Eisoptrophobia

"The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own."

I said it quietly, almost nonchalantly. It was a sentence and a sentiment that sounded insane; I was guessing Killaine had heard plenty of those. He was a psychiatrist after all, and the grey in his hair told me how many decades he'd been at it.

Killaine smiled, very impersonal, very professional. I admired that, though I could feel my face getting red.

"A reflection that wasn't your own," Killaine repeated--not so much a question as tasting the words in his mouth, running his tongue over them. I nodded. I did my best not to look down or away as I did. "Was it-- someone you knew, perhaps?"

"I don't think so," I replied, shifting about in the chair. The faux-foam scrunched up and whined under me, and one of the small screws I'd had a hell of a time putting in during assembly jiggled about. "I mean-- when you're dreaming, you know, it's said that 'every face is one you've seen when you're awake,' but I didn't recognize him."

Killaine nodded, watching me politely.

"I mean," I continued--was it a trick all psychiatrists knew, not to keep speaking, so that you'd spill your guts more freely?--"I was also, like, six, so my memory was pretty hazy besides which kinds of snack foods I liked."

Killaine laughed along with me, then sat back and pursed his lips. "It's certainly a weird thing to see, especially if the dream was as mundane as you mentioned."

"Yeah; everything was just-- same old, same old. House was the same; sunny afternoon; parents out doing something or other."

"Sunny afternoon but you wanted to brush your teeth?" Killaine grinned, exposing his own pearly whites. "That's a very uncommon six-year-old!"

"It's dream logic; what can I tell you?" I laughed. He smiled, and I could see why my doctor had so highly venerated him. We'd been chatting all of ten minutes, but I was starting to relax. The internet connection was steady--the headphones were comfortable on my head--I was able to hide the "self-view" of my camera to hide my own disheveled hair. Killaine's camera was decent--his audio quality was very nice. It clipped here and there, but I'd expected much worse from a virtual visit.

"I can see how it'd be a shock," Killaine said, sobering up again to his professionally inquisitive calm, "and at such a young age, I think I'd be just as afraid of mirrors too."

"Well, I--" I finally looked away, sighing. The stack of books on my desk met my gaze; pulpy horrors and comic anthologies. I didn't want to tell him that's what I spent my time reading; it was hard enough being taken seriously about this. "There was more to the dream. A lot more."

"Ah," Killaine nodded, tilting his head up slightly and breathing in. Listening. Watching.

"I was at home, and brushing my teeth," I said, glancing back at the laptop screen but settling in on his tie rather than his blue eyes. "I'd already started; toothbrush in mouth, trying to remember not to rush like Mom always groused about. I looked up at the mirror, because what else do you really do while brushing your teeth? I could look out down the stairs to the door if I wanted, but--I don't know--it's easier shutting the door when you brush your teeth. If you're home alone, I mean. It just feels--"

Killaine hadn't moved an inch; hadn't uttered a sound. I could see him blink once, twice, in my peripheral vision. I paused and let out my breath, gulping the spit in my mouth, feeling my ears flatten back against my skull. Christ, I felt like an idiot.

"I just mean, it feels 'safer' to shut the door, or at least not look around. I didn't shut the door in my dream, though."

Killaine nodded politely.

"But I looked up at the mirror, for something to pass the time. It was normal too: light above it, shower curtain on the side, the white wall opposite in view. I was too short to see into it; it was just one of those tiny medicine-cabinet ordeals. But there was someone in it."

"Someone standing in the bathroom with you?" Killaine interrupted in a soft voice.

"No," I said, my eyebrows furrowing together. "Not-- Not 'with me.' That's the weird part; I mean, the first weird part. It was a man in his twenties or thirties--long curly hair, kind of pale, tall--and he distinctly wasn't there with me. He was standing at the mirror--almost pressed up against the darn thing--but he wasn't in the same room with me. It was like--"

I stopped, searching for the word. Killaine had the experience to let me.

"Like he was on the other side of it," I finished. I let out a hum of breath, glancing around and finding my water bottle. I took a swig from it, trying not to let the shiver run down my spine. Killaine nodded sympathetically.

"And then what happened?"

