Behind the Devil’S Mirror

By Richard J Johnson

After cutting short a vacation with difficult relatives, Paul and Cindy Jason take the scenic route home to Chicago. On impulse, they stop at a farm auction where they meet the owners, Melvin and Minnie Link. Cindy admires an old, hand-carved mirror that comes with an eerie history. For a mere ten dollars, Cindy is the new owner of this unusual mirror that Melvin claims is at least 120 years old. But the Jasons quickly discover that the mirror is no bargain.

From the moment the mirror is hung in the apartment, a certain pall hangs over themand soon its making them both a little crazy. With the help of Cindys sister and brother-in-law, the four are unwittingly drawn into a frightening and macabre doorway into another worldthe world of the dead, commonly referred to as purgatory.

Three decades earlier, a greedy and treacherous character invaded the lives of Minnie and Melvin Link. Unexpectedly granted a supernatural power over the Jasons minds, Minnie attempts to communicate her desperate plight to them with terrifying and unforeseen consequences, and the four find themselves embroiled in an attempt to find justice for the victims of an unsolved thirty-year-old murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781426960772

Richard J Johnson

Richard J Johnson is a physician and scientist who lives in Centennial, Colorado. He has written two books on the science behind sugar—“The Sugar Fix,” Rodale, 2008, and “The Fat Switch,” Mercola.com, 2012. Here, he tells a mystery loosely based on historic sites and myths and legends from Egypt and other countries.

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Contents

~ FOREWARD ~

(Chapter One)

(Chapter Two)

(Chapter Three)

(Chapter Four)

(Chapter Five)

(Chapter Six)

(Chapter Seven)

(Chapter Eight)

(Chapter Nine)

(Chapter Ten)

(Chapter Eleven)

(Chapter Twelve)

(Chapter Thirteen)

(Chapter Fourteen)

~ About The Author ~

~Author’s Note~

 ~

FOREWARD ~

Appearances of translucent entities from the world of the dead have been recorded for millenniums; yet we still insist they are nothing more than myth or fantasy. But, are they really? Most of us are not ready or willing to believe in anything that we cannot see, taste, smell or feel. We also tend to dismiss those things we see, but cannot logically explain, as hallucinations or our eyes playing tricks on us, when in fact, they may be something else.

Countless millions believe in the hereafter—a continuation of their existence after death in an alternate or spirit form in such places as heaven and hell. Yet, these same people are reluctant to accept or to even consider the existence of earthly spirits. Why? I believe part of the reason is that the spirits, or ghosts, as they are more commonly called, have been given a bad image over the centuries—another reason it is troubling for us to believe they exist. With few exceptions, the words evil and spirit have become almost synonymous. Ancient story tellers, as well as modern writers of ghost and horror stories, have done much to impart this conception onto the masses. Stories about the supernatural that are frightening and intimidating outsell those that portray kind and gentle spirits. By our very nature, we tend to be strangely attracted to the frightening and the macabre.

Are they a myth or a fantasy? Or does there, in fact, exist a vast array of spirits, both good and bad, who inhabit this world along with the living? They may exist in one dimension while we mortals exist in another. Perhaps, under certain conditions, some are able to escape from their dimension and enter ours.

~ ~ ~

 (Chapter One)

My extraordinary tale began peacefully in a serene country setting in Wisconsin, several miles north of the Illinois state line. On an unusually hot morning in early summer, 1990, my wife Cindy and I were traveling south on the Interstate in our car, heading back to Chicago after a short visit with her relatives in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Because of rather unpleasant circumstances, two days had been more than enough to spend with Cindy’s Uncle Ben and Aunt Nora, and we were both relieved to be on our way home. Listening to her Aunt Nora’s incessant complaining about the weather, national politics, and the condition of the economy was difficult, but being subjected to a chronological report on her many health problems was the final straw. Originally planning to stay four days, Cindy unexpectedly announced that we would leave earlier. After an exchange of bitter words between Cindy and her aunt, we left very early the next morning.

The drive home was long, hot, and tiring, and some of the tension and irritability we’d felt earlier remained with us. Nearing the midpoint of our trip, I happened to glance at a billboard on the side of the Interstate advertising a restaurant and bar at the next exit.

