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Kurt entered 107 and removed the chair from the small writing table. He sat and stared at the mirror. He had
turned one bedside lamp to its lowest of three settings. Uncertain why, but after a minute of silence Kurt
hummed, ‘Amazing Grace.’ Five minutes later, Kurt continued to hear only muted sounds from guests around
the pool. Although his senses remained on high alert, no Face of Death appeared in the mirror, no voice
pleaded for his help, no spine tingling cold breath brushed his neck, and no arm extended out from the
mirror, tempting him to join the missing.
Kurt relaxed. Ten minutes later Kurt stood. This is foolish. He turned off the light and walked to the door. A
chilling voice stopped him. “I wondered if you’d find the nerve.”
Kurt spun around. “Who’s there?” His eyes had not adjusted to the dark. He saw no one. Kurt reached for
the light switch by the door. He flicked it multiple times. Nothing. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted. The
door refused to open. Panic stricken, Kurt again asked, “Who’s there?”
“Dreams can frighten—but reality can scare you to death. Don’t you agree?”
Kurt didn’t recognize the voice. His heart skipped a beat. He spun, searched for the source of the words, but
saw only the mirror now bathed in opaque and foggy light. Kurt detected swirling shadows floating in and out
of its reflective surface. “What do you want?”
“You,” a second unknown man responded. “Dead—after you suffer a thousand near-deaths.” The guttural
sounds emitted by this voice caused Kurt’s heart to race. Perspiration formed on his forehead and dread
consumed his mind.
Kurt’s skin crawled. His spine froze. His mind screamed but sounds refused to follow. He yanked on the
door. It refused to budge.
Kurt spun back and confronted the threat. The swirling shadows had no shape until a vortex of freezing air
swept out of the mirror, circled the room, and formed ice crystals into two perfect circles. The two rings of
shadows acquired substance as they floated towards Kurt. Individual faces formed, one in each. Kurt found
his voice. “Why?”
“Because we can,” a sneering face said. Kurt recognized the man—Deion Smith.
“And because we love it,” another man said.
The shock of seeing a second face snapped Kurt out of his fear-induced stupor. He realized death awaited
him if he didn’t take drastic action.
“Screw you!” Kurt said. He bolted. In two steps he swept under and past the vile faces. He yanked the chair
off the floor, held it in front of him, and charged the sliding glass door. Kurt’s high–pitched screams mixed
with the sounds of shattering glass and drowned out the crude and filthy epithets hurled at Kurt by Deion
and the unknown man.


O nature's noblest gift -- my grey goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Lord Byron (1788-1824)
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