"Well," I said, looking at his stare and then up at the wall over the laptop screen, "I took a step back. I was scared, because you don't really expect that to happen, unless you know you're dreaming, and I didn't. The man was staring at me: he was staring with these huge, round eyes--bulging, frog eyes--and saying something. I don't even remember if he had a neck or a body; he was so close to the glass, and screaming something I couldn't hear at me. Staring directly down at me. I didn't think he was-- was really evil, or out to get me, or something, but he was intense. So I fled the bathroom."

Killaine blinked again, glancing down away from his screen. Either he'd gotten a notification from his phone, he needed to take a note, or he was faking something to cut me some much-appreciated slack.

"I got out to the hall," I continued, speaking slow and calm. It was almost a customer-service voice: something to get through this necessary section of story without losing my cool. "I knew I was home alone, so I didn't try to call for my parents or anything. I'm pretty sure I still had my toothbrush kidnapped in my mouth. I didn't even think about running to my room, either: I sprinted down the stairs to the front door. You'll call me predictable, I'm sure, but the damn thing wouldn't budge--at least, I seemed to have forgotten how in God's name to get a grip on a doorknob to turn it."

I let out a weak chuckle. Killaine humored me with a smile.

"And then I heard something," I said. My voice was getting softer and softer, and I looked up at the ceiling a moment, pausing. Gulping again. I wanted to take another drink of water but I didn't feel thirsty. My stomach was getting hot, and my throat felt tight when I breathed in. It was all so ridiculous! "I heard something upstairs."

"What did you hear?" Killaine asked in that same, gently impersonal voice. I looked back towards him on the screen--challenged myself to smile directly into his gaze.

"I don't really remember. I would guess it was a creaking sound, or straining pipes or wood or something like that. One of those typical 'haunted house' vibes, you know?" I chuckled, and this time Killaine didn't smile, waiting for me to go on. "But either way, I looked around, back upstairs. That's what really-- really did it, for me."

Killaine waited. My laptop was purring gently on the desk. If I listened really hard, I could hear the thrum of white noise filling the headphones. Besides that, it was deathly quiet.

"There was-- someone there," I said. I couldn't keep my voice loud this time. I couldn't hide the tension in my spine, or keep my gaze from wandering aimlessly away. "There was someone in the bathroom. But that's not-- not the right word. There was something in the bathroom. It was a man, or at least, had the build of one. It was completely covered, head to toe, in black silk; silk that billowed off of it as if the bathroom window was open and letting in a summer breeze. Absolutely nothing was visible under the silk: its arms, its legs, its hands, its feet--all covered. Its face. Its neck; if it had hair, or eyes, or anything. It was all-- black silk. And it was tall: when it came out, it stood up and eclipsed the ceiling light."

"Sorry--" Killaine interrupted. "When it 'came out?' What do you mean?"

I took another sip of water. I took a deep breath. I stared at the humming computer screen. Why do we prolong a moment so damn long when we want to just be done with it already?!

"When I looked back upstairs," I said finally, "I-- It wasn't just standing there. It was in the process of coming out. From the bathroom mirror. It was crouched, and had gotten one leg out on the sink; one arm out to clutch at the wall. And as I watched, it pushed itself out: it stepped down off the sink--or, fell, or glided, or something--and stood upright.

"And then it looked at me. It turned its black-silk head and looked downstairs at me. And then it started to walk out of the bathroom."

I met Killaine's gaze again. The psychiatrist's brow had furrowed, like mine, and his blue eyes blinked once, twice, waiting for more. He took an audibly sharp breath, nodded slightly to himself, and then looked down at his desk again.

"And then what?"

"And then nothing," I said, relaxing as best I could. My stomach was a shoestring some idiot child had pulled too tight. "I woke up. I was sweating all over; it's funny, watching things like 'The Simpsons' where the characters wake up in that huge, animated scream. I had just the opposite. I woke up and wanted to call out for my parents--wanted to climb out of bed and run to them--but I couldn't make a sound. I don't even remember if I sat upright. I just laid there, sweating."

Killaine tilted his head.

"Did you know, when you were awake, that it was a dream?"

I nodded. "I knew it consciously. But I-- I guess some part of me thought that if I went out to my parents room, or moved at all, I'd see the bathroom light come on and it'd be that thing coming out of the mirror."

"Did you think your parents could've kept you safe, if that did happen? If you'd ran to them?"

I blinked, then slowly shook my head. "I don't think anything would've kept me safe from it except getting outside and running like hell. And even then--"

"Even then?"

"Well," I said, leaning back and sighing inwardly at my chair's creaks. "The world has a lot of mirrors to crawl out of."

