Jericho crawled out of the lake onto dry land. He clearly wasn’t in Kansas anymore. There were too many trees, benches, let alone people.

  There were cars in the periphery of the park, but they looked terribly outdated. Long smooth rectangles with no overhead coverings, intended for warmer climes or so he hoped. The lamps on the walkway seemed to be of a similar era, for whatever likelihood that was worth in the depths of the mausoleum.

  For all he knew, the memories were commingling, anachronisms the expected format rather than the exception. But it didn’t matter, in the end. It was all a moot point until he managed to find the corpse at the heart of the mausoleum. Everything else was just time squandered on solving what was most important.

  Away from the lake, in the heart of the park, there were all the telltale signs of a wedding. A happy bride, adorned in white, her sheer veil barely masking her unbridled joy. A blushing groom, basking in the amassed affection of the crowd. He’d never imagined he could be this happy, but here he was. His love in front of him, his life of untold joy as yet to pass.

  A small assembled crowd sat on folding chairs, the aisle split into two distinct factions, although their commingled joy connected them. It would have been touching if not for it being a reflection of another layer of the mausoleum surrounding the corpse. Any further and the escape route was going to be exceptionally difficult.

  That was a lie. It was already going to be exceedingly painful, but Jericho wanted to pretend otherwise as he scoured the area for a remaining reflective surface. This clearly couldn’t be the final area. There was too much life.

  He ignored the events of the wedding, no longer interested in feigning enthusiasm for what was assuredly the memories of whoever it was that died. The highlight reel of her life was touching, but essentially meaningless to Jericho. He didn’t have the time to become enamored with her life. The longer he stayed within the realm of the mausoleum, the more likely it was he’d never get out.

  With the lake being his entrance point, that only left a few likely possibilities for his exit into the next area. Reflective surfaces weren’t too likely in an outdoor space like a park, especially during a wedding. It was fundamentally possible, he supposed, that the silverware would let him pass, but that felt like it would go against the rules of the mausoleum.

  The outskirts of the park were fuzzy and ill-defined, which suggested that a car was out of the question. If he took one step past the perimeter, he’d feel the cold weight of the undefined memory threaten to consume him. He wasn’t ready to be erased. Not just yet.

  The prospect of having to squeeze into a pocket mirror was daunting. Digging through the possessions of so many guests would be a tremendous waste of time, and while it wasn’t impossible to squeeze into the smaller dissensions, he couldn’t imagine it’d be a comfortable fit. The prospect of shoving himself through a pocket mirror, one arm at a time? Harrowing, especially when it came to the return trip.

  Jericho glanced around the venue, looking for any other option. Something caught his eye off to the side and he smirked, all but certain he’d found the right path. He booked it for the barbecue table, pressing his arm into the shining surface of the aluminum container, passing into what he hoped would be his last stop.

  The sound of a knife meeting flesh seemed to suggest that was the case. The person—their face scrambled like with a wall of static, body’s shape a mere suggestion of a form—plunged their knife over and over into the elderly woman’s body. The knife glistened with blood, crimson strands clinging to the cold surface. Droplets flung about the room with each flick of the person’s wrist.

  The act was cold and controlled, even if the blood flying across the room wasn’t. Jericho climbed out from the standing mirror to get a better view of the situation, only for the two bodies to disappear altogether.

  That… that didn’t make sense. This was the murder scene. Where did the corpse go? Where’d the killer go? Where’d the blood go?

  The room was pristine.

  Every trace of the untimely death was gone. It was as though no one even lived there. Clean floors, unused cushions. Not a speck of dust. It was unnatural, odd thing it was within the heart of a mausoleum.

  But if this room was anything like the other memories, he just had to wait for the act to start again, and everything would become clear.

  Jericho moved to the side of the wall, away from what he thought the action covered before. He held his breath, praying (even if there was nobody left to pray to) that the murder would come to pass once again, only for the room to shake, revealing a lived-in space.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The old woman sat in front of the television, flicking through the channels when the person crept out from the shadows in the corner. Their movements were fluid, betraying no concerns about the actions they were about to take. This was either a consummate professional or a fanatic adhering to their vision, and Jericho wasn’t sure which one scared him more.

  The first knife slid past the woman’s throat, and the light faded from her eyes. She slumped over, helplessly gurgling, outstretched hand raising for the ceiling.

  Jericho gritted his teeth.

