted, she was pretty sure she knew who the subject was.
“Is this…?”
Maevis nodded. “Isabel Perles, before she went mad.”