The Other Side Of The Glass
“Beware that you do not lose the substance by grasping at the shadow.”
~ Aesop
1
The annoying buzz of the 6am alarm on his smartphone pulled Stephen’s consciousness kicking and screaming into the waking world. He had been out late last night with friends and knew when he went to bed three hours ago that he would regret the previous evening's bad decisions. His eyes were still closed when he reached over to his nightstand and fumbled for the phone. He grabbed it and popped one eye open long enough to see the screen and dismiss the alarm. He dropped the phone back on the nightstand and he lay there on his back struggling to find the will to get up.
He wasn’t hung over. The decision to not drink was the only good decision he’d made last night. He had been up for 21 hours straight. He had worked all day and when his friends begged him to go out he gave only the slightest protest before agreeing.
At 37, he was finally starting to accept that he couldn’t do it anymore. His late night carousing days were quickly coming to an end. The responsibilities of adulthood were seeing to that.
He had to admit that he didn’t have as much to deal with as some. His sister had two kids and had divorced their father almost two years ago. They shared custody of his nieces 50/50, but still, being a single parent and running a household isn’t easy.
No, he didn’t have it too rough. Good job. He travelled a fair amount. He owned a modest two bedroom apartment in one of the oldest buildings in the city. He had a nice car, but given that his studio was only two blocks away he walked to work most everyday. Always the same routine: Up at 6 AM. Shower. Get dressed. Hit the coffee shop on the corner for a cup of dark roast and a breakfast sandwich. Then it was on to the studio where he would work for four or five hours. Then he would head to lunch at one of the numerous restaurants that were within a couple of blocks. After lunch it was back to the studio for another three to four hours and then he would head home. There, he ate dinner and then sat in front of the television for a couple of hours while he doodled in his sketch pad.
Last night he threw routine out the window and now he was wishing he’d said no. As a self-employed artist, he could certainly make the decision to stay in bed… Take the day off.
No, that wouldn’t be right.
That was what the weekend was for. His grandfather would always tell him, “Stephen, a good solid routine is the foundation to build a life on.” Stephen had always followed that advice and so far it had served him well.
Stephen sat on the edge of the bed and glanced over at his phone. He picked it up and activated the screen. Just as he had feared, he was now a solid 15 minutes behind. He dropped the phone back onto the nightstand, got up and shuffled to the bathroom. He started the shower. The white noise of the water streaming out of the shower head filled his ears, drowning out his need for routine and replacing it with his body’s need for a soothing hot shower. In the dim overhead light of the bathroom, Stephen looked at himself in the mirror and rubbed his hands over his face and up through his hair. His mother was always telling him that it was too long. Sandy brown, thick, and a little greasy from not being washed in a couple of days, it was starting to grey here and there. The silver strands had become more noticeable in the last few months. His skin was pale. He needed to shave.
He stared at his reflection for a moment longer as steam from the shower started to swirl around him. His reflection blinked. Stephen’s whole body convulsed with shock, his heart suddenly pounding. He nearly fell backwards into the shower before recovering and stepping back towards the mirror. He stared at his reflection again. It wasn’t possible. You cannot see yourself blink. He purposefully blinked and noted that he couldn’t see his reflection do the same. He was exhausted. That was it. With only three hours of sleep his mind was playing tricks on him. Stephen rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to wipe away the exhaustion. He looked at himself in the mirror one last time before turning to get into the shower. His reflection lingered for only a moment, grinned with wry amusement, and then did the same.
Showered, he skipped the usual shave. He got dressed quickly, grabbed his bag, left his apartment and hurried out of the building. He stepped out of the front door of the building and stood for a moment while his tired eyes adjusted to the sun soaked morning. He was now 30 minutes behind schedule. This knowledge made his stomach quake with anxiety. He took a deep breath and he turned and made his way down the street. He turned back only briefly. The Fulmer Building, a 10-story Gothic revival stone structure loomed over the street. Its shadow swallowed the surrounding buildings.
