Looking Glass

Turn out the lights. Unplug the telephone.
Light a solitary candle before a mirror in your home.
Gaze deep into reflected eyes. "Say a name or phrase three times."
"No flinching." A straightforward child's game.
But you're nervous all the same.

~September 28, 1963~

The Quades purchased the ancient house as newlyweds five years before the young woman came along. They were proud historians of what had once been dubbed Shadow Croft Mansion.

As the contractor, Mr. Quade described his efforts to restore the main hall as he led the prospective tenant and his wife to the stairs, leaning on a walking stick. He took pride in the crown moldings and English Oak banisters.

"Of course, the main hall is more of a lobby and common room now," he admitted, his leg shuffling. Despite being on the younger side of forty, he walked as if his recent accident had aged him. "Dinah and I host the annual Halloween and Christmas parties here. All the tenants and most everyone in the neighborhood show up."

Mrs. Quade, or Dinah as she told everyone to call her, had met the young woman at the door.

Fresh-faced and ten years younger than her husband, Dinah Quade had taken the young woman's overcoat and umbrella before scuttling her back to the kitchen. Since his accident, Charlie Quade spent more and more mornings dawdling over his coffee.

As a couple, they were well-matched. Charlie was tall and lanky if stooped with pain. Dinah was petite and energetic, with a manner that suggested a finishing school upbringing. The young woman assessed that the Quades were in the first few years of a happy marriage.

"She's here about the attic, Charlie," Dinah said, pouring the young woman a cup of coffee.

"Well," Charlie Quade smiled, standing with an effort to let the young woman see his leg brace. "We can do it one of two ways. I can take you all the way up and show it off first. Or we can chat a bit, get acquainted, and see if you can stand Dinah's cinnamon buns first?"

Although slated to view as many apartments as possible on her one weekday off, the young woman understood that being receptive to courtesy would codify Charlie and Dinah Quade. Also, she seemed to sense that Mr. Quade had to psych himself for a trek up the stairs to the attic.

Dinah's eyes moved over her broken husband. Catching wind of her trepidation, the young woman sat and accepted a cinnamon bun. "I'm always happy to sit for a chat."

After receiving a cinnamon bun and taking a dainty bite, the woman introduced herself.

"I'm Cora Cameron," she said, sipping some of the strong black coffee. "And Mrs. Quade, if these are what cinnamon rolls should taste like, I must never attempt to bake them on my own without your supervision."

"Thank you," Dinah Quade laughed. It was a genuine soft sound.

Charlie Quade, resting his leg on one of the kitchen chairs, nodded his approval of the young woman's approval of his wife's baking. "And what do you do, Ms. Cora Cameron?" He asked. "Or is it Mrs. Cora Cameron?"

"Well, it's Dr. Cora Cameron, actually," their guest said. "I took a position at the University as a research fellow in the psychology department."

"What does that make you? Some sort of shrink?" Mr. Quade puzzled.

"Of a sort," she corrected. "I have my PhDs in behavioral and abnormal psychology."

"Are you from the area?" Dinah asked.

"No," the woman admitted. "I'm from back east in Boston. I've been here a month, and I'm feeling miserly towards the weekly rate motels. I'm also not to enjoy living out of suitcases."

"Well, we're not that far from the main campus here," Dinah laughed, settling on a stool by the kitchen phone. "In fact, one of the first tenants we had is now a professor at the college."

"He lived here in our basement from grad school until he jumped to associate professor of history last summer," Charlie explained.

"Well," the young doctor smiled. "Hopefully, the attic is as lucky for me as the basement was for him, then?"

"Just so," Charlie said, rising from the table. "Well, if you're done with your coffee, I'll take you up, Doc."

Dinah slid off her stool by the phone. "That's alright, Charlie. I'll take her up."

Charlie had walked the two women to the base of the stairs before relinquishing his keys to his wife. Dinah Quade turned to look over the main hall at the first landing. "When we bought the place, it was a mess," she explained. "A century old and neglected for over a decade. We were determined, though, Charles and me. We started in the basement and worked our way up."

"How many levels are there?" The young woman asked.

"Four," she supplied. "Five apartments in total. There's Mr. Chess in the basement studio. We never see him, though. Works nights. The main floor is Charles and me, of course. Then we have Mr. O'Hare and Mr. Hader on this floor in the front apartment. They say they're roommates. I have my suspicions, but Charlie says it's none of our business so long as they keep up with the rent. In the back apartments are Tuzi and her mother, Mrs. Quan. They moved up from San Francisco last January so Tuzi could study music. Plays the cello."

