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

It was visually oriented. It had probably never been threatened, never known fear. I hoped it had never seen itself.

I cannot rationally defend the plan. Maybe it was a spirit that had no substance to reflect. Or if it had, maybe it would use the method it used on humans and attempt to beautify its own reflection. But if it had a form — and I prayed it was a massive one — it would surely see a difference at once, perceive a being unlike any seen before. An enemy. At which point maybe it would adopt a posture of threat, an attitude reflected back as a real adversary. A deadly foe.

That was where the plan ended. I had no idea what would happen next. If it worked, would a demon jump out of the mirror to attack? And find nothing but old glass? Would I have let loose a creature from Hell? Common sense said it could not escape, that if it could, it would have done so long ago. Did I say common sense? There was no sense to the plan, really, far less any that could be described as common, for if the creature wanted to fight and could not escape, how would it vent its rage? And of course if it realized that its adversary was only an illusion, the result would be utter failure. I guess I hoped the sight of itself would induce a heart attack first.

My reason had obviously died with Gary, but in all that I did not understand, could not fathom, maybe there was a factor that would allow us to win. If not, human beings would be massacred forever.

The worst part was not being able to tell whether anything was happening at all. How would I know? And how long would it take to find out? Days? Years?

It turned out to be hours. It was about midnight.

I had fallen asleep on the sofa. The windows were open, and sirens woke me up. And then the telephone. Mr. Gillespie was spewing obscenities on the other end. When I spoke, he blubbered in confusion. Neighbors were calling everybody, he said. Him, the police, management. If I was here, then who was upstairs? What were they complaining about? He was coming over. He would call Joe. Not to worry. He had already thought of a few things that could have dislodged the screws like that. I hung up on him and used the stairs instead of the elevator.

The hall was almost crowded. Neighbors stood staring toward the apartment. Two puzzled cops stood at the door.

“It’s my apartment,” I said as I approached. “What’s going on?” I put my hand in my pocket. The key was still there.

“You tell us,” one of them smiled. “Somebody said he saw smoke, somebody else heard something — he’s not sure what — and another smelled something peculiar. Nothing like first-hand, eyewitness accounts. Shall we go in and find out?”

“No,” I said.

His grin disappeared. I didn’t score points with that word, but I couldn’t let them get hurt.

“It’s not safe,” I added.

He looked at me suspiciously. “And why would that be?”

An elderly woman in a bathrobe answered from her doorway.

“Because that’s the place all those people got murdered, that’s why! There’s probably another maniac loose in there.” She slammed the door and slid her safety bolts loudly.

It took awhile to refresh their memories about the history of the apartment. I didn’t mind when amusement reappeared. I wished they’d laugh and leave.

And then we heard a faint tinkling of glass followed by a whoosh, like wind whipping up. A sickening stench crept from under the door. Something was happening.

Mr. Gillespie came out of the elevator fussing with the waistline of his pants. One shoelace was untied, and he had forgotten to put on a belt. He was accompanied by Joe, solid and practical in T-shirt and jeans. They were halfway down the hall when I felt the floor shudder beneath my feet. We all looked down, but it ended so quickly it was almost as if it hadn’t happened.

“What is it, vandals?” asked Mr. Gillespie.

As if in answer, the door shook on its hinges. A crash came from within and then another. The neighbors vanished. The cops stepped back and drew their guns, probably expecting a gang of thieves to come charging out. Mr. Gillespie began to walk backward. Only Joe came forward.

I pulled out my key. It was my plan after all. I had a right to witness the result. I slipped it into the lock and turned the knob. It was wrenched inward and me with it.

I gripped the doorknob with both hands as air with the windspeed of a hurricane took me to my knees. A stink fouler than the depths of a hundred sewers burned my mouth and stung my eyes. It turned thick and black and wet, filling my lungs like rushing swamp water. Crashes came from ahead where one piece of glass after another was being hurled as if a creature the size of a mythical dragon were pulling itself apart piece by piece to vanquish an enemy who refused to surrender. And above it all, with it all, was a grinding shriek of such pitch I felt my eardrums stretched like balloons and about to explode. Sightless and gagging, clutching desperately at the knob, I felt myself dragged inexorably into the whirling cesspool. I was about to die. If that was the price, it was worth it. A vile beast was dying, too. I had won.