Mirror Image By Lena Coakley Novels & Stories

The gate was open. In the center of the courtyard stood a massive mirror. It was ten feet tall, framed in jagged black obsidian. It shouldn't have been there. It looked like it had grown out of the cobblestones. The surface of the glass wasn't reflecting the courtyard; it was a swirling vortex of violet and grey. "The Mirror of Souls," Hala’s voice drifted from the ranks. She pushed her way forward, her staff trembling. "It’s a Coven relic. Selene has left us a parting gift."

A mirror which would portrait me a couple of hundred years ago. This isn’t just a strong resemblance. It’s more like this is the hundred percent copy of me, right down to a tiny mole on the high bone of her cheek. Or should I say I’m the copy of her? My fingers touch the tiny mole on my face with disbelief. Stepping closer, I wrap the arms around myself, suddenly feeling a cold shower running down my spine. This is nearly a little spooky. The date underneath the picture shows anno 1457. This is way over five hundred years back. That’s absolutely impossible.

My image finally started blurring, but it’s not my family that’s reflecting back at me this time. It’s Creed, bloody and bruised. He screamed as the chains that held him rattled. The mirrors surrounding him played images of burning buildings and people running. I can hear their screams, their innocent. Just as fast as they came, the images vanished. They were replaced by a battle, but I don’t recognize anyone. The image of a black wolf is positioned above the battle in the mirror. An image of a vampire was on the mirror next to it. I can hear screams of pain and heartbreak as I watch the victims from both sides fall.

he asks, but I quickly shake my head. “No,” I say softly and he nods. “Good, goodnight, Mia, we will see in the morning.” I watch as he walks out of the room and sigh deeply. I wanted answers, but I couldn’t make myself ask for them. I look around the room, spotting a painting that hangs on the wall. Theres a full moon above a beautiful forest. I notice mirror on a tree and the woman stares into it. One side is a wolf staring back at her, but the other is the back of her head as she stares into the mirror at the wolf.

Tears welled up, streaming down her face as she took in the familiar surroundings. Sitting on the edge of her bed, Ezra surveyed the room. It was frozen in time, each element meticulously placed, as if she had left just yesterday. The tidiness of the room mirrored her younger self's preferences. Despite the passage of time, the essence of her past lingered in the air.The room seemed to whisper stories of laughter, dreams, and quiet moments. Pictures on the wall told tales of a different era, frozen smiles capturing a time when everything felt simpler.

I started looking at the other mirrors hoping something in them would give me a clue on how to escape this acid trip nightmare. Looking at the mirrors, they were all paintings with me in them. What’s with the Shit Witch and art? Is that her thing, or is she pulling that from my mind? I enjoy art, but this takes it to a fucked up level. Each painting melted away to show me some nightmare scene. Behind the mirror with me as the Mona Lisa was a torture scene of the Shit Witch cutting into Thales, harvesting his organs while he was still alive and screaming. He was screaming for me to save him.

As if trying to remember something she could feel but not reach. Behind her, the door creaked open. Lenore stood there again, silent. Unseen. Unwanted. The candle blew out. The room went black. The mirror surface rippled again and then cleared. Now it showed only Sloane. Her own reflection, returned. But her mirrored self moved a second too slow. Behind her, something stirred in the glass. A second figure forming slow, dark, stretching tall from shadow. Sloane backed away. Theo moved between her and the mirror instinctively.

They walked on. The Mirror Fields were vast. This meant that it took nearly two hours before they saw the first sign of life: a mirror that is representing an individual object in the middle of the field. Its frame was draped with vines that ate into the wall yet the glass portion was pristine, almost excessive. It caught the group as they were in movement but not really as they were; each reflection was not static but changed and revealed other versions of the group. A younger Serakha. A bloodied Lucian. A man in Arden laughing with strangers. They stopped, staring.

In every model he painted, Lena noticed the same pull: an intimacy that felt almost too personal, too deep, as if the canvas was capturing more than flesh and bone. Her heart thudded the longer she scrolled. There was no denying it, the women in those portraits looked as though they were on the edge of surrender, like they had been stripped bare without ever being touched. And the strangest part? Lena recognized herself in them already, even though he had only painted her twice. She snapped her laptop shut and pushed it away, but the images were already burned into her head and she tried to practice to loose free.

The reflections changed, showing not just their present selves but fragments of their pasts. Anna froze as one mirror displayed a scene from her childhood—her and her younger brother playing in the backyard, laughter filling the air. She reached out instinctively, but Logan grabbed her wrist. “Don’t,” he said sharply. “The mirrors here are meant to distract you. They’ll show you things to lure you off the path.” Anna nodded, pulling her hand back. “It felt so real.” “That’s the point,” Logan said grimly. Mia gasped, drawing their attention to another mirror. This one showed a memory of her in a dimly lit room, hunched over a table filled with scattered papers and strange artifacts. Her expre