Killaine smiled sympathetically, but this one felt directed at me, not shared with me. "Did you ever tell your parents about your dream?"

I shook my head no. "I haven't told anybody. I haven't even written it down for myself, which I know sometimes therapists tell you to do, to get it out away from you. I just-- I mean; I told my PCP generally about the phobia, and she referred me to talk to you about it since it was a concern, but--"

"But?"

I took a deep breath. The knot wasn't going away. That was an odd thing; I thought it was supposed to, after you'd confronted fears. But, after all, Killaine and I were still digging through the valley of it.

"But it seemed too powerful to talk about. Like, if I did write it down, or tell it to someone, it'd be like acknowledging that I'd seen it crawling out. Like it'd have some traction--some ground to stand on--to really come for me."

And now I've told you.

Killaine frowned. "So what'd you do about mirrors, then? You just live with being afraid of them?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "It's really weird: I look in them a lot. All the time, when I'm brushing my teeth, or whatever. Just not in my eyes. And not in the background, if the door's open and I can see into the hall. Down the hall if something's coming. It's another reason to close the door. I'll stare into it, because then I see nothing's changed. The worst is trying to shower, though--the new apartment has a sliding glass door instead of a curtain, and the mirror's opposite. In my old home, I used to always smile directly at myself when I got in the shower--to see myself smiling back, because I had some silly thought that 'then the mirror-me won't come out and come after me!' or something like that. Then I'd quickly duck into the tub and pull the curtain firmly in place. But with the sliding glass doors, I always get to see myself shower. And the steam obscures it; makes it just a shape, moving slowly, glancing over its shoulder at me through the glass. It's all so stupid; it's all insane. It's crazy."

"A phobia's a phobia," Killaine said gently. "I've heard plenty--and, I think, in this case, you've given me a very good understanding where it came from. And, I want to thank you for sharing that with me: I could see that it was hard to do."

My breath fluttered in my chest, and my teeth chattered once before I clamped them down. I nodded, feeling my face twitch, feeling heat well up under my eyes.

"Fear is an interesting, weird, deeply illogical part of the brain," Killaine continued in his easy tones. "We're hardwired to be alert, going back to our hunter-gatherer days. Just like anger and aggression; we're getting different, primal paths of the brain involved here. Things don't have to 'make sense' to be a threat; it's a nervous-system response more than something you can rationalize away. Especially if you're a child when that image sticks in your mind: a defenseless, tiny, weak, vulnerable child. All alone in a big house."

I nodded along.

"This phobia of yours," Killaine said, "how much swaying power does it have on your life? I mean, besides showering, which is important, of course--we need to get clean, after all!--what else is affected?"

"Well--" I said, then paused, glancing around. I thought-- no; that was on Killaine's end. He had adjusted in his own chair, causing that brushing noise-- "It's really all-encompasing, when it comes to reflections. I can't stand looking at dark screens, or big sheet-glass window displays, or rear-view mirrors in cars. Puddles and that kind are a little easier, since they ripple and break things up. But normal reflections-- I just get that same panic, that I have to look for the thing that's out of place, or else--"

"Or else?"

"Or else it gets me. Something-- I don't know. I don't know. I don't look at them as a result; I try and look away quickly, or control where I look. Make myself not give in to panic. It's all so dumb."

"It's not dumb," Killaine said patiently. "Like I said: it's a fear response. And you have reason to be afraid; your dream left a lifelong impression. Dreams are such strange things--all metaphors and stress decompressing--but the imagery they get reinterpreted into feels so vivid and so real; and, in this case, was enough to be traumatizing."

I nodded along again, feeling tired now. I didn't feel dumb anymore, just tired. At least Killaine didn't think I was a basket case.

"Tell me: are you alone in the apartment right now?"

I nodded.

"Would you mind going to the bathroom? Don't bring the computer with, just go to the bathroom now."

My nerves started to play the maracas, jangling about from my cerebellum all the way to my calves. "And do what?"

"Go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. Keep the door open. Look at your reflection: look into the eyes. Look down the hallway. Lean in; crane your head around and look as hard as you can. Make silly faces--try and startle your reflection if you want. But hold eye contact and look at every detail."

My hands were melting with sweat. My back felt like a punching bag.

"Do you think you can do that, for me?" Killaine asked in that gentle voice, those unwavering blue eyes.

