Looking Glass

Cora blinked once before grabbing the nearest heavy object (a lamp from her vanity) and smashing it over his head.

~Ridge~

Pain is the first thing you become aware of when you start coming out of unconsciousness. For Ridge Grey, the throbbing head pain started in the upper-left hemisphere of his skull.

His skull had absorbed most of the impact from the lamp. However, the region of his frontal lobe responsibility for speech had undergone a sharp jarring.

"Fuck me, Lady!" He managed after a few near-misses. ("Firf Mump" and "Derl Gawp" had come out first as his eyes had struggled to focus and his bound wrists had fought against the lamp chord now binding them).

"I've called the police."

"Great!" He said, struggling to sit up. He'd been tied up on the floor, apparently. "When they get here, they can arrest you and your two boyfriends for trespassing and assault with a deadly Stiffel Lamp."

He saw out the window that night had fallen. He figured he'd been out for hours.

The woman was dressed. That was to say, she was in cream-colored silk pajamas and a very retro house robe. Her wet hair had been brushed back out of her face, and she was pacing. She was also smoking a cigarette while trying not to hyperventilate.

"Could you put that out?"

"I wouldn't have had to light it in the first place if you hadn't broken in to try and rape me!"

"Broken in and--What?!" Ridge blinked. "Look, lady, whatever your kinks are, take them someplace else. I just moved in today, and I have all this unpacking before...."

Roger trailed off. He was taking in the room. The yellow late 60s wallpaper was gone. The walls were painted a pale, simple eggshell. The hardwood floor had a neat little throw rug that disappeared under the dust ruffle on an old brass double bed. There was a woman's vanity, an old-style square plastic alarm clock.

"What have you done to the place? Are we even in the same house?"

"Keep quiet!" She put her cigarette in a dish on the edge of her vanity. "Haven't had a cig in nearly a month, you know. I'm trying to quit."

"Then why do you have them if you're trying to quit them?"

"For emergencies! I was in Miami this time last year, and I smoked a pack a night because I thought the world was ending."

Ridge shrugged. "I just binge-watched Schitt's Creek on Netflix and ate way too much pizza. I guess we all coped with the Rona differently."

"The what?"

Ridge realized she was staring at him as if he'd spoken in some alien language. "Last October," he said. "I mean, even double-vaxxed and boosted, I felt weird going out until at least we stopped seeing so many spikes."

"What are you talking about?"

"What you were talking about," Ridge said.

"Look, fella. You break into my place, which is on the third floor. I'm getting dressed for bed, practically naked--"

"Totally naked," Ridge smirked.

"Not in my version of things. I would never be caught even remotely naked around some grimy beatnik."

"Beatnik?" Ridge cocked an eyebrow. "What year are you from, lady? Look, you played your prank, you flashed your tits, they're nice, but--"

The smack rocked his head back with force. "Watch your mouth!"

"What? I said they were nice! Just untie me, kid. Put my apartment back the way it was. Take the Stepford Wife BDSM cosplay haunted house magic act on the road with Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-Dumber. I swear I won't tell Mrs. Dodgson her grandson is in a thruple."

"What?"

"Isn't that what it's called? Two guys with one girl."

"Look, Mr.-- what is your name?"

"Ridge," he said. "Ridge Grey."

"Look, Mr. Grey, you seem to be under the impression that this is your apartment, and I broke in on you. I signed my lease, and I promised I would be too busy with my work at the university to have any sort of wild shenanigans going on. I agreed to pay $72.50 monthly plus $5 a week for laundry to Mr. and Mrs. Quade. But what were you saying about this place being haunted?"

"The music, the shower turning on by itself, the lights in the bathroom flickering on and off...."

"Wait a minute."

She came in close. Ridge pulled back, thinking she might be ready to slap him again. Instead, she seemed to smell him.

"Birchwood," she said. "And just a hint of cedar."

"And you smell like the Virginia Slims my great aunt used to smoke."

"I just had half of one. And it was my first in..." she stopped. "I really only keep a half a pack. And it's just in case there's a nuclear holocaust, you know?"

"Well, the world's had the bomb for quite a while now. And nobody looks good with a stoma in their trachea."

She considered him. "Ridge Grey. Sounds like something from a science fiction serial."

"Ridge was a pretty popular name in 1989."

The woman nodded, leaning back and sighing. "Ah, shucks."

"What?" Rodge shrugged.

"You were almost cute enough."

