Amy's face.

Cassidy was reminded of how pretty she was. He was also astonished how realistic she looked, considering what was used to create the image. He knew her at school. This likeness was obviously from when she was older.

From seven years ago?

The portrait stopped moving once it was fully formed. Then the eyes moved to look directly at Cassidy. The mouth opened. The scream heard at his sister's was absent, but the gaping orifice filled his ears with imagined sound. She was still crying out.

"Amy?" he whispered.

The mouth widened. And widened. And widened until it filled the glass, leaving nothing of Amy's visage remaining. Within seconds, it, too, was gone.

Cass reached out to touch the mirror. The surface was freezing to the point he had to snatch his hand back lest it burn.

"What have we done?"

Bobby looked at the mirror and whined quietly. He licked his owner's chin, a gesture of comfort for them both.

"I know, boy. She's hurting, and it's my fault. I didn't mean it, though. I didn't know what they had planned. I definitely had no idea we'd end up calling her."

Bobby whined again and twisted his body to try and be released from Cass's hold. When he was put down on the floor, he crept to the mirror and sniffed it. He licked and pawed at the surface.

"She's not there, boy. She's hurting. I think I might have..."

He knew he'd hurt her, but his voice refused to express the concern that he might, somehow, have ended her. The term 'killed' didn't fit, but what if she was no longer there at all? Whatever her murderer had done, Amy had still existed in some form. If Cassidy and his siblings had taken that away from her, were they murderers themselves?

He wanted to pick Bobby up, but that would have meant moving closer to the mirror, something Cass didn't feel able to do. Instead, he apologised to Amy, certain he was talking to nothing but a piece of glass now, and walked away.

The rest of the day was spent in a daze. He cleaned the house, ate and washed pots, and stared at the television with no idea of what was on. Bobby didn't leave his side all day and, when Cass was mindlessly watching a show, the dog laid across his owner's lap. They both wanted to be with each other, and mutual comfort was gained from the contact.

When it was time for bed, Bobby joined him, laying on the top of the quilt. They both watched the mirror until sleep coaxed them into giving up their vigil. In his slumbering state, Bobby twitched and whimpered. In Cassidy's, he didn't move at all. Even his chest barely rose and, to know he was still breathing, a piece of glass would have to have been held over his mouth.

A mirror, perhaps.

The darkness swirled before them, whirlpooling blacks and not quite blacks together in a hypnotic dance of night. Cassidy and Bobby watched the maelstrom intently, not fully aware that they were unable to look away. From the point in front of them, it spread outwards and up, creating an encasing dome that obscured anything beyond.

No, not a dome.

A sphere.

Night had encroached beneath their feet, too, effectively surrounding them. Bobby barked at the night, and his voice echoed back from multiple locations, as if caught up and fragmented by the tumult. The puppy jumped up, managing to reach Cassidy's arms, where he was held in a protective embrace.

Cassidy called out. He wanted to shout "Amy." He would have liked to have shouted anything. His lips moved, however, but no words, or sound of any kind, came out. Bobby barked again and his voice returned to them, fractured though it was.

Cass looked down at the dog and scratched the back of his neck. He tried to speak, but it was pointless. Did the night steal his voice, or was his tongue too afraid to release the words? He looked up again.

The swirling darkness had vanished, and he was back in his bedroom.

His arms were empty.

He spun around, frantically searching for Bobby, but the dog was gone.

"Bobby!" he shouted, or thought he had. Or wanted to.

He was still voiceless. What was going on? Was this retribution for hurting Amy?

He hurried to the bedroom door to try to find the dog. As he reached the doorway, he began to feel strange. His stomach started to churn, and he felt as if his blood was running cold. The closer he came to the landing, the worse he became and, in the seconds it took him to reach the entrance, he was doubling over, ready to vomit.

He staggered back and, suddenly, the sensations left him. A step forwards brought the edge of the queasiness, so he moved to what he deemed a safe distance.

Cassidy looked around, only now taking in his room.

Or was it his room?

The size and shape were the same. The décor was definitely not. The walls were scuffed, marked with dirty fingerprints and stains. The carpet was threadbare, with a pattern worn from age. Towards one wall, there was a tear that exposed the floorboards underneath. A large sideboard stood in front of the window, the top of which was scattered with the dross of years of careless disposal. Coins and faded receipts and used tissues vied for space against a forgotten key, a losing, screwed up lottery ticket and various items of worn, unwashed underwear. In the centre was a filthy glass vase. There were no flowers to offer an oasis of beauty in the detritus. There was only a measure of grimy water with a ring of muck haloed over it to show the lofty heights it had once reached.

A Jenga pile of bricks supported one corner of the bed, under which was a darkness similar to that which preceded Cassidy's view of the room. The bed, surprisingly, had been made with a surprisingly clean quilt cover adorning the mattress.

Cass turned slowly to where the wardrobe should have been. It was still there, but the mirror was missing. One door was swinging open slowly.

He walked towards it, slowly. Though the room looked drastically different to his, the wardrobe was identical. It had to be the same one. Where was the mirror, though? It could only be where he'd originally discovered it. Inside.

He took the partially open door and pulled it and its pair fully open. He was correct. The mirror was hung on the back wall of the wardrobe.

It had a thick layer of dust clinging to the surface, but he could still make out his reflection.

Or... what was he looking at?

Who?

The man looking back at him was older by at least a decade. He was broad and tall. Thickset with angry coloured skin tones made angrier by the fair, but greasy hair. The hair itself looked as if it hadn't been washed in days, if not much longer. Random tattoos adorned the arms, many of which appeared to be self drawn.

While most of the reflection looked dirty, the eyes did not. They were bright and piercing. Aware. Fierce.

Cassidy, and the reflection, looked down.

A moment before, the wardrobe had been empty. Now, it wasn't. Sleeping on the base was a girl. He recognised her, he thought. What was her name?

He wanted to reach down and gently wake the girl but, when he did, he saw his arms were not his own. They were covered in homemade tattoos. Instead of giving the girl a gentle shake to rouse her, Cassidy grabbed her by her hair.

And yanked her up.

And pushed her face into the mirror, eliciting a stifled cry.

"Look at the state of you," he growled. "Why the fuck do I bother with you? You're a mess, just like your mother."

The girl whimpered, a sound not unlike Bobby's.

"Shut it, or I'll shut it for you. Except I know you like that. I should kick you out. Leave you to the perverts and druggies out there. You wouldn't last a day. I'm saving you, girl. You know that? Protecting you!"

A noise from the girl. A word?

"What? Speak up, girl. Stop fucking muttering. You're always fucking muttering."

"I'm sorry," said the girl.

"What? You're sorry? What else? What else do you say, or I'll make sure you're fucking sorry!"

"Sorry, Father. I'm sorry Father."

"Fucking damn right you are."

The girl was thrown back down into the foot of the wardrobe.

"I need the toilet, Father. Please."

"Forget it. You ain't getting out of here until you realise what you did."

"But..."

"Fuck 'but.' You're staying put, and if you do anything, you're drinking it. Or eating it! Understand?"

A nod from the girl, brief but noticeable.

"I asked if you understood, bitch!"

"Yes! Yes, I understand, Father."

"Yeah, you wanna."

The door was slammed, and the girl only just had time to retrieve her fingers from the opening. Cassidy had time to see two things before the door was fully closed.

At the top of the mirror, where the girl's face had made contact, was a smudge. A smear of sweat and tears that had wiped away the dust.

That was the first thing Cass saw. The second was the girl's face.

Amy.

https://youtu.be/S0-ypMaB-bE