The Locksmith’s Mirror

The Locksmith’s Mirror

It came from a house that shouldn’t be there

no number, no road

just turned up in the van, boxed like meat

smelled of metal and rot

A mirror, square

black-backed

cold to the touch, even in the sun

There was a note

scribbled fast

do not look too long

I looked

of course I did

It showed my shop, same as always

but the walls were wrong

like someone had peeled the paint from the inside

The key came with it

long, twisted, sharp at the tip

not brass, not silver

not anything I knew

I don’t know why I turned it in the air

but I did

and something behind the glass shuddered awake

It smiled with no mouth

it watched with no face

but I felt it

felt it crawl out and sit behind my skin

The lights flickered

not out

just nervous

like they’d seen what I hadn’t yet

That night I locked the shop twice

but still I heard footsteps

slow, soft, wet

The mirror called

not with sound

with memory

It showed me things I’d buried

things I’d sealed and soldered

the girl in the red coat

the cellar

the teeth in the jar

It wanted me to confess

I spat at it

it licked the glass from the inside

At 3am the mirror changed again

I saw myself asleep

but I wasn’t

I don’t sleep anymore

It grinned with my eyes

then reached forward

and knocked

The sound didn’t come from the glass

it came from my door

And the key turned

from the inside

I didn’t open that door

I swear I didn’t

but the air changed

thicker, wrong

like breathing through a wet cloth

Something moved past me

not seen

but the shadow dragged behind

and stayed

The mirror went black

just black

like it had swallowed the room whole

even my reflection was gone

I heard the rasp

metal on metal

the sound of a key turning slow

inside bone

My hands twitched

not mine anymore

they moved without asking

reached for tools I didn’t remember owning

A hook

a blade

a jar with a name I’d scratched off

The mirror came back to life

this time it showed my shop again

but everything was reversed

and something hung from the ceiling

It was me

but not quite

mouth sewn shut

eyes wide open

and a key pushed through each palm like nails

I stepped back

the shop didn’t

It closed in

walls breathing

floor cracking

keys ringing like bells in some language I never learnt

Then came the voice

not from the glass

not from me

from the place in between

“You took the mirror”

I wanted to run

but I knew where the door was now

I’d seen it in the glass

and it wasn’t behind me anymore

I don’t remember walking

but I got to the back

to the shelf I never dust

where I keep the little blue bottle

glass worn thin

label long gone

Holy water

not church-bought

not fancy

just clean

just mine

I’d used it before

on rings

on clocks

on things that held whispers

I unscrewed the lid

the smell hit sharp, like stone and storm

no prayers

no chants

I just tipped it on the mirror slow

One drop hit the glass

and the whole thing screamed

Not sound

not air

it bent the room around it

like it didn’t want to die

It cracked

not once

but over and over

like something inside was punching to get out

The water spread

fast

hungry

and the glass gave way

not shattered

collapsed

like it knew it had lost

The frame burned cold

then nothing

no shadow

no keys turning

no footsteps

Just quiet

I swept it up by hand

no gloves

no fear

wrapped it in the same cloth it came in

and threw it in the canal at dawn

No more mirror

no more knocking

just my shop

my tools

and the blue bottle back on the shelf

waiting to be filled again.