~Cora~

He had dark blue eyes and brown hair, and his face was friendly despite his beard and a certain unease with his surroundings. He was obviously in the midst of some significant psychotic break, though. Why were all the adorable ones certifiably bonkers?

She'd reacted out of instinct, bashing him with the lamp. Now that he was awake and bleeding (and for some reason very put off by her tar-soaking her lungs), she admitted she sort of liked him.

"What month do you think it is, Mr. Grey?"

"October," he supplied.

A glimmer of hope. "Year?"

"2022."

Shit. "And who is president?"

"Joseph Biden."

She shook her head. "Never heard of him. But have you ever heard of something called Schizophrenia?"

"Alright, smarty pants, what month and year are I supposed to say?"

"Well, you're right. It is October 5th, in fact. But there are no flying cars or robot butlers. It's plain old 1963. And the president is--"

"John F. Kennedy," he interrupted.

"Very good," she smiled.

"He gets assassinated in Dallas next month. Johnson gets sworn in, serves one term, and escalates the conflict in Vietnam. Then Nixon wins in 68, after both the King and Kennedy Assassinations--"

"How can President Kennedy be assassinated twice?" She scowled.

"Are we seriously doing a 20th Century Middle-School History review?" A roll of his eyes and then. "Did you really call the cops?'

She'd considered calling to Mrs. Quade after she tied him up with the lamp chord. She hadn't. In truth, the phone company was backed up and wouldn't be out until Monday at the earliest.

"You didn't, did you?" He smirked. "This is bullshit and some sort of 'haze the new tenant' game, right? Is Mrs. Dodgson in on it? Because redoing the whole fucking room like this, she would have hopefully noticed you lugging an old double mattress and all this retro shit up the stairs."

"You swear a lot."

"I'm fucking tied up on my floor being subjected to psychological torture. I think I'm entitled to drop a few f-bombs."

There was silence between them for a few moments.

"This isn't a practical joke," she said. "I don't know what you experienced earlier in the bathroom, but the door flew open while I was taking a shower. I thought it was a draft. I felt, though, like someone was in the room with me but...."

"Like they were invisible."

It wasn't a question, the way he said it.

He smelled the way the ghost had smelled. There was no way he could have gotten into her room. They were three stories up. He would have had to have been an acrobat.

"If you agree that whatever is happening, neither of us is responsible for it...."

"I'll agree to that."

Cora grabbed some cuticle scissors from her vanity and went to snip the cord binding her captives hands. He slowly pushed up from the floor and took a step back from her. "Just so I'm out of range should you decide to smash another lamp."

"Cute. Well, you gave me your name, I suppose I should--"

"Cora Cameron, Ph.D.?"

She blinked. "Okay, it's not creepy at all that you already know that."

"I found your journals this afternoon. I skimmed the bit about you renting this place."

He walked to the window and looked out. "1963, huh?"

"You're from the future. You tell me."

He passed her on his way out the bedroom door. He took in the neat and tidy attic apartment. It was freshly renovated, not neglected for over half a century. The boxes and flotsam of over 50 years were gone. Moreover, it was as if it had never been here.

He noticed the mess of cards on the card table. "Okay, I was out of the room one minute, and when I returned, there was this house of cards...."

"I spent about an hour on that. I do it as a calming and focusing exercise. Did you knock it down?"

"Accidentally. That was when the shower started."

"You're frightened of a shower starting?"

"When I'm supposed to be alone in an apartment, sure. And after hearing all the oldies music playing from nowhere...."

"Oldies?"

"Elvis Presley, Etta James..." he walked to the record player. He stopped the finished LP from spinning and took it off the turntable. "At Last... looks like an original pressing, too."

Cora crossed her arms and smirked. "I bought it one week after it came out. You still have records in the 21st Century?"

"Second most popular medium behind streaming."

"Streaming? Is that something to do with sitting by a babbling brook?"

He put the record in its sleeve and then thumbed the collection of albums in her rack.

"Hey. Who said you could rifle through my things?"

"Just making sure there are no Beatles Albums or Sonny and Cher mixed in. That would be anachronistic."

"You mean Buddy Holly and the Crickets? I think I have a few of their 45s."

"Skip it," he said. He spied some loose change in a bowl by her keys. He went and began examining the coins.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking the dates. It takes one shiny thin penny with a date past 1963 to prove you're fuc--er, messing with me."