"Throwing me in the deep end all at once?" I asked, hearing how strained my voice was. Killaine smiled.

"I think you'd benefit from it a lot more than any medication I could provide," he said, and that was that. Stomach threatening to drop out entirely, I got up. Maybe it was a good thing I was going to the bathroom anyway.

I took my headphones off, then turned and walked away from my desk and around my bed. I opened the door, went out into the hall. It was afternoon; the light was off, but sunlight filtered in from the windows in the living room down at the end. It was cramped, but pleasant, this apartment of mine. First one I'd had since finally moving out, after college. My parents were glad I was finally getting some independence: I was trying hard not to go to bed with the screaming meemies after brushing my teeth. I got to the bathroom and turned the light on.

The mirror in there was bigger than the one at my parents' house. It went down almost to the sink, and across three or four feet. It reflected the shower--the towel hanging over the sliding glass doors obscuring the showerhead--the pink tiles, the sink. I leaned in. It reflected the floor, the dust on the floor, the radiator, the door, the hallway next to me. I leaned closer. It reflected the hallway down to the bright living room, it reflected the toilet seat. And most of all it reflected me.

Me.

My teeth were pressed together so hard I think my next appointment should be with a dentist. I stared at my face in the glass.

Stared deep into it, nose almost pressed to it.

Stared into the eyes, where another, small me was pressing up, staring back out.

Staring out.

All at once, I stuck my tongue out, raised my hands, blew a raspberry. The reflection did the same at once. I winked at it; it did the same. I flipped it off; it did the same. I grinned at it and put my hands on my hips; it did the same. I searched its eyes and it searched mine, both of us uncertain. Then we burst into laughter.

But it wasn't me. It was my reflection; it was some separate thing other than me. Something wtih my face. Something that grinned and smiled and watched me cautiously under that grin, because I was watching it and feeling how cold I was under my smile. Something that stared out from a sheet of glass--from behind that sheet of glass.

Maybe-- maybe that was okay. Maybe smiling at myself all these years had calmed it down. Maybe the space behind the glass was just drywall and dark cobwebs beneath. Maybe. I turned, and it turned, and we both left the bathroom.

I went back to my bedroom.

Paused in the doorway.

"Oh, son of a gun," I muttered. The computer screen was dark; the battery had probably died. I had the habit of keeping the brightness too high and forgetting to plug it in. I sat down absentmindedly in front of it again, clicking the keys. Surprisingly, the screen flashed on, coming out of sleep mode.

A frown crossed my face.

"Dr. Killaine?"

My phone buzzed on the desk next to me. I glanced down at it.

PLEASE CONFIRM: APPOINTMENT RESCHEDULED WITH DR. CHAUNCEY KILLAINE FOR NEXT FRIDAY AT 3:20pm. TYPE "C" TO CONFIRM, "X" TO CANCEL.

"What?" I said to myself. It just happened; the word tumbled out. I was so relaxed now. I picked up my phone.

3:58pm.

Text message: 3:00: "Please log in to your MyHealth Portal now for virtual visit with Dr. CHAUNCEY KILLAINE."

Text message: 3:23: "New MyHealth message: 'Hello. Are you able to log in? CK' "

Text message: 3:35: "New MyHealth message: 'Hello. Will reschedule for next week. Have a good weekend! CK' "

A thumping noise in the apartment. A padded, soft noise, somewhere down the hall. My ear twitched to meet it--my eyes still staring, bewildered, at the phone screen as it gently faded away. The hallway was glowing with the faded summer afternoon in my peripheral vision. My eyes twitched a moment; my nerves picking up something out of place. Something in my fingers, clenched. My toothbrush. The world dried to a snapshot where nothing moved.

Then, deep in the unseen apartment, rustling fabric.

I looked into the computer screen, where I'd told Killaine my story. It had been so long since I'd even remembered those details, besides the little habits they'd left with me. It was safe to tell about it now, in adult life, where nightmares passed by easy in the daylight. But the computer's light now faded, leaving a reflection staring back at me. One with huge, frightened eyes. Long curly hair spilled down from the man's unshowered face. The eyes were turning froggy very fast.

Footfalls came swiftly from the hallway, along with the growing sound of silk against silk.

My reflection screamed, but I couldn't hear it. It was trapped behind the glass, after all. Trapped behind the glass.

But staring out at me all the same.