Rene Brabazon Raymond

The Mirror in Room 22

There were not more than a half a dozen officers in the mess that Christmas Eve. The big comfortably furnished room, in spite of its gay decorations and blazing log fire, looked forlorn and a trifle bleak now that the usual noisy crowd was absent.

The six officers who, for one reason or another, were spending Christmas Day on the station, had finished dinner and arranged themselves in a semicircle before the fire. For once the radio was silent and the officers seemed content to watch the leaping flames in the brick grate and listen to the wind as it whistled round the massive old house which served as their mess.

Hopkins, red-faced with a big blond moustache, half wing and two gongs, remarked suddenly that he would be glad when the Squadron moved on.

The Adjutant, a trifle sleepy, reminded him that they had only just arrived.

“I don’t like this station,” Hopkinscomplained, stretching out his long legs and sliding farther down into his chair. “Of all the lonely, god-forsaken holes, this is it. Besides, this house depresses me.”

“It depresses me, too,” the equipment officer agreed from his corner. “Hark at that dog howling. He’s been howling like that for the last two nights.”

“I know.” Hopkins unbuttoned his jacket and made himself more comfortable. “The brute kept me awake half the night.”

“Why didn’t you get up and kick it?” asked the Adjutant, who was of a practical turn of mind.

“I did get up, as a matter of fact, but though the howling seemed right under my window there was no sign of any dog.”

The equipment officer grinned. “You’re not trying to make us believe the mess is haunted, are you?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Hopkins returned shortly. “All the same, you must admit it is pretty creepy.”

“I suppose all lonely old country houses are creepy,” Meadowfield, the catering officer, remarked. “If you’re afraid that a spook will jump out on you when you go to bed I don’t, mind convoying you along the corridor for a slight consideration.”

There was a general laugh, in which Hopkins joined, and then came a pause in the conversation. The wind rose to a sudden crescendo, sending a flurry of twigs and small stones against the windows, for a moment drowning the ghoulish howling of the dog.

The Squadron CO came in with a wing commander who was a stranger to the men around the fire.

“Don’t get up, chaps,” the CO said. “This is Wing Commander Adams, the late CO of this station. He’s spending Christmas with us.”

There was a general movement to make room for the new-comers, and the six officers regarded the wing commander curiously. He was a big, fleshy, cheerful-looking man with powerful shoulders and a bull neck.

“What a dreary place to spend Christmas in, sir,” Hopkins said as soon as everyone had settled down again.

“I’ve known worse,” the wing commander replied, filling his pipe, “but I must say I would have chosen a better spot, only we moved out so quickly — there was some work left undone here and I took the opportunity of slipping back to tie up the loose ends.” He glanced suddenly towards the window. “The old dog’s at it again, from the sound of that howling.”

“Know who it belongs to, sir?” Meadowfield asked. “It’s been howling like that for the past two nights.”

“It always does at Christmas-time, so I’m told,” the wing commander replied. “Odd thing... the people in the village think it’s a spook. No one has ever seen it and it’s never heard except three days before Christmas.”

“Hopkins here was trying to make us believe the mess is haunted,” the equipment officer said with a sly grin. “You’re not trying to make us think so too, are you, sir?”

“Well, no,” the wing commander said slowly, “but something odd does happen here at Christmas-time. When I first heard the story I thought it was an old wives’ tale, but... well, these old houses — you hear strange things He lifted his shoulders and stared into the fire.

“You can’t leave it like that,” the CO said. “What story? Come on, Adams, you’ve aroused my curiosity.”

“There’s a popular tale in the village that the owner of this house committed suicide in his bedroom on Christmas Eve. It was about six years ago. He was in business in a big way and his partner swindled him. The business went smash and the news reached him on Christmas Eve. Not a very nice Christmas present, was it? Well, he cut his throat and they found him lying before the mirror in his bedroom. His dog disappeared that day and no one has seen sight of it since.” He glanced towards the windows again. “They do say in the village that it howls every Christmas Eve outside the house, mourning for its master.”