Stephen went about his normal routine. However, he could not stop thinking about the incident in the mirror that morning. It ate away at his concentration. He skipped lunch to make up for lost productivity. On the way home, he stopped for Chinese take out. Kung Pao Chicken.
The fourth floor hallway that led to his apartment was eerily quiet. He made it to his door and as he was getting his keys out of his pocket the wall lights flickered and went out. Footsteps approached. He could hear and feel breathing behind him. As the key slid into the lock, the lights came back on and a shadow cast on his door that must have been from someone behind him. He whirled around dropping his food. Nobody was there. He looked in both directions down the hallway and there was nothing. The hallway was silent. Stephen picked up his food, which thankfully hadn’t spilled, and went inside, double checking to make sure the door was locked securely.
The rest of the night went by quietly. He cleaned up and headed to his room. As he stepped through the bedroom threshold he turned and looked down the hall to the living room. The lights were off, but the moon was casting shadows deep into his apartment. Suddenly the shadows began to expand and fill in, slowly growing and creeping down the hall toward him. He let out a sharp yell as the grim darkness swallowed him.
He woke up a couple of hours later on the floor just inside his bedroom. His clothes were soaked in sweat, his muscles and joints were stiff. Painfully, he got to his feet, stripped naked, and collapsed into bed. Sleep for the rest of the night was restless and plagued with nightmares.
2
Stephen woke suddenly and sat bolt upright in bed. The realization hit him that his alarm never went off. His mobile phone was dead. He never plugged it in. He assumed it was morning as sunlight leaked into the room from between the slats of the window blinds. The clock on the wall appeared to have stopped at 3:00. He hadn’t looked at it before he went to bed the previous night so he had no way of telling if it had stopped at 3 PM yesterday or 3 AM that morning.
Stephen walked over and reached up to take the clock off the wall. It started moving. The hands rotated clockwise, stopping at 9:14. The second hand began to tick forward. He ran out to the living room and looked at the clock on the DVR under his television. 9:14 AM.
He couldn’t believe what he just witnessed. He didn't have time to think about it and rushed through his morning routine. A hasty shower, brushing his teeth, dressing in whatever clothes he could quickly pull out of his closet.
Stephen stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his building and turned to look up at the large front window of his apartment on the fourth floor. He caught a glimpse of a shadow behind the curtain. It quickly disappeared and he decided that he must not have seen anything.
The entire day was off. While he didn’t have any client meetings scheduled, Stephen was still angry at himself for the loss of productivity. Angry enough that he skipped lunch again.
He walked home hungry, still mad at himself. He stopped at the Chinese place around the corner from his apartment. More Kung Pao Chicken. He made it home two hours later than normal. The autumn daylight was gone and a full moon loomed over the building. It looked larger than normal.
The walk up to his floor was harder than usual. His joints felt as if he’d aged 40 years in a day. His muscles screamed. An early bed time would have to be in order for that night. He stepped off the stairs into the fourth floor hallway. He heard the faint sound of a baby crying. Nobody on his floor had children. The crying intensified as he got closer to his apartment. It was fierce and getting louder. Strangely it sounded like it was on the other side of his apartment door. Quickly he unlocked and opened the door. The crying stopped. Stephen’s heart was pounding, his breathing heavy.
There was no one in the apartment. He closed the door behind him and stood quietly, listening. There was nothing.
A couple of hours later, Stephen sat on his couch, eyes closed. The empty takeout containers remained on the coffee table. The moon light filtered into the room through the large front window. Slowly the window went dark. The shadows crept forward, enveloping the TV, making it flash, smoke, and turn off. They continued over the coffee table and slowly up Stephen’s legs. Quickly, he was surrounded in darkness. He shuddered from a sudden drop in temperature. Something ice cold touched his face. His eyes opened wide with terror. His mouth gaped, but he was unable to scream. It was as if all the air from his lungs had been sucked into the shadows that surrounded him. He could feel hands on his legs pulling him.
