scrutinizing him like a cathedral grotesque.
As if heeding some primordial instruction, the Unnamed moved to the shuttered attic window. Blood roared his ears, his grubby hands began to tremble. Whatever was near him, the Unnamed was suddenly certain, had concealed itself behind the splintery boards of the shutters.
Although part of him wanted to muster courage enough to unveil the shuttered thing, the Unnamed found that his arm refused to obey. His fingers would not grasp the shutter’s latch.
Unexpectedly, a thin wisp of thought crept into the mind of the Unnamed; an insight, an understanding: he was the one who frightened, who watched and skulked and haunted. He was not the one seen, he was invariably the Seer.
Buttressed by this revelation, the Unnamed unlatched the shutters and flung them back from the pane.
The revealed shape was an abomination; a shaggy, wide-eyed thing that was both immediately present and impossibly distant. For a moment the Unnamed wondered if his own madness had managed to imbue some long-neglected nightmare with shape, bulk.
Clearly the apparition was not of nature, not completely, for the Unnamed noticed that he could see through this visitor. The snow-softened contours of the headstones below were visible, resembling the peaks of a miniature mountain range. The moon too shared a portion of its lustre with the sallow flesh of the night-hag’s face, gleaming upon her cheek like an omniscient eye.
To speak? To flee? To banish the haunter with squinted eyes or prayers? The Unnamed could not select his fate, for wonder and dread had gushed up from within him. There was a consummation; a kind of chemical wedding that rendered him as dull and as rigid as petrified wood.
‘Death,’ the Unnamed thought, ‘now . . . unstoppable Death has come . . .’
But a new sensation quickly made it clear that the Unnamed had not expired. Not yet.
He felt himself being encircled by a whirling ring of great force. It spun wildly around him, and around, and around. The Unnamed began to swoon as a sickly vertigo mounted within him. He opened his mouth to scream, halting only when he saw the horror in the glass aping his action; its mouth stretched to an almost absurd degree. This flawless mimicry alerted the Unnamed to the fact that the awful thing in the glass was, naturally, his own reflection.
Whatever relief this realization provided was fleeting. What usurped it was a greasy, upsetting curiosity as the Unnamed began to question if the hag in the pane was an accurate reflection; and if it was, how had he allowed himself to degenerate so drastically during his hibernation? The Unnamed realized how long it been since he had glimpsed himself in water, in a pane of glass, how long since he’d felt the desire to do so.
The balance of that night was spent in a bewildered and prolonged meditation, not only upon the reflection in the glass but also of its many implications. The Unnamed dragged a wobbly pine stool toward the glass and stationed himself there, loitering there until the night slowly immolated in the sky’s eastern furnace of light.
This silent contemplation stretched on until the winter sun died again.
That second nightfall proved to the Unnamed that his sittings were best served by darkness and the wan guttering of a lone candle. These elements united to make the double in the glass appear much more sharply, with all the detail of a portrait from the brush of a master painter.
His eyes burned from strain. The Unnamed squinted to relieve his discomfort, and in doing so discovered an entire galaxy of new possibilities for his meditation. This subtle flex transformed the Unnamed’s image into something monstrous; a mask of unimaginable grotesqueness. When his shudder ebbed, the Unnamed stretched his face until his eyes were wide as twin moons orbiting within their sockets. The reflection looked feral; more rabid hound than human.
Exhaustion was the only thing that
As if heeding some primordial instruction, the Unnamed moved to the shuttered attic window. Blood roared his ears, his grubby hands began to tremble. Whatever was near him, the Unnamed was suddenly certain, had concealed itself behind the splintery boards of the shutters.
Although part of him wanted to muster courage enough to unveil the shuttered thing, the Unnamed found that his arm refused to obey. His fingers would not grasp the shutter’s latch.
Unexpectedly, a thin wisp of thought crept into the mind of the Unnamed; an insight, an understanding: he was the one who frightened, who watched and skulked and haunted. He was not the one seen, he was invariably the Seer.
Buttressed by this revelation, the Unnamed unlatched the shutters and flung them back from the pane.
The revealed shape was an abomination; a shaggy, wide-eyed thing that was both immediately present and impossibly distant. For a moment the Unnamed wondered if his own madness had managed to imbue some long-neglected nightmare with shape, bulk.
Clearly the apparition was not of nature, not completely, for the Unnamed noticed that he could see through this visitor. The snow-softened contours of the headstones below were visible, resembling the peaks of a miniature mountain range. The moon too shared a portion of its lustre with the sallow flesh of the night-hag’s face, gleaming upon her cheek like an omniscient eye.
To speak? To flee? To banish the haunter with squinted eyes or prayers? The Unnamed could not select his fate, for wonder and dread had gushed up from within him. There was a consummation; a kind of chemical wedding that rendered him as dull and as rigid as petrified wood.
‘Death,’ the Unnamed thought, ‘now . . . unstoppable Death has come . . .’
But a new sensation quickly made it clear that the Unnamed had not expired. Not yet.
He felt himself being encircled by a whirling ring of great force. It spun wildly around him, and around, and around. The Unnamed began to swoon as a sickly vertigo mounted within him. He opened his mouth to scream, halting only when he saw the horror in the glass aping his action; its mouth stretched to an almost absurd degree. This flawless mimicry alerted the Unnamed to the fact that the awful thing in the glass was, naturally, his own reflection.
Whatever relief this realization provided was fleeting. What usurped it was a greasy, upsetting curiosity as the Unnamed began to question if the hag in the pane was an accurate reflection; and if it was, how had he allowed himself to degenerate so drastically during his hibernation? The Unnamed realized how long it been since he had glimpsed himself in water, in a pane of glass, how long since he’d felt the desire to do so.
The balance of that night was spent in a bewildered and prolonged meditation, not only upon the reflection in the glass but also of its many implications. The Unnamed dragged a wobbly pine stool toward the glass and stationed himself there, loitering there until the night slowly immolated in the sky’s eastern furnace of light.
This silent contemplation stretched on until the winter sun died again.
That second nightfall proved to the Unnamed that his sittings were best served by darkness and the wan guttering of a lone candle. These elements united to make the double in the glass appear much more sharply, with all the detail of a portrait from the brush of a master painter.
His eyes burned from strain. The Unnamed squinted to relieve his discomfort, and in doing so discovered an entire galaxy of new possibilities for his meditation. This subtle flex transformed the Unnamed’s image into something monstrous; a mask of unimaginable grotesqueness. When his shudder ebbed, the Unnamed stretched his face until his eyes were wide as twin moons orbiting within their sockets. The reflection looked feral; more rabid hound than human.
Exhaustion was the only thing that
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