Storytime Wednesday: The Mirror (part 2) by Dee Brown

Welcome back to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is again Dee Brown, and she brings us part two of her haunting tale, The Mirror.

The Mirror: Part Two

I stood transfixed in front of the mirror. The gray was starting to lighten. I rubbed my eyes, not sure if what I saw was real or imagined. I looked again, and it was dull gray as it was before. Shaking my head I shrugged it off and walked away. When I had reached the doorway I looked back. It was still the same. "I know I saw something", I said to myself.

 

It was getting late and I had things yet to do. So I ended my sleuthing, and headed out. While driving, I kept thinking about the mirror and tried to remember that moment. I even tried to convince myself I hadn't seen anything. But another part of me said otherwise.

That night l drifted off to sleep, and the mirror and that moment played over and over in my dreams. I awoke the next morning and knew then I had to go back to that house. My next day off from work, I planned to take care of a few things, and return to the house once more. Getting an early start would leave me a good part of the afternoon.

I drove up to the house, got out of my old beater and started for the porch. Entering the same way I had before, through a window that had a loose board. Up those rickety stairs I climbed once more. Now in the doorway, I looked to the far part of the room where the mirror stood. Slowly I walked over to it, and stood once more in front of it. For minutes I stared at this non-reflecting glass. Nothing. I must have imagined it, I sighed. As I turned to walk away, the mirror started to lighten again. I stood back, my heart pounding, and frozen to my spot, it continued, till something vague started to appear. It was coming and going. I stayed rooted to my spot. I hadn't imagined anything. This mirror was doing something!

After who knows how much time, still standing in front of the mirror, a fuzzy picture of a woman, was now showing. She appeared to be dressed in clothes fashionable, from perhaps the late twenties or maybe early thirties. Her hair was in a bun and she looked somewhat matronly. Her expression seemed sad and forlorn. Then her lips moved. Her eyes were pleading. It seemed she was saying something. Then the words she seemed to mouth were, Innocent.....innocent!
With that the image disappeared.

I don't know how long it was before I could get my composure, and drink in all I have witnessed. But one thing was certain, a voice from the past was reaching out. But who? Was it the convicted nanny? "Innocent", she had said. It had to be, I thought. Shortly after, I left the house and did some research. I found some old articles on the trial. In one there was a picture of the nanny being lead to courthouse. The picture was the same woman in the mirror.

I took off from work, as I rarely did, and went back to the house. The mirror then told me the rest of the story that day. An image of the the nanny sitting near a bassinet. A man comes in and quickly leans over as if to kiss her. She puts a quivering finger to her lips, as if to say quiet. A moment later the man reaches in the bassinet and begins to shake the baby hard, then drops infant back in bassinet, and stumbles out of the picture. The Nanny rushes to the bassinet, then the image turns to the nanny pointing to something. I follow her gaze, trying to understand where she is pointing to and why. I walk around the room, trying to figure out her message. Then as I step past a part of the floor a piece pops up. I lift it from its spot, and with my flashlight, I point it down where the piece of floor was. I could see what looked like a small book and retrieved it. I carefully open it up. It's old and faded, but the ink legible. After a short spell of reading I realized that what I had was a diary of some kind and it was written by the nanny, whose name was Maggie Doyle

One faded page read, "He forces himself upon me. I try to resist, but he threatens me with ill repercussions. His breath reeks of alcohol. The wife is unknowing, as she sleeps down the hall. It becomes an almost nightly horror. I cry myself to sleep. I am defenseless against this man, and know his wife would never believe my words."

The images became clearer to me. It was another night she tried to resist. He is drunk. Fearful of him awakening the sleeping child she tries to hush him. In his drunken state this angers him. He then picks up the child and shakes him, where the child dies from the trauma. There was no way this poor immigrant woman could prove she was not guilty. Even had the book been revealed, she could not defend herself against his wealth. All she could do was proclaim innocence and take the truth to her grave.

Enough was read to understand the truth, along with the images of the mirror. But even with the truth in hand I could not vindicate this woman, no more than she could have, had she revealed the book herself, I thought. "So why did this image of the past reach out to me?"

I looked up from the book and at the mirror again. The images had vanished. I had the whole story, or at least enough. I went home taking the book with me. As I sat on my bed with the book in my lap, thinking about what I had learned, I began to wonder maybe I could help vindicate her, or try. It would never change what had happened to Maggie, but it would shed new light and present another possibility to the story.

There was a museum in town that had, among other things, a section on the history of our area. The Museum director there, Mrs Hayes, might know what to do with the book. Of course I could never tell her the whole story of how I come to have the book in my possession. But I was sure I could think of something. I then decided that was what I would do, and gently placed the old book in my end table for the time being.

For the next couple of days, it still haunted my thoughts. And for some reason was still drawn to the old house and the mirror." Why?" I asked myself. I knew I was still curious if the mirror would still do anything else, and thought maybe that was it. So as I did before, I made another trip. This time as, I stood in the doorway, I saw the mirror laying face down, and shards of glass were strewn about; I righted it. The mirror was now devoid of glass.

Maybe the mirror had done what it had intended. To let at least one person know the truth of their innocence so their soul could rest in peace, or maybe hope that the one person reached would let the truth be known to others. I knew now it was time to take that book to Mrs Hayes.


Author Bio:

Dee Brown is a Jersey native, who now resides in the South Western part of Kentucky. This mother of two, has always had the passion for writing stories and poetry, and only up to recently has learned to share that love of writing.

