Jeremy Ashmore knew that he was safe. He distinctly remembered locking all of his doors. He had paid top dollar for the best security system on the market. And, as a last resort, he had his panic room…thick steel doors that would protect him from anything short of a tactical nuclear strike.

Despite his impenetrable fortress, though, he couldn't shake the feeling that somebody was in the house.

He lay in bed, trembling, hiding under the covers like a child. If he hadn't been so terrified, it would have struck him as ridiculous; he was a grown man, a successful author of horror stories, and here he was on the verge of wetting his bed. All because of his overactive imagination.

He forced himself to breathe deeply. There was nobody in the house. There was no way that somebody could sneak past the security system. He was just being silly. He was---

His heart stopped as he heard a loud thump from downstairs. His mind quickly conjured up a terrifying image: an escaped criminal, perhaps…his face warped and distorted from injuries while in prison…wielding some sort of blunt object. A baseball bat, perhaps…coated with dried blood. He had somehow snuck past the security system and had been quietly making his way up the stairs with thoughts of murder on his mind when he had stumbled and tripped.

Jeremy let out a soft whimper. He wanted to rush to the panic room, to hide…but the rational part of his brain was still telling him that he was just being childish. It was just his imagination. He listened for a few more seconds and heard nothing, so he relaxed.

Then, in the silence, he heard a soft squeaking noise. Followed by a second, then a third. Jeremy recognized the sound instantly…somebody was walking up the steps. Coming for him.

He threw his covers off, and jumped out of bed, tangling himself and falling to the floor. The man on the stairs must have heard the noise, because the sound of footsteps got faster. Any second the man would burst into the room…

Jeremy freed himself from the blankets and rushed off toward the panic room. Just as he exited the room, he heard the other door open and the man step inside. Jeremy froze. Then he heard the man's footsteps nearing, and he burst into a sprint toward the panic room. It was so close…

He heard the man's footsteps behind him, but he didn't dare turn around and risk slowing down or tripping. He reached the panic room, ran inside, and as he was closing the steel door he got his first look at his attacker.

It was almost exactly as he had imagined. The man was tall and muscular, but his face was mangled obscenely. In his right hand he carried an iron pipe, which was stained…

With blood.

Jeremy let out a soft yelp of terror as he slammed the door shut. Then he breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe now. He turned and pressed his panic button, which would bring the police in a matter of minutes. It was over. He had survived.

He turned around and sat down, and went instantly pale. Standing across from him in the panic room was the man. He had a smile on his twisted face. He moved closer to Jeremy.

"No!" Jeremy shouted, his voice cracking. "Leave me alone!"

The man laughed, a horrible sound. He backed Jeremy into a corner and raised his iron pipe high in the air. Jeremy raised his hands to shield himself, though he knew it was useless.

The man's wrist twitched, and he brought down his weapon hard...

*****


And in that instant, Jeremy burst awake in a cold sweat. He groaned and pushed a pillow over his face, urging himself to go back to sleep. As terrifying as his nightmares were, they were still preferable to the horrors that often filled his days.

After a few minutes of lying still and cursing softly, he realized that sleep was not coming back. He rolled over and looked at his clock. The green display read 11:27…it was far past time for him to wake up.

As a full-time author, he set his own hours. But he still didn't like sleeping in late, because then he stayed up later into the night. And though he often did his best writing at night…sometimes he would manage to scare himself. And he didn’t like being scared.

It had always struck other people as funny that such a prolific horror author was afraid of so many things. It didn’t seem funny to Jeremy…to him it made complete sense. Who would be better at writing about fear than somebody who was afraid all the time? They always said to write about what you know…and that's what Jeremy did. He put his fears into words.

Of course, it wasn't just his fears that made him such a great author. He had other forms of inspiration. He shook his head violently. No, he told himself. It's too early in the day to be thinking about such things.

As he shuffled to the bathroom, he passed his panic room, the scene of last night's nightmare. He peeked his head inside, looking for crazed murders. There were none. Satisfied, he finished his trek to the bathroom and attended to his hygienic needs.

With that finished, he got dressed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen, feeling a little more awake. He poured himself a bowl of Corn Pops and plopped himself down in front of the television to watch CNN.

The news, of course, always terrified him. Just last week there had been a report about soft drinks causing cancer in lab rats. Then there was pesticides in his food, terrorism, god-knows-what in his drinking water…today, though, was some nice, safe, political news. Whats-his-name in Washington had done something he shouldn't, and everyone was in an uproar about it. Jeremy yawned. Did anybody really care about this stuff?

