/ He closes his eyes in an effort to see the mirror—not to translate it as an object in the dust, but to embrace the apparitions inside. He curls his fingers into his palms. He becomes conscious of his heart rate. Conscious of inhalation. He reads it as a symbol. A pivotal device in this moment, this scene. He remembers what they’ve told him about scrying. He regresses, remembering the first time he went to church—a blank sensation of dead eyes overlooking the pews. The smudge of lips on the rim of the chalice. The smooth-faced pastor chanting words without speaking. / I did it wrong. I know that now, but what was I supposed to do? I know she was driving a rental car through the woods while fumbling with a map and holding his head where it shouldn’t have been. I know she tracked that old house down. She always talked about the voices in the rafters, you know? The voices in the rafters… fuck if I know what she was talking about. I know I did it wrong, but she was losing her goddamn mind. Those voices weren’t there. They weren’t there and she had no right to fuck with the dead, anyway. / Shapes are forming in the mirror. Fog and voices. Audiovisual apparitions. This isn’t the feeling of comfort he hoped for. He remembers the first time he went to church, the first time he faced the crucifix. He inspected the figure of Christ, morbidly contorted on the cross. Eyes cast upward, agony entrenched in golden light. / I used to write short poems inside pamphlets at the library, you know? I’d write them really neatly, then scribble my initials at the bottom. Some romantic notion, maybe? I don’t know. I was looking for the crux in my narrative. Sometimes I’d prompt people to say certain things, make certain gestures. They never complied, so I’d retreat to the sofa on the outskirts of the party. Either that or I’d drive off into the night, wet-eyed on the highway in the company of classic pop songs. I wrote so many poems, really bad poems, all about my emptiness. Not just my emptiness, but the emptiness… you know? Fuck it. I know I did it wrong. / She’s speaking words now. Phrases, abstract but complete. He’s listening, palms whitening from the pressure of his fingertips. He’s probing at the whiteness to find her face, to see her in the midst of ghosts. “I know I fucked up. I know I did it wrong,” he says. She’s passing through the undercurrent, formless again. The room is cold, unmoved by the climax of a three-act story /

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