Motierre's Mirror

The once proud estate I stood at the wrought iron gates of may have once been called magnificent. Belonging to one Mr.. Motierre, it now lay in the most abject of ruin.

Laying forgotten in a copse of barren trees on the south side of a singularly dismal island lay the estate of Mr.. Motierre. The slow fingers of the sea grab dat the land, each time taking a little more sand and dragging it into the depths of the cold green void. a murder of crows sat upon the branches, no more than six in number. Their raucous din was the only sound of life one could hear on the small purchase of land.

Mr.. Motierre had been a sailor. I had not known him well. I had not known him at all, in fact. It was apparent, however, that he had failed to deliver a shipment of some note to my employers, the East Empire Trading Company.

It is said that on one journey, Mr.. Motierre had gone to sea, with a most singular purpose in mind. That purpose was to pick up and ferry back a mirror. This mirror is said to have been recovered deep beneath the waves, possibly even at the sunken continent of Yokuda.

Upon receipt of the mirror, Mr.. Motierre had ferried home and fortified the estate as if expecting siege. He became an entirely reclusive and strange man. Some might have called him a "shut-in".

He refused to leave the manor. He did not answer the summons from my employers, nor did he permit them entrance. No one ever entered the estate, and no one ever left. Knowing now that it matters not, I will tell you a trade-secret of the Company : we get what we want.

After missing the delivery date and cutting off contact, my employers sought out the service of a man known only as Henry Polonius. This was most certainly a code name, as he was not an imperial. This man was, however, an assassin in the employ of the Dark Brotherhood. However he was contacted (the details are above my paygrade, and I had preferred it to stay that way) we received quite shocking news in the reply.

The Dark Brotherhood would not accept the contract.

Whatever Motierre had gotten, whatever he was up to, whoever he had been in league with, it was too much, even for the Dark Brotherhood.

That was years ago.

Recently with the news of Mr.. Motierre's passing, I was sent to the estate. I was to collect that object, the mirror, which was the sole property of the East Empire. It was to be a very quick retrieval.

The Gods would not grant me such a mercy. Upon that property, I would be surprised if the Gods look at all.

Passing through the gated entryway of the estate, the crunch of dead leaves underfoot did nothing to relieve my growing senses of both anxiety and self-preservation. It occurs to me at that moment that such an estate in such squalor would mean that no one has kept it for quite some time. Perhaps the mirror had already been made off with.

Crossing the front door, one finds a faded note on the shielded side of the parapet. The note is from the city guard. In their haste to bury Mr.. Motierre and his wife(no further kin remained) they had forgotten to remove the estate key from his pocket. A locksmith should be summoned forthwith to gain entry to the building, or one may disturb their recently reposing corpses.

My employers are not kind, nor are they generous. I chose the latter. This is one of the images I should very much liked to forget, had I been able. His corpse had the key, but he did not grasp it as if it were treasure. No, it had been hanging out of a ripped pocket, as if the man had been forcibly attempting to remove it.

Upon entry to the estate, the first thing that struck me was the immense silence. No shuffle of footsteps upon stone. No wind moves. No birds outside, no settling of the house. The inner sanctum of the estate is one of complete, utter, unnerving silence.

The rooms had falling into various states of disrepair. A bed turned over here, cobwebs cluttering corners there. As is my duty, the house was combed, looking for the mirror.

Despite the stone, my footsteps scarcely made a sound. The stairs to the second floor sagged under their own weight, like some great ribcage laid bare and skeletal, then polished as if some unholy war trophy.

Shuffling across the second floor with a timid resoluteness of feet, I noticed mold had begun to creep and crawl along the tile. At intervals, water and leaves fermented in place, giving purchase to great spots of green and black seemingly crepuscular mold, basking in the eternal twilight of windows choking out the sunlight by a combination of dust and an exterior vine. The mold seemed to creep out of the master bedroom itself.

As I approached the bedroom, the mold grew ever thicker. The silence became as if a physical cloak, or a stifling gag.

The bedroom, covered in a thick carpet of mold.

The wall.

Hanging, on the wall.

The mirror had been hanging on the wall.

A great and shining thing, the unblinking eye that burns into the very soul of a man, ringed in silver, mantled in mold. The abomination lay mangled in silence that exuded itself upon the very being of the place.

I could not help but stare into the eye.

Forgive me, but I could not help but stare.

I do not forget easily. I cannot.

This is my curse.

The great and unblinking eye, the creeping of the house. As one stares deep into the most maddening maelstrom of the eye, it all becomes apparent!

The sounds are not absent. The life is not gone. The release from such a prison has yet to be earned, It haNgs uPon the mir ror!

---

AS I left the house, the boatman could not make ready fast enough. When we were sufficiently far from enough from the accursed plot of land, far enough out into the bay to approach coastal waters, I hurled the key from my person. I watched, and saw it sink. My own eyes saw it. The eye saw it!

That was two weeks ago. I can not stop thinking about the estate. I can no longer bear such a burden.

This morning, as if to drag my dreams of decomposing decadence and the withering of the mind into the waking world, I saw it on my bedside table.

Covered in kelp, and laying in a pool of water.

The key.