Short Stories

Vera Lee's Mirror 

by Michelle Miller  June 2019

Her name, I have since learned, was Vera Lee Morrison. She was only fourteen when she died. It was impossible to tell right away how she died, but I soon became aware that the circumstances of her death were suspicious, maybe even malicious. Our first encounters were strange, one might even say frightening, but necessary, for without them I would never have found out the truth. You see, Vera Lee Morrison died in 1956, more than sixty years ago; and it wasn’t until a few months ago that I first spoke to her.

            I had just celebrated my 30^th birthday and decided it was time for a change: I had been living in the same house for three years but hadn’t done any renovations or made any significant changes at all. It didn’t feel like it was mine. So without much thought for the final effect, I started digging myself a vegetable garden in the backyard. It was a simple change, a small step forward, but something that I knew would make me feel better. Besides, with no family of my own yet, it was something I could care for and tend to. It was on that second day of digging that I unearthed the Morrison time capsule.

            At first, I didn’t know what it was. An old wooden box with brass rivets and a small leather inlay on top, my original assumption was that it had been used to bury a small pet. But when I opened it, I realized it in fact contained a piece of history, a tiny glimpse into the past lives of Vera Lee and her family. On top was a childish drawing of four people: two taller stick-figures, presumably parents, and two shorter ones. In the bottom corner, the artist had signed his name: Dennis, age nine. Beneath this was a wooden toy car, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. Despite its miniature size, I could see the craftsmanship in the details. I concluded it had likely been made for the boy, Dennis, by his father or grandfather.

            As I continued to dig, I pulled out an assortment of typical family keepsakes: a small plush doll, four assorted buttons, a rusted thimble, a comb, a baseball card, two old candies, newspaper clippings, a LIFE magazine, a photograph of a cat, and a greyscale photograph of the family, Mother, Father, big brother and little sister. And at the very bottom, buried beneath everything, was a little silver hand mirror.

            When I picked up the mirror, I felt a sort of strange energy serge through me. The hair on my forearm stood on end and I felt a chill ran up my legs. Feeling the weight of it, I played with it in my hands, turning it and watching it catch the sunlight. Then I noticed on the back, inscribed in neat cursive, were the words Vera Lee. I don’t know how – perhaps by the size of it, perhaps just a feeling – but I knew it was given to Vera Lee when she was still a small child. I suspect now that it was years until she died after planting that time capsule with her family.

            I took the box inside the house with me and put it on a shelf in my living room, next to a stack of books. The mirror, however, intrigued me so I kept it close to me, bringing into my room and setting it on my bedside table. I didn’t know it then, but this mirror connected me to something much deeper, something beyond this life.

⁘

            From the moment he took my mirror out of the box, I knew my chance had come. I had been unearthed, reborn, given a chance at last to tell someone my story. I had felt an intense connection to him instantly and I surmised that this would be the person to finally, after all these years, discover the truth about my family. I could not rest until someone knew.

            The trouble was, I had no experience as a spirit. I had been attached to that buried mirror for the last sixty years, and now that I had finally been released, I didn’t know what to do. I tried at first the most obvious things: talking to him, standing behind him in the mirror, touching him, breathing near him. But the most I ever got was a shiver or goose-flesh. He didn’t seem to be able to see me or hear me. Yet, I know that he felt something when he touched my mirror, for I felt it too, so the connection was there; it was simply going to take some time.

            I decided that the easiest thing to do would be to give him a sign that I was there. A slammed door, misplaced keys, a lively TV or radio, the usual. But try as I might, I couldn’t manipulate the physical world. My hands would go right through things. Even lightweight items wouldn’t budge under my touch. I tried, unsuccessfully, to blow a stack of papers over that he had left on the kitchen counter, but I couldn’t even conjure up a rustle. I was getting frustrated and my hope that he would discover the truth about me was quickly diminishing.

Then I remembered something I had read in a book once when I was still alive: the veil between life and death is thinnest in sleep. If I were to make myself known to him, I should try to access his dreams, to present myself to him in such a way that makes him question if it’s real or not. I had to let him know, one way or another, that I exist.