  The person continued perforating the corpse with the knife, the blood splashing around the room until they stopped with one last flourish. Then the blood started to glow.

  Everywhere the blood touched, it sprouted further, skinny veins of crimson stretching throughout the perimeter of the room. With another flick of the knife, the blood shined a deep black, and then the room vanished before Jericho’s eyes. It was pristine once more.

  He grunted, and pulled out his gun, pointing it at the chair. “Sorry about this,” he said. There was no other choice. Someone had to properly dispose of the corpse, and as the only one present with an oracle, it had to be him. That monster left behind the corpse to rot until it manifested this mess, and it was up to him to finish his duty.

  His other hand fished a lighter from his pocket and pressed it into the gun, the smooth plastic swallowed by the cold exterior. And then with a light kick, a bright flame shot from the barrel. It pierced through the couch and the outline of the corpse went up in flames.

  Immediately, the surrounding perimeter of the room broke, elements falling into the abyss.

  The good news? Jericho had successfully disposed of the corpse. The bad news? He had to get out before he was never seen again.

  He dove for the mirror and tumbled on through, running past the dissolving landscape behind him. Chair after chair fell into the abyss, and Jericho felt the cold embrace of nothingness ready to drink him down if he took a wrong step.

  It nipped at his heels, desperate laps of the rough tongue of unreality, hungry for a new toy to chew on. He kicked it away, barreling past the crowd to dive into the cold lake to spill outside of the window.

  His body spilled out onto the bathroom floor, crumpling against the closed wall. And then the wall spilled away, and his body careened into nothingness. How he screamed.

  It was indescribable—how else could one try to measure the sensation of being erased? Assimilated into something far greater, constituent parts amalgamated into a new form? One could try and capture that in saying they were being dissolved, in that they melted into the new form, but that would be nothing more than a short hand for the concept that Jericho suffered, not a representation of what he felt.

  People cannot withstand this act beyond ego death, for his ego was still persisting while his form was supped upon. It threatened to swallow him whole, if not for the nagging sensation at the back of his head, that he was forgetting something. Someone. A precious child who needed him.

  His nails sought purchase in the linoleum floor, struggling for any sort of leverage to dig out before his legs were totally and utterly gone altogether. Blood trickled from his fingertips, but that was a small price to pay to continue. With a heavy groan, Jericho mustered up his strength and pulled with everything he had, legs surfacing from the hungering nothingness.

  There was no time to catch his breath. He scrambled to his feet, unsteady legs ill-suited to movement until he recovered, but time to recover couldn’t be found. He dug around the corner, ignoring the freezing air, and jumped into the mirror on the wall.

  The kitchen sink spat him out, and he struggled to climb out from the awkward position, rolling onto the ground once again. He weaved past the images of the family, jumping from tile to tile as others fell away. Leap after leap. Heaving breaths. Desperate steps. All to get to that TV screen floating in the air, while the rest of the Midwest collapsed behind him. All that remained of the mausoleum was the dirt path to the house, and Jericho jumped as that crumbled beneath him, flying out of the mausoleum once and for all.

  On the outside, back in the house, the duplicate was no longer present. Jericho saw the manifested unreality dissipating overhead. No longer was the wind and sky blocked. The world could continue once more.

  He flung himself on the ground outside the house, panting, staring up at the sky. It’d been a close one. Not by merit of the contents of the rank 2 unreality, but due to the length of the mausoleum. It almost swallowed him in his escape, and there’s no way back from that. There’s no way to undo one’s abject failure.

  It only went to show how much more he’d need to do before he could even consider taking on his friends’ improperly disposed corpses. He had to get better at using his oracle, and pick up some additional relics along the way. Maybe find others who would be willing to help… no. Dragging them down would be too much. He couldn’t bring anyone else into this.

  It might take longer, but he’d get there, given enough time. The corpses would wait until he got there. There was nowhere else they could go.

  After a few minutes, he rose from his seated position. The noises of the city were starting to return, which meant he didn’t have long before the scavengers from the Bureau showed up. It was time to take his prize for work well done.

  He walked back to the house, back to the epicenter of the unreality, and nabbed the hand mirror sitting in front of the TV. What it did? He’d learn later. He had time now.

  For now, it was time to get back to the outer perimeter, pick up his skates and get back home to his family. Just like the rest of the displaced.

  Whatever he needed to tell the Bureau about what he saw could come after a nice home cooked meal. For now? It was clear enough.

  Case 8: Mirror Mirror? Case closed.