Storytime Wednesday: The Mirror (part1) by Dee Brown

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.

Today's guest writer is Dee Brown, and she brings us the two part tale, the haunting story of, The Mirror.  

The Mirror:  Part One

The old house creaked and groaned as I slowly moved about. It had been empty for as long as I could remember. I was always curious about this decaying old Victorian home. It sat apart from many of the homes in the nearby community. It was reminiscent of a bygone era. One could smell history in the air, or was it just the musty smell, of being closed up for so many years?

What little I knew of this house was from a couple of elderly locals who still lived in the area. It had belonged to a wealthy family named O'Sullivan, who attained their wealth, in the hotel industry. As with most affluent families, they had a cook, housekeeper, groundskeeper, and a nanny for their only child, a son, named Henry. Unlike most Irish families, the O’Sullivans only had one child. Due to a medical condition, Mrs O'Sullivan could not bear anymore children. The O'Sullivans came to the United States, as Irish immigrants, in the early 1900's with hopes, dreams, and determination. And to make this country their new home.

They worked hard, and rose in the social ladder. Soon they became successful, and life was good. It was time to move from the ghetto like neighborhood, that most immigrants were bound too, and live as most of their social status did. But unlike many of their counterparts, they were still humble and never forgot their roots. A mansion in all its glory would not be reflective of their humbleness; however a large home would still be in fitting with their status. This old home was then built.

As a youth, I was always intrigued with the house, but my parents warned me to stay away. I was never really told why, except that it had a bad history. Of course as a youngster that only made me more curious, and one day, I rode my bike near the long driveway that lead to the house. My mother happened to be driving by, coming back from a store, and caught me. I got a tongue lashing soon afterwards. "Kara if I catch you trying to sneak over there one more time, you will be grounded for a week!" I never tried that again.

Some years later, now as an adult, I had the opportunity to find out a few things when speaking with one of the elderly residents of our community. I asked her what my parents, now deceased, might have meant. She relayed bits and pieces. Some of which I knew, and others I didn't. "Apparently even riches, could not shelter anyone from the pain that life can sometimes bring," she began. And sometimes those riches can change a humble person. She then started to recite from her memory as a young woman. She didn't recall all the details, but remembered the trial of the nanny, who was accused, of killing their son. The nanny was found guilty, and went to prison where sometime later, she committed suicide. She proclaimed her innocence up to that day. And never said more. Mrs O'Sullivan took the child's death the hardest it seemed. Mr O'Sullivan spent most of his time either submerged in his work, or in his office behind locked doors, rarely talking to anyone. Because Mrs O'Sullivan never got over losing her son, she soon became depressed, and despondent. Household staff and grounds keepers were let go. Everything began to deteriorate. And with it so did the lives of its occupants. Mrs O'Sullivan as the story goes, jumped out a second story window. Her neck was broken, as her sprits. Sometime afterwards the house was boarded up. Mr O'Sullivan left and was never heard from again. Some say he ended up in a mental ward, others say he went off to kill himself out of guilt. There are some who even say that her ghost still haunts the grounds. I thought about what the elderly woman had said and still couldn't understand my parents reasoning. Then I surmised maybe it wasn't really the history of the house, but the thought of my getting hurt in it. Either way I was still intrigued, with the old place. In some way even drawn to it.

I continued to walk around the house, with a flashlight by my side and what light streamed in from some of the now missing and cracked boards. Through the cobwebs, I could see where pictures must have hung. Carved moldings all around the living room. What were properly beautiful wooden floors were now laden with dust and rotting in places. On the far side I could see a huge brick fireplace, with ashes still strewn about in its pit, from the last fire. As I walked about, I could imagine the house stood in some glory at one time. I peered into other rooms in the lower half of the house, and could see that for the time period, it was good living. I then carefully climbed the stairs to the upper half of the house, brushing cobwebs, along the way. Some stairs didn't look as though they would hold me, even though I was of small stature. So I held on to the banister that too seemed wobbly, and carefully skipped steps, till I had made it to the top.

At the top of the stairs I could see a long hallway that stretched in both directions. I made a right turn, and was led to what I believed was a bedroom. Another room nearby, much larger than the last appeared as though it too may have been a bedroom. I surmised the smaller one might have been their son's. On down the other end, there was a room with two large doors that swung in opposite directions. The lever handles on the door, appeared to be made of gold, long since tarnished. It was a very large room, with big windows. This most likely was Mr O'Sullivan's office. Further down the hall, led me to another room, small, with flowered wallpaper, that was now faded and hanging. I know Nannies lived with their charges back then, and figured that this might had been her room. Off to the corner, my eye caught, what looked like something covered, in a sheet, now gray with dust.

So far this was the only thing I had found in the house, and with curiosity, I stepped over and slowly pulled the sheet off. After choking from the dust, I looked up to see what removing the sheet had revealed. Before me was a standing wooden framed mirror. It cast no reflection, as the glass was as gray as the dust that clung to the sheet that covered it. I stared at it for a few moments, and then proceeded to walk away, when something started to change in the mirror...

TO BE CONTINUED NEXT WEDNESDAY...

Author Bio:

Dee Brown is a Jersey native, who now resides in the South Western part of Kentucky. This mother of two, has always had the passion for writing stories and poetry, and only up to recently has learned to share that love of writing.