What do you say we stop and have a sandwich and a glass of cold beer? I suggested as I turned toward Cindy. I’m getting pretty damn hungry after that meager breakfast we had this morning. Your Aunt Nora may be on a diet, but I certainly am not. Really, except for your heated argument yesterday, things weren’t much different during this visit than they’ve been in the past years. We both should have known better than to visit with them again. Believe me, I can’t wait until we’re back in our own apartment and can start eating some decent meals again.

Cindy turned her attention away from the scenery outside of her side window, looked at me, and said in a sleepy voice,Sounds good to me, Paul. I can use some food. Aunt Nora has been on a perpetual diet for years. Her mother, my Great Aunt Florence, was a very large woman, weighing in at better than two hundred and thirty pounds. I guess Aunt Nora always feared that she would follow in her mother’s footsteps, and that’s the reason why she watches her intake of food so carefully. I don’t mind her doing that for her own health and appearance reasons, but she treats everyone the same way—like they’re on a diet. After the cool reception we received there during our last visit, returning there this year was a big mistake; anyway, you have to be getting tired of driving. After we have something to eat, I’ll drive the rest of the way home-–if that’s okay with you, Paul.

I didn’t answer her; I just nodded my head in agreement. I still felt irritable over cutting our vacation short, and I was angry at myself for wanting to go there in the first place. Leaving the Interstate at the next exit, I followed the road signs, and we soon arrived at a rather shabby looking restaurant. I pulled the car on to the gravel lot close to the front entrance, switched off the ignition, and before getting out, I turned in my seat to face Cindy.

This whole fiasco was my fault—you weren’t in favor of this visit right from the start. Your Uncle Ben is a nice fellow, and I enjoyed talking to him, but he’s definitely a Mister Milktoast. I don’t believe he goes to the bathroom without first getting your Aunt Nora’s permission. Anyway, I’m sorry as hell that it all turned out the way it did.

Paul, I should be telling you that, Cindy responded. After all, they’re my relatives, but I just became so tired of her constant complaining and her know-it-all attitude. My Uncle Ben has to be a saint to put up with that woman! What a fierce temper she has! Well, poor Uncle Ben has to take her abuse, but we don’t. You can be sure that’ll be the last time we go there. And that’s a promise! Let’s go inside and order some food and forget about it for now.

We entered the restaurant and seated ourselves in a rather grimy booth next to an equally grimy window overlooking the parking lot. Within a minute or two, a skinny, blond waitress in a wrinkled blue uniform brought our menus and two glasses of water and plopped them on the table in front of us.

Afternoon, folks, she said, looking out the window as she spoke. Whatcha’ gonna’ have today?

Give us a few minutes, please, I said.

Without answering, she turned quickly and strode back to the counter, sat on a stool, and began adding up her checks. The greasy menu listed the usual fare for the type of restaurant which catered to a transient trade: chili, bean soup, hamburgers, grilled cheese sandwiches, and several other fast food items. The grubby appearance of the restaurant had the immediate effect of dampening my appetite. Looking at Cindy, I got her tacit message, and I called over to the waitress.Miss, we’re ready to order now.

When she approached our table, I forced a smile and said, We’ve decided to pass on the food; neither of us is very hungry. We’ll have two glasses of tap beer instead.

Suit yourselves, she said, making no attempt to mask her boredom as she turned and headed over to the bar to place our order with the bartender.

As she walked away, Cindy said in a low voice, Thank God you read my mind, Paul. What a filthy place this is—I’d be afraid to eat anything they might serve. I only hope the beer glasses are clean. It wouldn’t surprise me if this place is crawling with roaches. After we leave here, we can still stop somewhere ahead on the road and have a sandwich and coffee at a fast food restaurant.

When the waitress brought our glasses of beer, I carefully examined mine before taking a swallow. Then, taking the road map from my pocket, I spread it out on the table and began tracing our route home with my forefinger.

Why are you looking at the map? Cindy asked, obviously puzzled. We’re not lost. Are we?

