Morgan
A mirror!
No doubt it’s a trap, and visions of the wolf slitting my throat as I watch my murder in the reflection causes my teeth to bear down as I shiver.
Moving closer, another gleam of light blinds me. This process repeats until I’m flush in front of the mirror. A mirror. Why?
It’s an oval, rustic antique-looking—sterling-silver mirror, and there's writing scrawled on the glass in bright red lipstick.
Morgan, the game is almost over. Look at your reflection; you’re disgusting.
I’ve left a present for you on the back of this mirror, Red.
I’m coming for you.
Who am I?
It becomes hard to swallow. Tears will drown me if I let them fall again. I can’t melt into a puddle of pity like I allowed myself to do before. I need to keep my emotions under control. Visions of Reid and the kids far from my mind. Focus. Focus on what I can do to help myself now, not what I’ll lose if I don’t.
I’m hesitant at the thought of looking behind the mirror. My breathing is rapid. I discard the stick acting as my cane. What is waiting for me behind this mirror resting in the middle of bushland like a prop from a movie set?
I inhale three breaths and hold onto the frame as I shift my position. I gasp, strangling my mouth with my hands, sucking back my need to scream out. I’m haunted. A large photograph. It’s a collage of photos numbered, one through to thirteen. Under each number is a corresponding picture of a woman who has died brutally and disgustingly. The music playing only intensifies the horror these images supply. My mouth falls open, and I dry-heave until my stomach stops rolling over itself. I don’t want to look again, but I force myself to view each one. Any information is important. Do I know any of these women? I soon realise I don’t, not even one from what I can make out from these photographs.
Each visual is worse than the last; my stomach clenches as my heart pounds with a sense of urgency. All I can identify is that each of these women lies lifeless in bushland, and each of these photographs has freshly bloomed roses scattered around the corpse. I start with the first picture and count the roses; there are thirteen. I move to the second and count the stems; also thirteen. I don’t stop until I get to number thirteen, which also has thirteen roses laid out on a white background. There are two words written in the centre of the white background.
Red, RUN!
I spin in a circle … searching. I can sense his presence. Goosebumps coat my skin from my wrists to my ankles.
But there’s nobody here. It’s just me, this mirror, and twelve ghosts who once lived. Twelve spirits who have a horrific story of their own to share, but no voice to do so. I need to be their voice. I need to survive for them, too.
The music stops. My heart thuds one intense beat and then races. I’m not running. I’m still. Fearful. Broken. Hurt. Lost.
“You just couldn’t be what you were supposed to be, Morgan.” His voice plays from the boom box on the ground in front of me, the same one that’s been playing the song. “These bitches weren’t what they were supposed to be either.” There’s a long pause. “This is what happens to thieves, traitors, and whores … they get their punishment.”
I scrunch my fists together and raise them in front of my face.
“I knew you wouldn’t run, but I wish you had. You’re going to wish you did, too.”
“Fuuuuuck!” I scream as I’m pulled down like the earth is swallowing me whole from below my feet. I’m falling.
Wrapped in a blanket of darkness, my body bounces from side to side. I roll before I’m upright once more. I reach out my arms like Jesus on the cross and dig my nails into what feels like compacted soil.
“Oh God, oh God,” I cry out. “Ouuuuch.” I cry harder as I feel my nails peel away from my flesh. I flip over myself. I flip again … thud.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
There’s a halo of light in the distance. A blurry tattered curtain sways with a gusting wind that rushes through the ripped material and brings a coolness to my limbs. At first, it’s pleasant, welcomed. Then it freezes cold and burns. It’s burning me. I try to move from its path, but I can’t even lift my head. I’m a lump of lead, one too heavy to carry or shift. I feel trapped in my own body with my mind racing, ordering a million commands, my body unable to follow a single one.
“Help.” It’s a weak deliverance of the word, spoken so quietly even I barely hear myself.
“Morgan. Morgan.” The call of my name sounds laced with worry. “Baby, you’re not alone. I’m here. I’m with you.”
“Reid.” I can smell his cologne. I can feel his fingertip tracing a line down my cheek.
“Yes. I’m here.” He’s cradling my head.
There’s warmth, so much warmth fighting away the cold I'm experiencing, and the sound of my heart beating is loud but slow. I relax into him.
“You can’t give up. Promise me you won’t give up.”
I cry, beads of liquid tickle my lips.
“Don’t cry, Morgan. Please don’t cry.” Soft pillows press to my forehead. “I’ve got you. Don’t cry.”
“Reid.” I flick my eyes upwards in their sockets, almost rolling them into the back of my head. One painful thump accompanies this action.
“Close your eyes. Take a moment. Rest. You need rest.”
“Reid,” I cry out once more.
“Morgan. Sleep. You need your strength.” My fingers are stretched wide, and then I feel his fingers slipped between mine. “I’ll stay with you. I’ll guard you while you sleep. Nothing will happen. You trust me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I breathe as I allow my eyelids to fall closed, and I listen to every slow drawn-out breath he takes.
“I’m waiting for you, Morgan. I’m searching for you. We’re doing everything we can to find you. I won’t let you down, baby. Please don’t give up on me.”
“I won’t,” I mumble as I feel my shoulders drop and my limbs lighten. I’m no longer lead. I’m free … floating … at rest.
“Morgan. Wake up. You need to wake up now.” It’s a panicked request. Reid’s breathing is rapid. His hands are rough. They pull me and shake me.
“Reid?”
I bolt upright. I'm panting, searching ... It’s so dark.
Where the hell am I?