"Cello?"

"Beautifully!" Mrs. Quade bragged."And she's only ten."

She took a set of keys from her apron pocket and moved to a narrow dark wood door crowded to one corner of the landing.

"We've only just listed the attic, though. Once we finished this floor, Charlie had a minor accident that laid him up for almost a year. I convinced him to hire a few younger men to help convert the space into a loft suite."

She selected an oil-brushed brass key from the key ring and pushed it into the old-style keyhole below a red-jeweled doorknob. The lock clicked, and she pulled the door wide, revealing dark wooden stairs spiraling upward.

"Bit spooky," she admitted. "But climb up and be amazed."

Cora Cameron passed by the sweet woman, counting 21 steps until she reached a dark-finished wooden floor. The layout of the attic at 23 Harris Way is that of a capitol H. Gabled windows looked out over the little college town, filtering light in.

"To your right is the kitchenette and dining area," she explained. "Or if you're more solitary, the dining area could be a home office space. Left is the bedroom and bathroom, complete with a walk-in closet. This wide space in the middle is up to you. A living room? A lounge? Charlie added shelving along the walls thinking it would be perfect for someone who loves books."

"It seems so big," the young doctor observed.

"Oh, it isn't. But these slanted attic ceilings can be deceptive."

Cora Cameron walked to the kitchenette. There was a gas range, a refrigerator, and a drop-in kitchen sink complete with a drying rack.

"All new lighting fixtures," Dinah continued. "For heat, Charlie installed a new radiator in the bedroom and a wood-burning stove in the main room. We can have the phone company out here to hook up your own private line before week's end."

Cora Cameron walked through the space, taking in the old cast-iron bathtub with a wrap-around shower curtain rod with only the brass rings hanging from it. Dinah entered the bathroom with her prospective tenant. She turned on the hot water, showing off that it came out snappy and got to temperature fast.

The young doctor nodded her approval and went into the bedroom. Another tall window allowed plenty of the gray northwestern light of the rainy day in September to filter in. Cora Cameron noticed this time that Dinah Quade stayed in the doorway of this room, her expression pensive.

"Something the matter?" The young doctor asked.

Dinah Quade shook her head. "Nothing. This is the room where Charles had his fall. My mother always said it's wise not to tempt bad luck twice."

Cora Cameron nodded and smiled. "So, my prospective landlady was superstitious," she thought.

She went to the walk-in closet and opened the door. It was dark inside and deep. She couldn't see the back of it, but something was definitely there. She reached for the chain to a single halogen bulb and tugged it on. The light popped on, revealing something significant covered in a black packing blanket.

"What's this?" She asked.

The small landlady's hands fidgeted over her apron. "Oh, nothing but an old mirror. I've been meaning to have it taken down to the storage shed, but--"

The young doctor pulled the packing blanket off. Proper looking glass, ancient and ornate. Her mirror self smiled back at her as she turned to look at Dinah Quade. "It's exquisite. Why wouldn't you want this for your own place?"

Mrs. Quade shrugged. "Doesn't go with any of our things. But what do you think?" She asked. "Of the apartment, I mean."

"I'll have to buy some furniture," Dr. Cameron replied. "Seems I won't be needing a mirror, eh?"

"We have a few things in storage," Dinah smiled. "Most of it is antique, and some of it might have made the turn to pure junk, but you're free to look through it. I'll have some boys from the college come by and lug anything you like upstairs."

"I could fit a whole chest of drawers in here," the young doctor remarked, turning to see Dinah's eyes darting up to meet hers. She had been looking in the mirror.

"Do you want to tell me?" The young woman asked. "Or is this where you act all nonchalant?""

Dinah Quade's expression softened into a smile. "It's a funny thing," she said. "Ever since we moved into this place, I've felt a bit off when I come up here. I'm sure you would chalk that up to some unresolved trauma from my childhood?"

"People are allowed to have some irrational fears," the doctor shrugged. "But most attics are just attics, Mrs. Quade."

Dr. Cameron clicked off the closet light and joined her landlady again in the main room. They walked to the kitchen, where the young woman tried the appliances. She saw nothing wrong with the place, and that made her nervous. Something had to be unfit for the price to be so low.

