Haunted Secrets: Tales of James Moran Vol. 3

The Image of Deception

The man in the navy blazer shook like a small dog in a cold room. He had offered James tea, and when the man had lifted his cup, the delicate mug rattled in the saucer. He seemed oblivious to it.

His name was Brandon Shimizu, and they were in his living room. He had called James the week before about an antique mirror he wanted to get rid of. Or, more accurately, needed to get rid of. It was not a simple antique, it was haunted, according to Brandon.

In a strange twist, Mr. Shimizu was not one of James’ previous clients. They had never had any contact, and James had not been recommended to him. As far as James could tell, Shimizu had no idea that James dealt in haunted items. It was simply a coincidence bolstered by his inability to sell the mirror to any other antique dealers.

“Twelve of them,” Shimizu said. “I’ve tried to sell it to twelve other dealers.”

“None were interested?”

“They all brought it back. Refused to keep it.”

“Why not throw it away? It might be a financial loss, but it sounds like you don’t want it in your home,” James suggested.

He had not expressed to Shimizu that he believed him about the haunted mirror or that he had any special interest in such items. James had arrived as he imagined the other twelve dealers had, enticed by the prospect of a gilded Italian Baroque mirror from the eighteenth century.

The piece was beautiful and in immaculate condition. It looked pristine, and was probably worth upward of fifty thousand dollars as an antiquity given the size, age, and pedigree.

It hung on a wall in an empty room in Shimizu’s Boston home. Nothing else was in it, not even a chair or a rug. Just the mirror, facing the door. It was full-length, nearly six feet from top to bottom, and unusually wide. The gilded frame was as bulky and ornate as any James had seen. It was hand-carved and incredibly detailed, with pastoral scenes of what looked like goats and fields flowing organically from top to bottom.

“I’ve tried.” Shimizu laughed before sipping his tea. “I threw it in the trash. I tossed it off a bridge. I smashed it into a million pieces and dropped it into the goddamn ocean. It was on the wall when I got home. Not a scratch on it.”

James sipped his tea and nodded.

“I see.”

“You don’t believe me,” Shimizu said. “I didn’t think you would. None of the others did, either.”

James shook his head.

“I didn’t say that. But I do wonder, if you can’t throw it away, what makes you think you can sell it?”

“I bought it,” the man answered.

He looked at James and sighed before sipping his tea. Shimizu had deep bags under his eyes, and wrinkles at the corners, and his shoulders were slightly hunched. He looked tired and nervous. His dark hair was ruffled and messy, and there was a stain on his shirt. James wondered if the man had slept at all lately.

“How much do you want for the mirror?” James asked. When they first spoke, Shimizu said he was open to offers and just asked that James come and see it first.

“Give me a dollar,” the man said.

James laughed, but Shimizu was not joking.

“You know what it’s worth, don’t you?”

“I paid ten thousand,” Shimizu said, “but it’s not worth anything. I need to sell it. If I sell it, it goes away. But you have to sign a contract. You have to promise that when you buy it, it’s yours. I swear to God, I will sue you if you try to bring it back.”

“Ought to keep that part to yourself until a sale is made,” James advised.

James finished his tea and set the cup back on the saucer on the table between them. Shimizu’s house, aside from the mirror room, was very well decorated. Maybe not homey—it had a sterile museum quality to it—but the other antiques he had curated were high-quality, beautiful pieces. The man had a good eye.

“One dollar. I bet you can turn it around in a day. Sell it for anything, make a profit, and we’re both winners. Please.”

“Okay,” James said. “But you’ve told me it’s haunted. What does it do aside from coming back when you try to throw it away? Why do you want to get rid of it so badly?”

Shimizu chuckled and looked down.

“I never told the first eight or so people about it, you know? Why would I? You don’t tell the guy buying your old clunker that the radiator’s about to go; you just sell it as-is.”

“Maybe not the most ethical way to make a deal, but I understand the point.”

“I’m beyond giving a damn about ethics,” Shimizu said. “It’s… it’s not what it does. It’s what you see. It’s what the mirror shows you.”

He leaned in as though fearful someone would overhear. The mirror was upstairs, a floor away, behind a closed door, but the ghost could have been anywhere. James had felt the mirror with his hand, just a light touch even though Shimizu had warned him not to. It was cold like ice. But he had seen no ghost, and the only reflection it cast was an accurate reflection of the room.

“What does it show you? I just saw the room.”

“Of course, you did,” Shimizu said. “It’s still a mirror. It can show you your reflection. You can comb your hair and straighten your tie. It’s what happens when it’s not just a mirror. And you can’t predict that.”

“What is it when it’s not just a mirror?”

“At first, it wasn’t so bad…”