No, Cindy. Of course we’re not lost, I replied. I’m just checking the map to see if there’s an alternate route we can take—I hate driving on crowded interstate highways at breakneck speeds. I much prefer driving on an old-fashioned, two-lane strip of pavement and enjoying the scenery. The only thing we’ll have to worry about there is a stray cow or chicken getting in front of the car. These days everyone seems to use the super highways, while the two-lane highways are used mostly by the locals. There’s a lot of pretty country around here, Cindy, but traveling on the Interstate isn’t the way to see and enjoy it. That’s one of the problems with the world today—everyone is in such a damn hurry to get to where they’re going, they never take time to slow down and smell the chickens and cows along the way.

You’re beginning to sound like my Aunt Nora, Cindy said with a grin. Do what you please, but I thought you wanted me to drive the car for a while.

I do, I answered. That way I’ll be able to sit back and enjoy the sights instead of cussing and moaning at every driver on the road. I’m not in a very good mood, as you’ve probably noticed. I suppose it has something to do with our holiday being spoiled. Well, to tell you the truth, I really didn’t expect to have too much fun there anyway, so it wasn’t really a big disappointment for me. Cindy didn’t answer.

Continuing to examine the map while we drank our beers, I found what I was looking for; a thin, red line which indicated a paved road that ran parallel with the Interstate Highway for about thirty miles. Before the road cut off too far to the east, we would have an opportunity to get back onto the Interstate near the town of Stoughton. Once I explained my plan to Cindy, we quickly finished our drinks. I dropped a dollar bill on the table, paid the check to the cashier, and headed for the car.

Exiting the lot, I took the first left going east from the service drive and continued along that road for about five minutes before we came to the alternate route that was shown on the map. After making a right turn, I pulled onto the gravel at the side of the road, got out of the car, and walked around to the passenger side. Scoot over, I said as I opened the door. It’s your turn to drive. Now, Im just going to try to relax and enjoy the scenery for the last half of this trip."

Once seated behind the wheel, Cindy adjusted and secured her seat belt, corrected the mirrors, and carefully put the shift in drive. Pulling smoothly away from the shoulder of the road, she assumed her usual driving position: perfect posture, both hands firmly on the wheel, and her eyes pointed straight ahead. Because she concentrated so seriously on her driving, it was difficult to engage her in conversation, so that was a good time for me to catch up on my reading—or to take a quick nap.

After three miles of pastures, corn fields, cows, and barns, we made a stop at a crossroad, and I noticed a hand-printed cardboard sign tacked to a telephone pole. It read: AUCTION TODAY. Everything Goes. Old Link Farm. Highway 11 and County Y.

Wait a minute, Cindy! I said loudly as she slowly pulled away from the stop. Did you see that notice?

What notice? she asked as she swivelled her head toward my side window.

On the pole back there at the crossroad. It was an announcement for a farm auction. Sounds like fun. What do you say we stop there for a while and see what they have? It might be interesting—besides, we’re in no particular hurry to get home.

It’s okay with me. Were you able to read where it’s being held?

Yes, the notice read Highway 11 and County Y. This is Highway 11 we’re on now, so I suppose County Y is somewhere up ahead of us. I can check the map if you want me to.

That won’t be necessary, she answered quickly. I can see a number of vehicles parked at a farm house on the left just ahead. That may be where the auction is being held.

Cindy slowed the car as we approached the entry road to the farm house. There were dozens of cars and pickup trucks parked

in the yard and along both sides of the highway. Finding an open slot between two vehicles, she expertly backed the car in and turned off the ignition. From somewhere behind the crowd of people who were standing near the big barn, we could hear the staccato-like voice of the auctioneer. "Twen-tee-onz, twen-tee-twize, go-in’, go-in’, gone, for twen-tee to the man with the red bandanna."

Leaving the car, we briskly crossed the tarmac and mingled with the crowd of people who were standing around a big hay wagon. From their clothing and their weather-beaten, haggard appearances, it appeared that they were local farmers and their families. The auctioneer was standing on the hay wagon, which was stacked on one end with a variety of furniture and other household items—most likely from the farmhouse close by. He was a big, red-faced, barrelshaped man with a voice that sounded like it could crack glass. On the ground I could see more furniture and a couple of racks of well-worn clothing, all awaiting their turn on the auction block. Around the wagon small groups of farmers and their wives were examining various pieces of equipment: an old, rusty tractor, a plow, and an assortment of hay rakes and other farming implements. Near the barn were several larger pieces of shabby looking oak furniture, and off to one side was a large stack of hay bales and about a dozen large burlap sacks of oats. I began examining some of the more interesting older tools, and Cindy was browsing through some of the smaller items on the wagon when I happened to look toward the barn. The doors were open, and I could see people milling around inside. I decided to take a look at what was being displayed there.