Whispers came from the shadows, but he couldn’t make out any words. Cold breath tickled his neck. Slowly, he was dragged off the couch. He grabbed wildly trying to fight against whatever it was that was determined to pull him to the floor. He hit the floor with a thud and picked up speed as he was dragged across the floor. There was nothing to grab onto. He slid violently into the wall. Quickly he was dragged in the opposite direction and slammed into another wall smashing into a side table sending the items on it flying. He laid there. The shadows receded and he was finally able to gasp for breath. Out of fright and pain, Stephen started to sob.
3
Stephen had finally been able to collect himself enough after a few minutes to get off the floor and go to bed. When he woke up the next morning, he walked out into the living room and found it undisturbed. The side table that he thought he had been slammed into was intact, as were the items that had been on it. It was as if nothing had happened.
Maybe I dreamed the whole thing, he thought.
Stephen took a shower and again, found himself behind with his routine. This time he vowed to not let it bother him. Stephen was determined to regain control. He was convinced that the events of the last few days were nothing more than stress-induced hallucinations. He gathered up his things and headed out the door. As he turned to lock up, he thought he could hear laughing. A soft, faint chuckle at first. Then louder and with more gusto. Footsteps echoed from the other side of the heavy door. Closer and closer until they stopped just on the other side. Stephen breathed deeply, desperately trying to keep his heart from exploding in terror. He turned the key to lock the door.
THUD… something big and heavy dropped against the door. A sliding noise and then THUD again. Stephen stumbled backwards and a short, throaty chortle seeped through the door.
Then, silence.
Stephen stood in the eerie quiet of the hallway for several minutes. He took a deep breath, stepped toward the door, and gingerly unlocked it. Slowly, carefully, he grabbed the door knob and turned it. The door pushed open without obstructions.
There wasn’t anything on the other side. He cautiously walked through the apartment. Each room. Each closet. There was nothing to be found.
He left and headed to the studio without incident.
4
That night, Stephen ate, washed his dishes, and attempted to do some freeform sketching. He found his creativity was tapped out. He’d had a productive day in the studio, so he didn’t feel bad. He put his art supplies back in his messenger bag, got his clothes ready for the next morning, and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face.
Stephen stood at the sink and ran water over his face and then back through his hair. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. He found himself wanting his reflection to move, to blink, to do anything. Just to prove that he wasn’t crazy.
“Come on,” he said, staring himself down, “Move, damn you!”
Without warning, the arms of his reflection shot out from the mirror. Stephen recoiled in surprise, but he wasn’t fast enough. Both of the reflection’s hands grabbed him by the hair and pulled him toward the mirror. Stephen struggled against the grip of his reflection. He pulled back, but the harder he pulled, the firmer the grip of the reflection became.
He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He was being pulled closer to the mirror. His cheek touched first, then the rest of his face was mashed against the glass. The cold hands grasping his head pulled harder and harder. He could feel the glass of the mirror start to conform to the pressure underneath him. He realized quickly that his face was actually sinking into the glass. When his head was just over half enveloped by the mirror, he passed out.
5
Stephen woke up screaming. Wherever he was, it was completely dark, save for the small window on the nearby wall. He struggled to his feet and stumbled over to the window.
“No,” he said, “This can’t be possible.”
Stephen could see himself on the other side of the glass in his bathroom getting ready to shower.
Both fists clenched in terror, Stephen began to beat against the glass. He screamed and begged the Stephen on the other side to see him, to help him, to do something.
The other Stephen either couldn’t hear him or ignored him completely. The walls between the two worlds were thick and cold. The other Stephen gathered up his things, turned toward the bathroom mirror, smiled a white, shining, toothy smile and then walked away, leaving Stephen to bang helplessly, eyes red, tears streaming down his cheeks.
It was over.
His voice would never be heard on this plane of reality again.
Jeremy “UndeadPapa” Thompson is a voice artist and storyteller whose work explores the strange spaces where the ordinary collides with the uncanny. He is the creator of the paranormal audio series Whispered Legends, where folklore and horror come to life through voice and atmosphere. When he isn’t writing or recording, he can usually be found reading old ghost stories late into the night.