"Laundry?" She asked.

Dinah Quade walked to the wall by the refrigerator and slid a panel aside. A laundry chute dropped down into nothingness below. "We give you a bag, you send it down the shoot each Thursday, and I give you the full treatment for $5 a week. Or there is a coin laundry one block south and two over."

The young doctor nodded. "I'll take it, Mrs. Q!" She smirked. Not ironing her own shirts was indeed a sweet perk for a single woman of twenty-seven.

"Welcome to The Shadow Croft Apartments, Dr. Cameron. And it's Dinah, please."

~October 1, 2022~

"Careful there, boys!" Mrs. Dodgson called up to the three men on the stairs.

It was Friday evening. Three days after Rodger Grey had signed his lease. Mrs. D had hired two frat boys (whom Ridge was now dubbing Tweddle-Dumb and Tweddle-Dumber) to help haul his furniture up the stairs.

They were currently struggling with his box spring. The two boys pulled up while Ridge pushed.

"So, what do you do for a living, Dude?"

Ridge realized his "helpers" had paused for their third afternoon break. He planted his feet to keep the box spring from tumbling down the ornate staircase from the second floor to the main floor.

"Architect," he panted. "Can one of you please help hold this thing, so it doesn't slide down and take me with it?"

"You got it, man," T-Dumber said, cracking a beer he'd fished from a cooler on the landing.

T-Dumb recognizing that Ridge's temper was flaring and he was likely to fire the two of them on the spot, descended and took the weight off the new tenant.

"Thank you," Ridge panted, leaning against the banister and wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his work shirt. He was so glad he'd gone with the space-saving full-size bed instead of a queen-size.

"You ever built something I might have seen?" Tweedle-Dumb asked.

"I don't build. I design," Ridge panted. "And I'm a restoration architect, mainly. Hence my moving in here."

"Hence?" T-Dumber was chuffed.

T-Dumb shot him a warning glare. "So, you work with older buildings, then?"

"Yes. Marrying classic designs with more contemporary accents that strengthen their appeal. Mrs. Dodgson contacted my firm in Chicago and sent me some images of this place. I helped her file a grant application with the National Registry of Historic Places, and now I'm going to oversee the renovations."

"Historic Places, huh?" Dumber said. "Doesn't that mean somebody famous had to be born here or die here or something?"

"Sometimes, if the architecture is unique or innovative, a building can get on the registry," I explained.

"And someone did die here," T-Dumb offered. "At least that's the story, anyway."

"Really?" I asked. "Not recently, I hope."

"Nah, way back in the day," T-Dumb said. "Some hot-shot researcher chick. Back in like the 1950s or something? My grandmother would know."

Tweddle-Dumb had landed this job on the recommendation of Mrs. Dodgson. Ridge had not known about the nepotism at the time of agreeing to $20 an hour per two lumbering bricks. As T-Dumb began to show signs of struggling with the weight of the mattress, Ridge relented and took the upstairs end. "We'll get it to the landing, and then you and Tweedl-- you guys can go back to the truck for a few minutes of light work."

The two of them made the last great push to the second-floor landing. And as the two clods descended the stairs, Mrs. Dodgson came up with a glass of iced tea.

"You are incredibly patient, Mr. Grey. My grandson is a polite boy, but his partner leaves a lot to be desired in the brains and manners department."

"Help is help," Grey sighed before chugging down half the glass of tea. "And nobody likes helping a stranger move into a third-story walk-up. I am glad we did the drafting table first, mind."

Mrs. Dodgson patted the young architect's forearm. "Are you sure you don't want me to have them help you tidy up a bit? I haven't let that space since before my first husband died."

"Wouldn't dream of it. The benefit of being a restoration architect is I love old things. Dust is a reminder that other people have lived in a place. History, Mrs. Dodgson! This house is drenched in a patina of history."

The tiny elderly woman smiled. She was a person who smiled well despite being widowed young. "My Charlie would have liked you. But my Daniel would have called you a pie-eyed fool."

"What would you call me?" Ridge Grey asked.

"Thirsty," she said, taking his empty tea glass. "I'll bring you a pitcher up next trip."

"No. I'll come to get my own tea. You needn't wait on me, Mrs. D. You are my client!"

