Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 39, No. 6, June, 1994

I was sure of precious little else. Maybe someone had put the facts together; maybe it wasn’t an earthquake that had destroyed its home but the human residents in a last-ditch effort to crush a monster. Actually, the possibility that it had been kept — probably hidden — in a temple of some kind was more plausible. People of deep religious faith accepted the existence of evil. In this case the keepers might well have been armed with secrets as old as the pyramids to hold the fiend in limbo. If so, a catastrophe beyond their control had unleashed it.

If it was visually oriented, blinding it would be effective, but only temporarily. Someday this building would fall, too. By wrecking ball a hundred years from now, or earthquake or gas explosion tomorrow. Everything came to an end. Everything but that mirror. And then someone would find it and the slaughter would begin again. “Look, hon, look what survived the blast. I brought it home...”

It had to be destroyed. The paneling should keep me safe until I figured out how to do it. I would start by asking my kindly librarian for a do-it-yourself volume on killing ogres. The request had to lead somewhere.

I checked my watch. Two and a half pieces of paneling didn’t take long to install. I went back upstairs.

The door was propped open by Joe’s coffin-sized toolbox.

Papers lay on the foyer shelf. The esteemed manager wasn’t wasting a moment. I didn’t hear voices. Had they killed each other? This apartment was no place to have an argument. I found them in the living room in perfect health and looking pleased. Mr. Gillespie beckoned to me.

“Look, sweetheart, I told you, didn’t I? It’s beautiful.”

The job was done. The mirror was gone, or at least no longer visible. In its place was a wall of wood paneling screwed to the beams that had previously been the mirror’s frame.

“I used insulation to fill the space behind it,” Joe said. Glancing at his boss he added, “Couldn’t stick the middle section to air, now could I? The tack isn’t dry yet, but it seems to be holding okay. If a seam separates, give me a call.” He gathered up the rest of his tools.

We took the lease into the kitchen. I read it quickly, thrilled to see my first rental figure of three digits instead of four. And for two years! Then I sobered. I would be earning it, possibly paying for an exorcist. I wondered what they charged. New shoes could wait.

Joe came in and rinsed his hands in the sink. Mr. Gillespie signed his line and handed me the pen. I signed my name, and he gave me the key. I dropped it into my pocket. And odd sound, like tops spinning lazily on a gritty sidewalk, came from the living room. The men looked at each other with expressions of “what now?” and went inside to find out. I followed.

The screws in the perimeter of the paneling spun in reverse rotation. Unlike human hands that pause to recover leverage at ninety degrees the motion was without interruption, utterly smooth. Out they came, all of them at once, until, balanced perfectly on their tips, they wobbled, hung for a moment, and fell. We stepped back as the paneling pitched forward in slow motion, picking up speed as it came. It landed with the thud of a single piece, not three, and was finally hidden by the cushion of pink insulation that had been its backing. A study in contrast, we stared at ourselves in the glittering mirror.

Joe stood with legs apart, knees bent and fists closed, ready to swing at whatever slimy, red-eyed ghoul might emerge. Next to him Mr. Gillespie stood quivering, gasping for air through bloodless lips in a circle around the black hole that was his mouth. I looked like a park statue whose rigid stone arm was suddenly jerked up like the limb of a puppet when I reached out to pat Mr. Gillespie’s shoulder. I was afraid he might die of shock.

“Don’t worry. Nothing else will happen.”

He managed without words to tell me I was deranged.

“Joe, would you move the paneling, please?”

I had to get closer to prove my eyes had not deceived me.

Mr. Gillespie began a sidestep out of the room.

“It’s all right,” I assured him. “We’re safe. At least for now.” I felt like I was on intimate terms with this thing. One glimpse had told me a lot.

“Safe?” he croaked. “Safe? Listen, you’re right, okay? There’s a ghost here. Those screws... we’ll shut the place up, that was a good idea you had. If they don’t listen — better yet, I won’t ask. We’ll just do it. We’ll seal the door. Joe, be here tomorrow. Wait, it’s Sunday. Never mind, come anyway. We’ll use plywood, then sheet-rock. We’ll spackle, paint it over. Nobody will know there’s a unit here...”

He was babbling. Joe, to his credit, had responded to my request and slid the paneling aside until I had a path to the mirror. He was now rolling up the insulation, sticky side inward. He was the kind of man who did what could be done, who’d plug holes in the roof with gum if it was all he had.