He finished his Corn Pops and switched the TV off. He sat there for a minute, not wanting get up. He knew that now with breakfast over, he'd have to get down to writing…and the thought terrified him. He had just finished one story he was working on…and that meant he had to get inspiration for a new one.

Getting inspiration was never particularly difficult, in the sense that most writers feel it is. At any time, he could conjure up a great story…if he really wanted to.

He sighed loudly and took his bowl into the kitchen, tossing it into the sink for later washing. Mustering up his courage, he opened the door to his basement. The basement is where he always got his inspiration. He flipped a light switch and illuminated the basement with a tiny light bulb, which did more to cast shadows than it did to give light. He descended down the stairs and made his way over to the east wall. He sat down in a chair.

And faced the mirror.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He was trembling with fright. He stared directly into his bright blue eyes. Suddenly, the face in the mirror began changing. His hair changed from short and brown to a long, flowing blonde. His nose changed shape. He sprouted a long beard. His eyes, though still a bright, shining blue, were no longer filled with fear. They looked determined.

His clothing changed, too. Suddenly he was wearing heavy chain mail armor. A small helm appeared on his head. A long, gleaming sword materialized in his hand.

Finally, his surroundings began to change. He was no longer in his dimly lit basement. Instead, he was in a massive room, filled with pillars that held up a ceiling a hundred feet above his head. The room was lit by hundreds of torches, held by torch stands placed about 6 or 7 feet apart from each other. Jeremy could feel the intense heat all around him.

And, at the far end of the room, was an enormous throne. Sitting on the throne was a man draped in a black cloak. A large, wicked looking scythe lie across his lap. The man looked eerily like the Grim Reaper himself.

The transformation was complete, and Jeremy was no longer Jeremy. His name was now Archibald, and he was part of a different world. One of the many worlds that seemed to lie just on the other side of Jeremy's mirror.

Archibald began walking straight towards the man in the black cloak. This was who he had come to kill. He raised his voice to challenge his opponent. "I am challenging you to a fight, do you hear?"

The cloaked man gave no response, didn't even move. Archibald shouted again. "I am challenging you!"

Again, the man gave no response. Being ignored made Archibald's blood boil. He would be answered, damn it!

"I am challenging you for the third time, hear?" he roared.

This time, the man, moving with the speed of lightning, jumped from his throne and seemed to fly across the room. He landed in front of Archibald and removed the hood of his cloak.

His Grim Reaper appearance was complete. Under the cloak was not a man, but a skeleton. The man's head was nothing more than gleaming white bone, and his hands were untouched by flesh. The Reaper held his vicious scythe tightly, and when it opened its mouth to speak a horrible, grating sound emerged.

"Yes, Archibald. I can hear you."

Archibald smiled at the grotesque creature. "Then do you accept my challenge?"

The Reaper laughed, a sound that, despite his courage, sent chills down Archibald's spine. "You are a fool, Archibald, to think that I would deny you."

Archibald was suddenly enraged. "I am not a FOOL!" he shouted, rushing towards the Reaper, his sword held high. As he gave a mighty swing, the Reaper raised his scythe and blocked the blow.

"If you kill me," the Reaper said. "You shall prove yourself a fool."

Archibald roared and swung his sword again. The Reaper deftly dodged the blow, and Archibald's blade sent a torch tumbling to the floor.

"Damn!" Archibald shouted. "I'll kill you, yet!" he swung his blade again.

The Reaper seemed to grin. "As you wish." The Reaper let his scythe drop to the ground, and Archibald's blade cleanly decapitated him. The body crumpled to the floor and disintegrated into dust.

Archibald shouted victory, but his voice sounded strange…unusual. Rather than his normal, deep voice…a grating, deathly sound emerged. Frightened, he dropped his sword. He bent over to pick it up…and instead of his sword, a wicked looking scythe appeared in his hand. His clothes were suddenly replaced with a black cloak.

He saw a mirror over on the wall, and rushed over to it. He pulled back his hood and what he saw terrified him.

He had become the Reaper.