She crossed her arms and waited. He started with the pennies, then the nickles. By dimes and quarters, he was despondent.

"Notice you didn't check the half-dollars," she said.

"I didn't have to," he said, collapsing in her new low-slung occasional chair. "But I also didn't know they had Ben Franklin on them before..." he trailed off.

"Tea?"

"You have anything stronger?"

"I could mix up a couple of horse's necks?"

"I have no idea what those are, but sure."

Cora went to the kitchen, eyeing him a bit but pretty sure she was dealing with someone non-violent.

"I also noticed you don't have a phone," he called.

"I could scream," she joked, cutting and pealing a lemon before opening a bottle of Canada Dry. "I just moved in. It would be an interesting way to meet the neighbors."

She poured the ginger beer over ice, added the lemon, and then reached a small bottle of bourbon out of her icebox.

When she turned, he was in the doorway of the kitchen.

"I assume you want yours spiked?" She asked.

"Liberally spiked," he nodded. "Time traveling by accident really takes it out of you."

"You know, in the psychological profession, we're not supposed to shatter a patient's delusions. But do you really expect me to believe you're from the future?"

"I'm not saying I'm from the future. I'm saying this is the past, and I think I'm having some sort of bad trip brought on by over-exertion and lingering fumes from whatever one of my moving men was vaping."

Cora poured two liberal shots of bourbon into each horse's neck. "You definitely reference things that have no connotations of which I'm aware." She presented him with his drink and then sipped her own.

He sipped cautiously. "So it's like a Moscow mule with whiskey instead of vodka, then?"

She nodded.

He sipped again. "Don't suppose you have diet ginger beer?"

"Why? Are you diabetic?"

"No. I'm just..." he picked up the empty green Canada Dry bottle, shaking his head and smiling. "It's uncanny."

He looked at the percolator, the Frigidaire, the gas range, and the oven.

"Okay, future man. Shall we return to the living room and discuss how and why you came to be here?"

He shrugged, puzzling over the toaster oven a moment before following her into the living room. She took the chair. He sipped his drink, crossing the room to look at the bedroom.

"No toaster ovens in the future?"

"Well, they still make them, I expect," he said, turning back to face her. "But most people microwave or air fry. Do you mind if I?" He indicated the bedroom.

"Oh, be my guest." She stood and walked as far as the doorframe. She found him examining the great old mirror on the wall. "I see. So our foods aren't all in little capsules?"

"Nope," he said, pulling the mirror slightly away from the wall. "And we don't all wear tinfoil either. So, what can you tell me about this mirror?"

"The mirror? Nothing. It was in the back of that walk-in closet when I viewed the apartment. I thought it was pretty, so I hung it up."

"Same for me. Only I didn't get to hang mine up. It's the same mirror, though."

"Are you trying to tell me you teleported here via an old mirror?"

"Believe me, I know how crazy that sounds."

"I always thought time traveling involved some machine, like in H.G. Wells."

"Well, apparently, it doesn't." He looked around the room, smiling. "This place, though. It looks so clean. Almost brand new."

"Your wife doesn't keep the place this tidy?"

"Not married," he said off-handedly. "No, this place hasn't been an apartment for 60 years. It's full of junk in my time."

"That's odd. I'm the first tenant Mr. and Mrs. Quade has leased it to. My research grant with the university lasts at least another three years."

He seemed to stop at those words.

"Is something the matter?"

~Ridge~

Something was the matter. In Ridge's mind, he flashed to the last journal in the box. The one C. Cameron had started on January 1st, 1963, but never finished. Then he remembered what the Tweedles had said about a woman who'd died in the house.

He took a long pull at his drink. "This isn't half bad," he said. "It's called a Horse's Neck, you say?"

The pretty young researcher smiled and nodded. "I first heard about them in a Bogart movie when I was 15. In A Lonely Place, do you know that movie?"

"I'm afraid I don't," he shrugged. "I suppose I'll have to add it to my prime when I get back home."

"Your prime?"

He waved a hand. "Forget it," he smiled. "But buy stock in something called Amazon in about 35 years."

She almost smiled but then continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "It's a movie about a Hollywood screenwriter who brings a cocktail waitress home to tell him the basic plot of a book he's supposed to adapt. He hasn't read it, you see. Because it's terrible. Anyway, when they return to his apartment, he offers her a drink, and she asks for a ginger ale with lemon, a horse's neck. When I grew up, I found out most bartenders mix a little bourbon to give it legs."

