The Color of Her Eyes

Three weeks ago, I was at my friend Maya’s apartment in the city, killing time before our movie started. Maya had insisted on seeing some independent horror film at the old Rialto Theatre, which was a relic from the 1920s with red velvet seats and a single screen. The place had a certain charm, but also a damp, subterranean smell, like the inside of a tomb. We bought popcorn and found our seats. The movie was a slow burn, and about halfway through, Maya leaned over and whispered, ‘I have to pee.’ She hated public bathrooms, so I went with her to keep her company. I waited by the sinks, checking my phone, while she went into a stall. Then the lights began to flicker. The faucets turned on by themselves, spraying water into the basins. Every toilet flushed in a synchronized whoosh. The mirrors fogged up, and I could swear I saw a handprint form on one of them. Maya burst out, her face pale, and we scrammed out of there, telling ourselves it was just the old wiring—it happened all the time in that part of town. We stood on the sidewalk, laughing nervously, when Maya realized she’d left her jacket inside. ‘I’ll be right back,’ she said before I could stop her. I stood there, leaning against a lamppost, trying to calm my heart. A moment later, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned, expecting Maya, but it was a man. He was about 5’7, with black hair that fell over his forehead, and the most striking green eyes I’d ever seen. They seemed to glow faintly in the dim streetlight. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Uh, hey,’ I replied, taking a step back. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You dropped this,’ he said, holding out a small, ornate mirror—the kind you’d find in an antique shop. I hadn’t dropped anything, but I reached out to take it, and when my fingers brushed the glass, the world went sideways.

I blinked, and I was in a long, narrow hallway, with the same red velvet carpet as the theatre, but the walls were peeling, and the air was cold and heavy. The man stood at the far end, his back to me. ‘Where am I?’ I called out. My voice echoed, but there was no answer. He started walking, and I followed, because there was nothing else to do. The hallway was lined with doors, each one slightly ajar, and from within I heard whispers—not words, but the sound of many voices speaking in a language I didn’t know. I passed a door and caught a glimpse of a room filled with mannequins, all facing a single chair. Another door showed a banquet table set for a hundred, but the chairs were empty, and the food was rotting. I stopped to look, and when I turned back, the man was gone.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I spun around. It was Maya. ‘There you are,’ she said, but her voice was flat. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’ Her eyes were the same, but they were empty, like windows into a dark room. ‘What happened to you?’ I asked. She tilted her head, as if confused. ‘I found my jacket. But I think we should go.’ She grabbed my hand, and her grip was icy. She led me back the way we came, but the hallway seemed endless. Doors passed by, all the same, and I realized we were going in circles. The whispers grew louder, and I saw figures in the peripheral, standing in doorways, watching. One of them was a woman in white, her face obscured, and she was pointing at me. Maya ignored her.

Finally, we reached a door with a sign that read ‘EXIT’. Maya pushed it open, and we stepped out into a parking lot behind the theatre, the neon sign buzzing overhead. I was so relieved that I almost cried. ‘That was weird,’ I said, but Maya didn’t respond. She was staring at something in her hand. It was the mirror. ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. She looked up, and her eyes were no longer Maya’s—they were the same glowing green as the man’s. ‘It’s yours,’ she said, and she handed it to me. I looked into the mirror, and my reflection was not mine. It was the man, and he was smiling. ‘Now you see,’ he whispered, and the mirror went cold.

I woke up on a bench in the park, the mirror in my lap, and the sun was rising. I went back to the theatre, but it was closed, abandoned, with boards on the windows. No one I asked had ever heard of a Rialto Theatre. I called Maya, but her phone went straight to voicemail. I went to her apartment, but the landlord said she’d moved out a month ago, and he’d never seen me before. I looked at the mirror again, and in its reflection, I saw the hallway from that night, with Maya standing at the end, her back to me. She turned slowly, and her eyes were black. She whispered something, but I couldn’t hear it. I could only see her lips form the words: ‘You should have never come back.’

Now I carry the mirror everywhere. I can’t leave it, because when I do, I see him in every reflection—in shop windows, in car mirrors, in the surface of my coffee. But when I hold it, I see the hallway, and I know that one day, I’ll walk down it again, and this time, there will be no exit. And Maya will be waiting for me.