He screamed. His scythe dropped to the ground. He screams again, louder, the sound grating in his throat. He tries to cover his eyes with his hands, but is horrified to find the hands he knew have been replaced with shining bone. He looks back in the mirror and stares into his eyes, which have been replaced with two bright, red, burning dots. As he screams, he keeps staring into his eyes. The red dots slowly turn to a shining blue. Flesh returns to his face. His head sprouts short, brown hair. The room behind him blurs and fades. In a matter of moments, Jeremy Ashmore is back in his basement.

He gets up from his chair quickly, knocking it over. He feels all around his face, trembling. He is flesh. He's human. He slowly calms himself down.

Still trembling a little, he walks back upstairs. He grabs a bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator and chugs the entire thing. His thirst sated, he walked to the living room and sat down in front of his computer to write.

He had his story.

Was this written by you or someone else? Either way, Brav-O!


P.S.: I am often overcome with pure terror when looking in the mirror too.. only thing is, it isn't make believe.

Haha, unlike when I posted the lyrics to Officer Krupke, I actually wrote this

bravo!

could someone post the Kliff Notes, por favor?

i only read till the first post I DONT WANNA READ


can you just give me a summmury please

If you don't want to read, you don't want to know what happens.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH your making my head hurt

Much better writing here, Sage, You are improving. I do think I've read the"Kill death and become him" idea elsewhere but you did a good job with the idea.

Keep it up, boyo.

Yes ... agreed, it's one of his better efforts, but I've sensed that he gets some of his ideas right here from reading some of our posts like for example the title and the answer to how one can see in odd places.
I recall once saying in a post that I'm a grown man yet I get creepy feelings of insecurity if my foot hangs out from under the covers in the dark when it's cold sometimes.

Then I did a self-portrait from in the opinion of some a grotesque image of a man I saw in the news and I also said in another post that the song the mouse in the coffee cup was singing was about me.
The name Jeremy is also the name of a soap villian modern day vampire I believe I encountered on TV in the past 20 years or so.

TR

Holy cow!

The "kill death and become him" idea has been used dozens of times. I've personally read two books, by two seperate authors, that make use of it. It's so common that I didn't feel bad about "stealing" it

TR, I assure you, none of the inspiration for this came from WoL. I was given the writing prompt "The Mirror" to write from, hence the title. And Jeremy Bryan Ashmore was a character of mine from another story (that I've actually yet to write) that I just went and recycled his name for. I don't watch old soap operas

Well just to prove that I'm not making up that I made reference to being scared of hanging my bare-foot out from under the covers, I bumped up the thread where I said it.
The thread is under "Questions" and is entitled:
"Flowchart Saved as Embedded File".

The statement is:
"I'm really not "scared of anything" except leaving my bare-foot hang over the side of the bed in the dark. "
and can be found in my post after Mog's second post on the first page of the thread.

PS:

Off hand I can't think of any other examples but I don't think it would necessarily be a conscious endeavor if it were so.
Things that impress are often held sub-consciously I think.

TR

Last Edited : Friday, 29 July 2005 - 18:26

PPS:
Anyway it was well done.

TR

Last Edited : Friday, 29 July 2005 - 18:24

Sequel sorta:

www.futurehobo.com/mirror2.html

Other than the fact that I enjoy reading your stories Sage, I think Freud would/could have had a field-day with you; Criticising your own work, narcissism, being trapped, etc... you need to get out more... from that basement

But what I like most about your writing that it is non-cumbersome. It flows easily and very easy to read. Your characters are very familiar, but that might be a result of the fact that all your characters are very close to you in nature, and I don't mean being scared of the mirror or such. I would like to see from you, a story where the character is totally different in ethics, morals, or charcter... try writing about someone you've never heard of or met. A farmer in Serbia, a widowed wife in Holland, etc.. if only to see how the character develops... should be interesting, I think.

All in all, keep writing. It makes good reading.

The story does not, in any way, delve into my psyche

And Jeremy Bryan Ashmore was a character of mine from another story (that I've actually yet to write) that I just went and recycled his name for."-Sage


"Jeremy Bryan Ashmore was a character of mine from another story (that I've actually yet to write) for which I just went and recycled his name."

"Jeremy Bryan Ashmore was a character of mine from another story that I've actually yet to write (that is a story for which I just went and recycled his name)."

PS:
I guess you folks understand each other okay because I think it's fairly common among many of you all to end a sentence with a preposition, but I find myself re-reading sentences over and over that some of you write because I have lost the drift of the meaning;
and I don't take the trouble always to go back to find the object of the preposition, because I've probably lost interest because I've lost the drift of the meaning.

TR