"A horse's neck with legs," he nodded. "Well, I can see nothing sci-fi about this kooky mirror. It's just wood and glass. With this strange bit of lingo scrawled at the bottom."

"Latin," she offered. "It's from Ovid. It means 'we strive for the forbidden.'"

"Well, whatever it means, this mirror sucked me out of my time and blew me into this Twilight Zone episode."

"Oh, you still have The Twilight Zone in the next century? Rod Serling must be pushing a hundred."

He looked at her. She had managed to down most of her drink and was slightly flushed.

"You're tipsy after one drink?" He asked.

She shrugged, plopping down on the edge of her double bed. "What can I say? I keep the bottle for entertaining, and then I seldom entertain. You know I moved out here for the research grant the university was offering me. Still, I also secretly wanted to escape all my old girlfriends. They were always trying to fix me up with men, and I don't like being fixed up, you know?"

"No," he smiled. "Why don't you tell me?" He moved over and then asked if he could sit beside her.

"Well," she sighed, patting the bed. "I can meet guys on my own. But because I'm focusing on my career and field, my friends act like they need to throw any man they can at me. They expect to get me married and pregnant, or else I won't be happy."

Ridge considered this, sipping his drink. "You definitely should do what makes you happy," he smiled. "My father builds houses outside Dallas. Some of the most expensive and luxurious houses in the States. I studied to be an architect, and he expected I would join him in designing and building houses for the uber-rich."

"But you rebelled?"

Ridge shrugged. " I like older things. Old cathedrals, old libraries, old houses like this one. I like to think they need a gentle hand to keep them upright and beautiful for everyone to enjoy."

She leaned into him. "Do you think I'm silly for getting tipsy after one drink?"

"A little bit. But I definitely won't pour us another this evening."

"What a gentleman."

"I will not accept such insults from a lady. But I will say, I am certain you've had no problem attracting men. You're very becoming."

"Thank you, Mr. Grey." She leaned her head on his shoulder. Despite having a minor aversion to people invading his personal space, he did not pull away.

"Um, since the mirror is obviously the means by which I got here. It's logical to assume it's also a way back to my time, right?"

"I suppose so." Cora was feeling drowsy. "Are you sure you're not some sort of dream, Mr. Grey?"

"Call me Ridge. No, I'm real. I'm not sure you're not a dream, but if you are, you're very vivid."

"You smell nice."

"And you smell like ivory soap. But I need to find a way back." He stood and found her hanging onto his workshirt sleeve.

"If you were a dream, I wouldn't want you to leave before it got a little naughty."

His eyes met hers. She was probably the most beautiful woman to ever hit him with a lamp. He didn't know why, but perhaps the absurdity and impossibility of the whole situation and the slight buzz from the strange whiskey cocktail made him feel like kissing her.

"I wish I could say I'd had more bizarre first meetings," he said. "But I haven't." He leaned down and kissed her lips. More than a peck but less than a full-on frontal attack of hormones. He had intended a simple soft kiss of affection.

But then a half-second became a second, and then a second became five. And then she was pulling him by his shirt collar down onto the bed on top of her.

"This is happening too fast," he managed, still kissing her while trying to fight the knot on her robe.

"Well, you're the one who came out of the mirror. Might as well live up to the inscription, right?" With that, she ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew to the far corners of the bedroom.

He undid her robe and then gently worked from the top button of her silk PJ top downward. Her fingernails dug into the skin of his chest as he felt himself stiffening. His jeans rubbed against the thin silk of her bottoms. As he exposed her soft, round breasts. He kissed the tops and then slowly nipped and nibbled at her cute brown areolas.

"You certainly feel more real than any dream I've had before," she said with a husky breath. Her hands began undoing his belt buckle.

It was odd. It was too quick. It made no sense for them to suddenly want each other like this. She undid his jeans, and he felt her hand slide inside and grip him firmly.

"Damn, girl. How long has it been for you?"

"Graduation ball. Roger Coleridge in Harvard Yard. We were engaged, but then he bowed out and married one of his distant cousins."

'And that would make it...?"

"Spring, 1959."

Ridge nodded. "You win." He fumbled with the drawstring on her silk pajama bottoms.

"Just tear them, goddamn it!"

Ridge didn't have to be told twice. He ripped the silk and found himself mauling his way down her breasts, over her abdomen, then delving deep with his tongue into her fragrant vulva.