"The stairs in this place keep me young," she jibed. "But I'll humor you if you're feeling guilty about a woman pushing eighty climbing stairs. I'll go supervise the boys. Make sure they're actually working for you and not drinking their Saturday morning away."

The landlady and the new tenant parted ways. He went up the spiral steps to the attic as she descended to the ground level.

Entering his temporary home during the renovations, Ridge took in the dusty boxes and furnishings that had lived in the attic for untold years.

He had tried to make the bedroom livable, clearing away most of the oversized items and sweeping up the dust. The wallpaper was 60 years out of date and would have to come down. But with the cobwebs knocked out of all the corners, it would serve as a place to sleep.

He exhaled, going to the closet door. Opening it, he found a few more boxes. And then, he jumped to see sudden movement at the back.

Rat! He thought.

But then he realized the movement mirrored his own. He turned on the light in the closet and saw himself partially reflected in an antique mirror at the back.

He sighed relief and shot a boyish wave at his reflection before turning his attention to one of the boxes stacked to his chest level.

It was full of notebooks. Dusty but arranged neatly in green-marbled bindings. He drew out the first in the box and read a 6-digit start date, "01/01/63~."

Flipping it open, he read the keeper of the notes elegantly penned name in green-inked textbook cursive.

"C. Cameron, Ph.D."

He surveyed the entry on the first page, discerning that it appeared to be a daily agenda coupled with notes on the events listed and reflections. Turning pages, he understood it to be a very efficient personal journal.

He paused, seeing that some of the entries took up pages while others were brief with few notes or reflections.

He considered, then reached to the back of the box, discovering the oldest and yet pristinely preserved notebook. "01/01/54 ~12/31/54."

Whoever "C. Cameron" had been, they had been fastidious and precise about their daily logs.

"Up until," he flipped in the first journal to where the last entry appeared. "October 30th, 1963."

Barely a month before events would shatter the country's innocence. Ridge Grey pushed the journals back into the box for review and wedged himself between the wall and stack of boxes. Shoving, he made a path to the back of the closet and reached the dust-covered mirror.

Some careful angling brought the large ancient-looking glass from the shadows into the light of the room's floor-to-ceiling gabbled window. Ridge took a dust rag from the drafting table and ran it over the ovular glass and the dark wood encasing it.

"Late 19th century, maybe?" Ridge found the rag catching on something at the bottom of the glass.

He knelt and blew dust from a pewter engraving at the base. "Nitimur in vetitum," he read aloud.

"We strive for the forbidden."

Ridge jumped, nearly letting the mirror fall. He caught it, though, looking around the room. The voice had been clear and distinct, a woman's voice. He leaned the mirror against the wall and walked out into the main room of the attic.

"Hello?" He called. "Is someone here?"

~October 5, 1963~

Cora had asked Mr. Quade for the tools and hardware necessary to hang the heavy mirror. He had provided her with anchors and instructed her thoroughly on three ways to find a wall stud.

Less than an hour later, the mirror was hanging from the wall a few feet from the foot of her double bed.

She considered the Latin phrase. She knew it was from Ovid's Amores. And had been used by Nietzsche in his Ecce Homo.

"We strive for the forbidden," she repeated, taking the kerchief from her hair and tousling out her curls. Odd sentiment for a mirror.

She exhaled a breath looking around at her neatly unpacked room. Her few things had fit into the secondhand dresser she had brought up from Mr. Quade's storage shed. Walking out of the bedroom, she took in the large main room. She had set her portable record player on a table in the "office space" to the right of the prim writing desk she had bought from the furniture store. Her portable Royal typewriter sat neatly on a typewriter table to the left of the desk.

It was ample space. A few borrowed lamps offered some bright spots after sunset, but still, shadows hugged the attic eaves. She knew it would be months before she would find the right furniture to fill the space without making it look cluttered.

A card table with wooden folding chairs served as her temporary breakfast nook. Atop the table were several decks of playing cards, she had bought from the five and ten on a whim.

She heard a creak behind her and turned, wondering if someone had somehow snuck up the spiral steps from the floor below. It was an odd feeling, though, like someone was somehow in the room but invisible. She was alone.

"Do I have ghosts?" She joked aloud to no one.

No response.

She moved to the kitchen and lit the stove. Pouring water into the kettle, she began to hum. And once she had set the kettle on the gas range, she moved to her record collection and chose an inaugural song for her first evening alone in her new "pad."