Howdy, neighbor, one of the farmers said as I approached an old varnished ice box that looked to be in terrible condition. Real nice day for an auction—wouldn’t you say?

It is a nice day but just a little too hot for my liking. I was just about to look at this old ice box. I haven’t seen one of these, outside of an antique shop, since I was a kid. My mother had one similar to this, and how well I can remember my uncle telling me about the iceman stopping at his house and bringing in a fifty-pound block of ice about every third day. It was my uncle’s job to keep the drip pan emptied so it wouldn’t overflow and wet the floor. Those were the days, but I’m glad we don’t have to do that kind of thing anymore. Thank God for electricity and refrigeration. They don’t use ice boxes around here anymore—do they?

Nope! We finally switched over to refrigerators right after World War Two. Up ‘til that time, we didn’t even have lectricity in this area. We used a product we called fortnight or kerosene for lights and hand pumps for our water—pretty crude by today’s standards. That old ice box has been in our barn for more than forty years. We used it to keep some of our pesticides locked away safe from the animals, so it won’t be no good for nothin’ but a house decoration. You ain’t interested in it—are you? Don’t imagine it’ll go for more than a few dollars on the auction block. I don’t think so. We, that is, my wife and I, are just killing a little time looking around. By the way, I’m not one of your neighbors. We’re on our way home to Chicago from a family visit in Eau Claire, and we saw a sign back on the road announcing this auction. She’s over at the hay wagon looking around, but we really don’t have anything particular in mind to buy. But you never know about women. It wouldn’t surprise me if she decided to bid on one of those old horse collars I saw lying back there on the hay wagon. She will probably want me to hang it on our living room wall. We both laughed. Is this your farm being auctioned?

Yep, it sure is—er—was my farm, but Minnie and me lost it. We just couldn’t pay off the bank loan this year. These are really tough times for farmers, you know. Cost of everythin’ is sky high, and for the past few years we put more into the ground than we’ve been able to take out. Seed, feed for the chickens, fertilizer, pesticides, herbicides, oats for the horses, and the cost of runnin’ our old John Deere tractor—everythin’. Used to be, a man could make a decent livin’ off the land. Hard work and a helpin’ hand from the good Lord, and we’d get by. But no more; besides, I’m too old and too tired. My kids are growed up and gone—they all gave up farmin’. Kids are a lot smarter today than when I was a boy, and they have a lot more opportunities to do somethin’ else, he said wistfully.

Farmin’ the land has changed too much, and nowadays you have to be big in order to survive—small farms like mine just can’t make it. They’re gettin’ to be modern-day dinosaurs. Most of my neighbors are havin’ a tough time of it, and it won’t surprise me none if more of them have to sell their places before the summer’s over. It’s a damn shame.

I’m very sorry, I said, sensing the futility of the situation. I looked at his weather-beaten face, and I saw only sadness and despair in his deep-set blue eyes, which were buried in a million wrinkles. His back and shoulders were bent from years of bone-weary labor, and I felt an overwhelming surge of pity for this old man who was watching his whole life being auctioned off for a few cents on the dollar. My name is Paul Jason, I said as I extended my hand to him. His hard, calloused hand grasped mine in a steel grip, and he cranked it several times.

I’m Melvin Link, and I’m real happy to meet you, Mr. Jason. I was just about to go into the house and pour myself a cold drink of apple cider. Won’t you please join me, Mr. Jason?

Oh, that isn’t necessary, Mr. Link—the drink, I mean. I just had something at a little diner down the road. Thanks for the invitation though.

At that moment Cindy walked toward me, and said, Excuse me, Paul. Did you find anything you like? I looked over everything on the wagon, but there wasn’t anything I would care to bid on. Most of it looked like it should be thrown into the junk. Noticing Mr. Link standing beside me, she smiled and said, Oh, hello there.

Howdy-do, Mrs. Jason, he said, returning her smile. I just offered your husband somethin’ cold to drink, but he said he just had somethin’ down the road. Can I interest you in a glass of cold cider? It’s an awful hot day.

