Who the hell was...

Wait... had he imagined it? After splitting from Elise, was he that desperate for companionship? For solace? He stepped back, doubting himself for a moment. Stress could do strange things to both the body and mind. From headaches to heart attacks to mental breakdowns. So far, Cassidy had yet to suffer from any of them. He hoped he wouldn't at all.

One thing he was certain of was that he wasn't conjuring up messages on mirrors.

Except, it wasn't there. The glass was, once again, clean. Perfectly so. Not even the slightest streak remained from the words that had been there. He stepped back to see the mirror in its entirety, as if doing so might reveal its secrets. Of course, it didn't. It was just a mirror. Old, as he assumed it must be if it was part of the wardrobe it was attached to. Spotlessly clean, which he found odd considering its probable age and the fact it had been manhandled.

He slumped, defeated. What the hell was wrong with him? Maybe he needed that Jack Daniels he'd forgone the night before. It was after lunch time, well after now. Cassidy didn't drink in the mornings and couldn't understand people who did, such as those at airports at 6am, downing pints of lager. He licked his lips. Now he'd thought about it, he was thirsty for the shot of his favourite alcohol.

Why not? It didn't mean he was an alcoholic just because it was before 7pm. It still felt naughty, drinking alone in the afternoon. That was a result of his upbringing. His parents rarely drank anything other than tea or water. His father would have an occasional rum, neat, a couple of times a month, but never before 7pm. Before that, unless it was a wedding or such like, was uncivilised.

Sorry Dad!

With a final glance at the mirror, he turned towards the door.

Then immediately looked back.

The smudge. It was back. How had he not seen it a moment before? Things didn't appear or disappear for no reason. The writing couldn't have been there, but had, but wasn't. The mark hadn't been, but now was.

Maybe the house was haunted. A ghost was trying to send him messages. At least the non-existent spirit was just saying 'hi,' instead of portending his demise.

"Fuck it," Cassidy said to no one.

He left the room and went downstairs to the kitchen. He needed some painkillers. Usually, he'd have strong ones in his collection, but they were high on his list of priorities when he left his old home. He was sure, somewhere, there'd be a box of normal paracetamol. They'd do the job for now until he could get to the pharmacy and refill his prescription. Although, he'd have to put the order in first, and he'd yet to change his address at his surgery.

Why wasn't there a central address database that everyone referenced, so he didn't have to remember to update a gazillion different places? There would always be one or more that would be overlooked. The doctor's should have been one of the first, not be missed off completely.

Paracetamol it was, then. Washed down by his mate Jim Beam.

Cass sat at his kitchen table after making his drink and popping his tablets out from the packet. He had a headache again. They weren't anything like as bad as they used to be, but he would always ensure he had enough of his 'horse tablets,' as Elise would call them, due to them apparently being strong enough to knock out one, in to keep him going.

Except for now.

He was staring at the table top, trying to mentally push the pain back down from whence it came. It was a technique he'd used often and, almost as often, it worked. It was as if he was smothering it with his mind, forcing it back into the trapdoor it had sneaked through. That was how he pictured the pain. Seeing it that way, as a physical black cloud he could interact with, helped with the success of his method. There were the odd times it didn't work, and those it did could have been purely coincidental, the pain fading thanks to the drugs, but Cass believed in it. A large part of recovery was psychosomatic. A positive mental attitude. Or a less negative one, anyway.

The alcohol could be doing its part, too.

He thought about the mirror. Yes, he could have imagined it, but he hadn't. Someone had written 'hello' on the glass. They'd then wiped it away, leaving a partial palm print in the process. They'd done so without being seen or heard. He admired them, in a way. Whoever it was was adept at avoiding him. They had managed to play their trick without him finding a single trace. That took skill.

If they tried again, would he play their game?

Of course he would. It was the best way to catch them.

Once the bourbon was gone, he picked up the bottle to pour himself a second tot. He hesitated with his hand on the screw top. Should he? It wasn't illegal, whatever his parents might think, and he wasn't planning on getting drunk. Tipsy maybe, Drunk no. He didn't do drunk. Still, he put the bottle back down and simply drained the last drops from the glass.

Why waste it by having another when it wasn't really wanted, then probably another after that? Boredom and stress were not adequate reasons for getting plastered. Inebriation was good while it lasted, but rubbish afterwards. He wanted to get rid of his headache, not amplify it.

OK, Mum. You win.

The day was a washout, he thought. His momentum had stalled, tripped over itself and was now lying in a heap, wondering how it might untangle itself. All he felt like doing was sitting on the sofa in front of the television, with any old garbage filling the screen. He didn't care what as he'd be on his phone, anyway. The TV was only going to be on to give him company. The sort he didn't mind and could ignore.

First, check the doors. Still locked. Good.

Television on, Cass slumped on his sofa. It was large, with lots of cushions that meant he could make himself comfortable, however he sat or laid. A matching foot stool accompanied it, again large, and his favourite pose was slouched down with his feet up. He settled into that position. He scrolled through his various social media accounts, wondering why he had so many when all he did was blindly scroll. There'd be the odd pause, a random like, and that would be it. Before his relationship with Elise began to deteriorate, he used to post fairly regularly. Photos of the pair of them. The happy couple. Places they visited. Random thoughts. Funny memes.

Since then, he realised, he'd hardly put anything up. He was becoming a recluse. Before long, he could imagine himself taking in stray cats and wearing the same clothes every day while remaining unshowered, underwear included. Being fastidious about his personal hygiene, he had to laugh at the thought. It was so far removed from who he was, it seemed all the more likely.

Selfie time.

The third photograph of himself was the winner, and he uploaded it with a caption:

"Settling in to my new abode. Thanks for the welcome, whoever left the message on the mirror. Had me going there. #nothaunted"

With that done, he felt he'd achieved something. It didn't matter that it wasn't what he'd set out to do for the day. Something was better than nothing, even something as trivial as a selfie. He put his phone down next to him and wondered who'd own up to breaking into his house and violating his privacy. Or playing a joke on a friend.

You say tomayto...

He fell asleep quickly and without noticing he was tired at all.

https://youtu.be/Yz3pjYTX5dk