The Last Thumbs Up

I’ve always been drawn to the quiet corners of the city, the places where the noise of life fades into a hum. I volunteer at a shelter in Manchester, not out of pure altruism, but because it anchors me, reminds me of my own fragility. That’s where I met Walter, a man who had a face like a crumpled map, with a nose that bloomed like a bruised plum, the result of years of cheap wine and hard living. He was a gentle soul, always offering a thumbs up and a smile that crinkled his eyes, a small beacon of warmth in the grey of the streets. He looked out for the younger lads, sharing his blanket, his stories, his last cigarette. He was a fixture, a part of the city’s hidden heartbeat.

Last winter, the cold bit deeper than I’d ever felt. The city’s arteries froze, and the wind cut through you like a blade. I remember the night before he died, I saw him huddled in a doorway near the Arndale Centre, his face blue-tinged, but he still managed a weak thumbs up as I passed. I offered to take him to the shelter, but he refused, saying he had a ‘spot’ that was safer, a nook behind a bakery where the heat from the ovens seeped through the walls. I left him with a heavy heart, thinking of my own warm bed. The next morning, I heard the news: they found him in that nook, frozen solid, a thin smile still etched on his lips.

His death hit me harder than I expected. I found myself revisiting his usual haunts, trying to piece together his last days. A bartender at a dive on Deansgate mentioned that Walter had been acting strange, muttering about a ‘man in the mirror’ who followed him. Another volunteer said Walter had been reluctant to stay at the shelter because he claimed something ‘was waiting’ for him in the dark. I dismissed it as the ramblings of a man haunted by his own demons.

A week after his funeral, I was sorting through the donations at the shelter when I found a small, tarnished mirror among the items. It was old, with a ornate frame, and the glass was dark, as if it had absorbed all the light around it. I almost threw it away, but something made me keep it. That night, as I cleaned it, I caught my reflection, but for a split second, it wasn’t mine – it was Walter’s face, gaunt and pale, with his unsettling smile. I dropped it, and it clattered to the floor, but when I picked it up, it was just my reflection again, my heart pounding.

I tried to rationalize it – stress, grief, a trick of the light. But over the next few days, I started seeing the ‘man in the mirror’ everywhere. In shop windows, in car mirrors, in the reflection of my phone screen. It was always the same: a tall, gaunt figure with hollow eyes and a grin that stretched too wide, wearing a tattered overcoat. The figure never moved, just stood there, watching, as if it was waiting for something. I began to avoid mirrors altogether, covering them with cloths, but the reflections found me anyway.

Desperate for answers, I sought out an old priest who ran a mission in the Northern Quarter. He listened to my story, then his face grew pale. He told me of a legend, a ‘mirror man’ who was said to haunt the streets, feeding on the despair of those who had lost everything. He said he’d heard of Walter, how he’d been ‘marked’ by the thing, and that it had been biding its time, waiting for the right moment to take him. The priest warned me that I had inadvertently become entangled, that by picking up the mirror, I had ‘picked up’ the entity’s interest.

Last night, I was walking home along Canal Street. The water was black and still, reflecting the city lights like a distorted dream. I saw my reflection in the glass of a closed shop, and behind me, the ‘man’ stood, closer than ever. I turned, but there was nothing. I started running, my heart thudding, and I didn’t stop until I reached my flat. I locked the door, drew the curtains, and sat in the dark, not daring to look into any surface. But I knew, with a cold certainty, that it was still there, just beyond my sight, its grin widening, its hollow eyes fixed on me.

I don’t know how to escape this. I think about Walter, how he must have felt in his final hours, knowing something was waiting. I wonder if I’ll end up like him, found in some forgotten corner, a smile frozen on my face. I’ve started leaving small offerings, like he used to do – a half-eaten sandwich, a hot drink – in the places I know it might be. I don’t know if it will help. But sometimes, when I catch my reflection in a puddle or a spoon, I see it, and it seems to be smiling, as if it’s pleased. Last week, I found a small, crumpled piece of paper in my pocket, with a single word written in shaky handwriting: ‘Soon.’ I don’t know how it got there. But I know it’s from Walter.