Looking at me, Cindy hesitated, and then said, That sure is nice of you, Mister–-.

Realizing I hadn’t introduced them, I said quickly, I’m sorry. This is Melvin Link, and this is his farm that is being sold."

Cindy’s face reddened noticeably, and she took his hand, and said, Oh, I didn’t know! I feel so embarrassed about the remarks I just made about your—

Now, that ain’t necessary, Mrs. Jason, Melvin Link interrupted in a consoling voice as he gently placed his hand on her arm. You’re absolutely right about that old stuff there on the hay wagon bein’ fit for the trash, but you’d be surprised how some of my neighbors will find good use for most of it, and the few dollars they will be payin’ won’t put a hardship on them. The few possessions we owned that were worth anythin’ were sold off some time ago. Now, I insist you and Mr. Jason come inside and meet my wife and have that cold drink of apple cider with us. Taking Cindy by the hand, he led her across the yard toward the house. I followed closely behind.

As we stepped onto the broad, wooden porch of the old house, I could hear the auctioneer offering a "gen-u-wine, foot-powered sewing machine that still works. What am I bid for this useful item, folks? Who will make the first offer?"

When Melvin Link reached the screen door, he pulled it open and stepped to one side to allow Cindy to enter. Motioning for me to follow her, he smiled my way, exposing a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. Come in, Mr. Jason. It’s much cooler inside, out of the hot sun.

Without replying, I followed Cindy into the house, which was considerably darker and not much cooler than it was outside. When my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I could see that we were standing in the living room, or front parlor as they used to call them in those old houses. It was totally bare of furniture except for a darkly framed and heavily carved antique wall mirror. Around the walls I could see places where pictures had hung, evidenced by the discoloration of the drab, dingy wallpaper. The bare wooden floor was littered with the remnants of the activity taking place here today: slips of paper, empty boxes, lengths of rope, and crumpled-up pages of yellowed newspapers, which had probably been used as packing for family relics now being offered on the auction block outside.

I’m sorry about the condition of the place, Melvin Link said. It’s been real crazy around here for the past few days gettin’ stuff ready for the sale. My Minnie is usually a neat woman, but under the circumstances—well—let me go and see where she’s at. Won’t take me but a minute. He left the room and disappeared through a dim, narrow hallway.

I was just about to mention the hospitality of Mr. Link when I noticed Cindy was standing in front of the old mirror that was hanging on the wall. She was examining her image in a glass that appeared to have lost much of its silvered surface, giving her image a somewhat ghostly appearance.

I wonder why they haven’t removed this mirror for the auction, she said in a barely audible voice as she slowly turned to face me. It’s so unusual, and it’s obviously very, very old.

Maybe they just forgot about it, or maybe it’s an old family heirloom that they want to keep. Who knows? Why do you mention it? I wondered why it held so much interest for her.

She hesitated before answering me and continued looking at the mirror, slowly running her fingers over the deep carvings of its frame. I think it’s very interesting, and it appears to be hand carved. I would love to have it to hang in our foyer. Do you think you could ask Mr. Link if he’d be willing to sell it?

Looking more closely at the mirror, I carefully examined its dark frame. There was a variety of small ugly heads with bulging eyes and sharp protruding tongues. I faintly recalled that they were called gargoyles, and they had been deeply carved into the wooden framework. Why anyone in their right mind would want to hang something that ugly in their house was beyond my understanding. I thought I knew Cindy, but I realized I was still learning new things about her all the time.

What a totally abominable thing this is! I said with a frown, not attempting to mask my feelings. Are you serious about wanting to have it, Cindy? To be honest, it looks like some kind of dark, evil monstrosity. Why in the world would anyone want to create something as grotesque as this, or even worse, own it?

But I really want that mirror. I love it! It would make such an interesting conversation piece because it is so strange and so ugly. I had a similar reaction to the Cabbage Patch dolls a few years ago. You remember, Paul. You even bought me one and surprised me with it for my birthday. Please see if Mr. Link will sell the mirror to us, she coaxed.

I think you’re crazy, but if it will make you happy, I’ll ask. Don’t be disappointed if he refuses to sell it; otherwise, why isn’t it outside on that auction wagon with the rest of the junk?

A few minutes later Melvin Link appeared at the entrance to the