text: There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It came from the first apartment I ever lived in. It was cheap and somehow still furnished. Everything being from the previous tenant, who clearly had a fascination with mirrors. Each room had one, caked in dust older than time itself. There were many shapes and sizes, the largest was in the living room and placed in front of the couch. The smallest a pocket mirror left in the bathroom drawer. All were decorated in brass and carved into intricate patterns of curling ivy. I first noticed the feeling there in that pocket mirror. Staring into its glass I swore I saw myself, but different. Something about it wasn’t right. I couldn't place it then. I started to notice that feeling in each of the mirrors framed with ivy. The one above the dining table killed my appetite, the one in the bathroom watched me as I showered, and the one in the bedroom gave me nightmares. The worst was the one in the living room. It was the most ornate of the mirrors. The frame was enthralling, vines twisting around every inch of it, some leaves twisted in front of the glass, frozen. Whenever I looked into it, that was when that feeling was at its worst. It was so deeply unnerving seeing every inch of me, and not being able to find out why it felt so wrong. After staring into that mirror and soaking in that feeling, I found what wasn’t right. It was the eyes. Not the shape or the color. No. It was the lack of life. Looking into the eyes of another you can tell they are alive, that they in turn can see the life inside you. These eyes were empty. Staring into them felt like staring into the depths of the darkest water. Anything could be hiding just beyond that veil of shadow, and you wouldn’t know until it was too late. I couldn’t stand to look at my reflection after that. I covered every mirror in a thick white sheet, even avoiding any I ran into outside. In those my eyes were normal, yet it only reminded me of the empty ones. I tried to get comfortable living like this, trying to forget why I covered them in the first place. The sheet only did so much. *Tap Tap Tap* The sound called to me on a sleepless night. Harsh light from my phone told me it was three in the morning. I tried to will myself to sleep. Closed my eyes. All I could see was that other pair staring back. I found myself in the kitchen with a glass of water. *Tap Tap Tap* Nothing dripped from the faucet in front of me. Each knob tightly closed. I pushed them further. They creaked and groaned under my hand. I looked up at the mirror, the one in the living room. I could see its sharp edges threatening to rip the sheet. All it would take is the slightest bit of dust and... *Tap Tap Tap* I couldn’t deny it any more. The mirrors, the sound, those eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, I grabbed the sheet gently. I took a breath in, and let it out. Took another in, and let it out. It only made the wait more unbearable. Gently, and slowly, so very slowly, I lifted the sheet. It got caught on one of the leaves as I pulled, making me lose my grip, but it was still enough for me to see. I stared into one eye, empty and cold. That thing stared back half hidden behind the dangling sheet. It had a single finger pressed up against the glass. I watched those eyes look back at me, into me. We stared like that for a long time. Waiting for one of us to do something, anything. It made the first move. Taking that finger off the glass, it reached for the sheet on its side. As it gripped onto the fabric, I could see the shape of its hand press into the sheet on my side. As the sheet fell, I saw the other eye. White, until it rolled back into its proper place. The thing was smiling now, it felt just as hollow as its eyes. The next few moments still aren’t fully clear to me. All I remember were hands pressed to my head, extreme pain, and a shattering sound. The next thing I remembered was being in a hospital bed, police sitting next to me. They had questions about the broken mirrors, the excess amount of blood, and the severed hand. They told me the blood and the hand matched me. Looking down I saw both hands, still securely attached. There is a box in my attic. It’s left alone for the most part. Tucked behind everything else. Still, sometimes I need to remind myself. On those days I go to the attic, take that box from its hiding place, and sit down in a chair across from an old mirror. It’s frame of brass and ivy. For the next few hours, I stare at what’s inside. It still bleeds.