⁘

The mirror sat beside my bed, untouched and largely forgotten, for two weeks before something strange happened. One night, as I fell into a deep sleep, she appeared before me: a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, with soft brown hair that reached her collarbone and eyes as dark as the night sky. She was dressed in a powder blue dress that fell to below her knees, her feet were bare and her hair was clipped back behind her ears. I could make out a pair of stud earrings in her lobes and a thin necklace that feel between her small breasts. She didn’t smile at me or offer any type of greeting; she simply stared at me in my dream, until I swallowed a lump in my throat and choked out a few words.

“Who are you?”

She stared, unblinking and still. When she lifted her arm as if to touch me, she disappeared into a thin mist and I began to question if she was ever there. That’s when I woke up with a start. I was surprised to see that I was shaking and sweating profusely.

All week, Vera Lee appeared to me in my dreams, not uttering a word, simply staring with those intent brown eyes, as if willing me to understand with just a glance. Finally, after seven troublesome nights of the same thing, I asked once more, “Who are you?”

“Vera …” she whispered as softly as a breeze. I almost didn’t hear, and if it were real life I suspect I wouldn’t have, but in my dream state the air seemed to carry her whisper to my ears where it was amplified. I nodded to show my understanding, and I knew then what I had to do:

I had to make contact with Vera Lee.

⁘

He heard my voice, I was sure of it, had actually heard me speak my name.

After that night, he called someone, a friend of his that he called “Jules”. She was pretty, a bit on the heavier side, and had hair that was the same shade of brown as my mother’s. I could sense immediately that she was different.

Jules told my friend to sit at the table with her where they lit a candle and joined hands. It was strange to watch, but when she closed her eyes and began to speak, I could feel something happening. This woman, Jules, had some sort of ability, as if she walked in a dream state, able to lift the veil that separated this life from the one beyond at any time she pleased. And when she said my name, I was pulled nearer to them.

“Vera Lee Morrison,” she said in a soft, inviting tone, “are you with us?”

“Yes,” I said loudly, but she didn’t seem to hear. Thinking quickly, I tried tapping her shoulder, and when I felt a twinge beneath my finger I knew I had made my presence known to her.

“She’s here,” Jules told my friend, and I saw his arms erupt in goose-flesh.

“Ask her what she wants me to do,” he said.

Turning her attention back to me, Jules asked, “What do you want, Vera?”

I tried to speak to them again. “For someone to know the truth.” But once again, I was met with silence.

They still couldn’t hear me, even this woman with such a strong ability, but I knew I was getting stronger and this lady might be my only chance to ever be heard. So I mustered up all of my strength and pushed the empty chair that sat between them at the round table.

“Did you see that?” my friend exclaimed. “The chair just … it moved!”

“She wants to speak with us,” Jules said knowingly. “I’ve seen this before. Sometimes when a spirit is newly released, they don’t have enough strength to communicate fully. She is trying to let us know she’s here, but she doesn’t seem to be able to make herself heard.”

“She spoke to me in a dream,” he replied. “She said her name, I heard it clear as day.”

Jules nods along. “When did you first become aware of her presence?”

“When I dug up her family’s time capsule in the backyard. I found her mirror in it and have kept it nearby. I can feel her connected to it.”

“Bring it here,” Jules said, perking up slightly.

When he placed the mirror in her hands, she continued, “This may well be the very thing we need. If she is connected to this, as you suspect, then perhaps we can use it as a conduit of sorts to communicate with her.”

Closing her eyes once more, she held the mirror in both hands and said softly, “Vera Lee, if you’re still here, can you let us know?”

I didn’t bother trying to speak again, so I drew near the candle and blew as hard as I could. To my delight, the flame extinguished with a gust of air.

“Oh my god,” my friend said, clearly torn between elation and sheer terror.

“Don’t worry,” Jules said comfortingly, “she’s not here to harm you.” Then turning her attention back to me, she said, “Why are you here, Vera? What do you wish to tell us?”

I looked around the room for something that I could move or manipulate in some way that would let them know what I wanted. But I came up empty. I was going to have to make myself heard to them, I realized, one way or another. Perhaps my mirror would be enough.

So I tried again. “To tell you the truth.”

“Truth,” Jules repeated, and I nearly yelled out in relief that someone had finally heard me. “Truth,” she continued, “what truth?”

“My death.”

“Her death,” she said for the benefit of my friend, who didn’t seem to be able to hear me. “What happened? How did you die?”

But my next words must have been obscured, for I was growing tired and failing to be heard, for she didn’t react.

           “She’s gone,” Jules alerted him, and I left the room so I could rest alone.


          (To be continued...)