Meadowfield lit a cigarette. “Extraordinary the nonsense some villagers talk. By the way, what was the number of the room in which the old boy died?”

The wing commander looked round at the expectant faces. “Number Twenty-two,” he said.

Hopkins made a little grimace. “That’s my room,” he said. “It’s a jolly good room, too.”

The wing commander nodded. “I know it is,” he said. “As a matter of fact I used to have that room when I was on the station.”

Hopkins grinned. “Then that’s all right,” he said. “You didn’t notice anything peculiar about it, did you?”

“Nothing much,” the wing commander returned, and once more lit his pipe.

“There was something?”

“Well, yes, but I guess it was due to one Scotch too many. It is easy to imagine things in the candlelight, especially after one has been talking about ghosts.”

Hopkins leaned forward. “Did you see anything?”

“Perhaps I had better go on with my story,” the wing commander said, “as it was told me last Christmas Eve. We had invited the village squire to dinner and he asked quite suddenly who was occupying Room Twenty-two — just as I asked you — and when I told him he gave me such a peculiar look that I took him aside and asked him if anything was the matter.”

The adjutant suddenly kicked the fire into a blaze. “It’s getting chilly in here,” he said, leaning forward to warm his hands. “Haven’t you noticed it?”

“Go on, sir,” Hopkins said, scowling at the adjutant. “What did he tell you?”

“It seems that the last two occupants of Room Twenty-two were found lying before the mirror with a razor in their hands and their throats cut. Both of them had occupied the room on successive Christmas Eves and since then the room had been kept locked. It was only when my squadron moved in that the room was opened again.” He gave a chuckle.

“I thought it was absolute rot and told the squire so. As the evening went on I forgot all about it. The next morning I was on early duty and got up about six o’clock. It was dark and the room was lit only by flickering candles. The dog was howling — as it is howling now — but even then I did not think of those odd deaths that had taken place in the room. I began to shave before the mirror, watching as one does the reflection of my face. Then quite suddenly I had an extraordinary illusion. It could have been nothing but that, of course, but I found I was no longer looking at myself in the mirror, but at someone completely different. He was a man about my own build and his face was sad. He was apparently going through the motions of shaving himself with a glittering old-fashioned razor, his motions coinciding with mine, and then suddenly he paused and deliberately drew the razor across his throat, smiling fixedly at me as he did so. I must admit the apparition gave me a nasty shock and I stepped away from the mirror, dropping my razor as I did so. When I looked again I only saw myself, looking, I must admit, a little green about the gills. It was, to say the least, a most disagreeable experience, but of course it was nothing but an illusion.”

Hopkins stared at him. “It’s a wonder you didn’t cut yourself,” he said seriously.

The wing commander nodded. “I use a safety razor,” he said. “Otherwise I might have met with a serious accident — especially if I used an old-fashioned cut-throat.”

“Like I do,” Hopkins said thoughtfully. “H’m... well, I think we all ought to have a drink after that.”

Someone else started a ghost story, and after a little while Hopkins slipped from the ante-room for a few minutes. When he returned he seemed somewhat relieved, and joined in the conversation in his usual noisy fashion.

Later the group of officers broke up, and the wing commander and the CO were the last to retire.

“You’re fixed up all right?” the CO asked, as he was leaving to go to his own little cottage across the way.

The wing commander smiled. “I think so,” he said, and beckoned to the airman who was waiting with his luggage. “Has Flight Lieutenant Hopkins moved his things from Room Twenty-two yet?”

The airmen nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s all ready for you.”

“Good, then take up my bag, will you?” The wing commander turned to the CO. “I always believe in taking a little trouble to secure the best room, don’t you? I wouldn’t feel happy to stay here and not be in my old room. After all, Hopkins can have it back when I’ve gone. Good night. I hope my little story won’t disturb your dreams. It certainly won’t disturb mine.”

And still smiling, the wing commander followed the airman up the broad staircase.

Content

Rene Brabazon Raymond
The Mirror in Room 22