A cool night breeze blew through the heavy branches of the elder Pines. As silent crickets watch the lumbering clanking abomination makes its way down the asphalt river.
“Oh, for—"
The headlights of the van began to sputter, and the steering console flashed warnings of impending doom. With a cursed grumble Victor, the driver began to slowly maneuver the old beast onto the gravel shoulder of the road. The only pull-off for the next few miles. A gravel patch just before a blind corner.
The gravel crunched underneath the rubbered tires just as the van abruptly died. Thankfully rolling a few feet further, to a stop safely away from the road and the corner. Whit knuckled and frustrated Victor whispers a strand of choice curse words while closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure.
“FUCK……” His hands fly up from the steering wheel only to rain down flat-palmed punches at it. “Of all the nights for that no good—” He stops himself, after all, it was his choice to keep on the caretaker. “Lazy alcoholic mmhhhhhh.” He grabbed the steering wheel again and twisted it imagining the old man’s neck in his hands. “It ok, you still have time.”
Sweat prickled at his temples, and he absently swiped it away, running his hands through his blond hair. He let out his breath and leaned heavily back into the driver’s seat. As he wrapped his hands around the steering wheel once again. With a glair, he turned towards the passenger seat, to the phone that lay there. It was his phone technically, but not one anyone other than his buyers knew about.
“I knew I should have told him no.” He let go of the steering wheel and reached for the phone. “This is the kind of crap you deal with when you’re the head curator at some posh, private, New York Museum at the ripe old age of 60. When you’re ready to retire and take off where no one can find you.” He grabbed the phone “But here I am thirty-three with this shit position thrust upon me. Fucking prick—”
Victor thought back to his last position. He had risen fast in the museum world, he was good at what he did, and he knew it. But then his boss practically threw this opportunity at him. He hadn’t wanted it, but he also hadn’t really had a choice. It was a job he couldn't refuse. His boss had already accepted the job for him, and the patrons of this small town’s museum would not take his refusal well. Their pockets and influence went much too deep to not be taken seriously by him.
The phone flashed alive in his hands, illuminating the cabin of the old van. Quickly he entered his pen. The phone vibrated in his hands as the screen was unlocked. He frowned down at the number on the screen. It wasn’t his buyer, not that he expected them to call him, he wasn’t late, not yet.
He swiped the number away. He would deal with them later.
“You did it to yourself,” he said to himself. “You should have never gone out to drinks with his wife maybe then you'd still have your old job. Maybe you wouldn’t be out in the middle of the night with sto—” His eyes wandered to the top of his phone. “Of fucking course!” There was no reception.
He tossed his phone back on the seat and pulled the handle of his door kicking it open. The rust-covered hinges squeaked loudly into the night. It barely moved. Huffing in exasperation he shoved it open. The squeaks of protest seemed too loud for the night. But eventually, it opened.
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He hopped out and stretched glad that he had chosen to wear the jeans and polo shirt instead of his normal three-piece suit. He liked to look good, especially for buyers, but he had been lifting boxes all day and hadn’t had time to properly dress. Still, he knew he looked good, he worked just as hard on himself people respect attractiveness, after all, especially his buyers.
The gravel of the turn-off crunched under his patent leather shoes as he made his way to the front of the van. He fumbled for a moment as he tried to open the hood, remembering with annoyance that he needed to pop the lock. Grumbling to himself about the unnecessariness of the whole thing he quickly made his way back to the open door. He flipped the switch, just inside the van door. An audible clunk reverberated through the metal of the van, and the trunk popped up just a hair indicating it was now ready to be opened. Quickly he made his way back to the front of the van.
“Now, let's see if I can figure out what's wrong with this piece of shit,” he said, unclasping the latch and pushing the hood open. He stared at the dark engine. His brow furrowed before, leaning his head back, and staring up at the sky. “I can’t see anything.” He had forgotten a flashlight, or more realistically never even thought he would need one. “Can I have just one thing go right tonight?”
He shrugged, rolling his shoulders. There was a toolbox in the back of the van for a moment just like this. The gravel crunched loudly as he made his way to the back of the van and flung open the double doors. The toolbox was exactly where it should be, but something else was very out of place.
The parcels meant for that night’s delivery were strapped to the side of the van. This was not out of place; this was exactly what he had expected to see. What was out of place was a mirror. It was full length, taking up all the open space of the van floor. A sheet had been lazily thrown over it and he could see the reflection of the van ceiling in the exposed areas.
He recognized it instantly. It was a mirror they had received anonymously the day after he had arrived at the museum. Its gilded silver frame depicted scenes of a local town legend. Something about a mirror that eats people, or the things inside of it that did. Victor couldn’t remember, he wasn’t a believer in fairytales and didn’t care much for American folk history.
Victor stared down at the mirror. Had Tod, the museum caretaker left it there. He did not know and did not care. He was more concerned with what Tod might have thought about all the parcels that were loaded up into the van.
“The man is drunk as a skunk most days,” he said, part of him surprised he had gotten it in the van without breaking anything. “I’ll have to talk to him about it, I already told him I didn’t want him handling anything delicate.” He stared down at the mirror.
And if he asks what I was doing with all this… cleaning, yeah, he’ll forget about it within a week. He nodded to himself affirming his own thoughts to himself.
He grabbed the toolbox and made his way back to the front of the van, stopping just briefly to grab the phone through the still open door. Victor set the toolbox down next to the open trunk before turning his attention to the cell phone and the flashlight app that came with it.
Its bright white light illuminated the night, and Victor quickly flashed it toward the engine. He shook his head in annoyance. He had told the old man to take the old beast in for a tune-up and whatever repairs it might need months ago. Of course, Tod had insisted that he could do it all himself for only the cost of parts. But from the look of the engine, nothing had been done and the money for parts had gone somewhere else, most likely to another bottle.
Annoyance prickled at the back of his neck as he added one more thing for him to do. One more thing to add to the list of things he needed to get done. One more thing that the helper the town provided him with couldn't seem to accomplish.
A twig snapped in the forest directly behind him. He shot up surprised, smacking his head against the roof of the hood. The pain of the collision caused him to drop the phone. It clattered down through the engine, its light flashing through its hoses and metal rods, illuminating the engine’s jagged shapes as it tumbled through to the gravel below.