The Mirror
by
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The Diary
I get an early night and decide tomorrow to investigate the hospital in search of the owner of the wooden box. Mary, the hospital curator, questions my curiosity into the matter of the history. I respond by explaining the reprimand of my uncle. I am given permission to enter the library. I seek out past surgeons and doctors in the library's info. There he is. My heart races. He is a wartime surgeon, a physician in reconstructive work on limbs, digital, and facial characteristics. Amazing. I pull him up on the screen and nearly scream when I see the image of a faded sepia photograph. I cup my hands across my mouth in astonishment. It is the ghost. I catch my breath, my heart thumping hard. I enquire if there are any records or notes of his. The system throws up a notebook, teaching records, surgical records, and, most intriguingly, a diary. I rise from my seat and ask the clerk if it is possible to view the item. She nods and enquired if I want the original or a copy. I ask for both, as I guessed I would not be able to take home the original. She is gone for a few moments and my heart lurches in anticipation. As I am waiting, Jenny appears in the doorway of the library, beckoning me with one finger. She has a serious, strange look. I obey, twitching over my shoulder to see if the assistant has missed me. She must be down in the vaults. Jenny's face is somewhat pallid. I ask why she was feeling so. She replies, “I know someone who can clean your flat.” Her voice is soft and trembling. "You saying I'm dirty?” I retort at the remark. Jenny sighs. “No, stupid. The ghost!” I am astounded. “I don't dabble in that bullshit,” I defend. "Jesus, Samantha, when are going to face the fact that you've got uninvited guests!” "Maybe I like my guest.” Yes, I did enjoy the company. It was fun and now someone wanted to push it into the recycling bin. “I am happy, thank you.” I spoke softly, as Jenny is a sensitive soul. She thinks she is as hard as nails. She looks it. A voice calls me from behind. It's the assistant with my books. I bid Jenny farewell, but her voice is shrewd and determined. “I will be at your place Thursday with the help you need.” "Yeah, whatever, spooky,” I taunt. I take the books from the assistant and request a small, quite, discreet place to read. I finger the leather-bound diary, and it has the same inscription on it as the wooden box. It is old and tatty with age. It smells musty but also of deep tobacco, the type I can smell in my flat. My skin flinches. The assistant stares at me and begins to speak with a forked tongue, “Why are you interested in that two-faced Nazi bastard?” "I beg your pardon?” I retort, almost speechless. This woman is probably old enough to be my late mother's great aunt. The woman's mouth is tight at the edges from years of shushing or pipe smoking. "He was a Nazi spy. Disappeared during the war. Not a trace of him anywhere. Left like those god damned doodle bugs. Buzz, buzz and, bang, kaboom.” "You sound like you knew him.” She twitches, her mouth tightens, hiding the answer to my question. "What did he do that was so bad?” "People went missing, according to the archives.” She pauses. “A bit of a nut, with all that experimentation.” She circles her index finger at her temple. “Go ahead, have a good laugh. Kill yourself.” "I thought he was a pioneering surgeon?” I quiz, waving my hand at the computer. “According to the archives, that is.” She nods and says, “Aye, he was.” A small Scottish whisper of honesty. “I'll leave you in peace.” She shuttles off in a kind of melancholy swagger. I stare down at the diary. I am unsure if I should open it, but I feel more resolve to find out about the stranger I have wondering around my place. I open the cover:
Diary of Charles Hamilton Smythe. Mbq esq. surgeon of the Royal Hospital and professor of new science and technology development. 1941. Address: Apartment 4, King George House, Riverside Mead, London Bridge
I stare, mouth open. That's my address. My home. It makes sense. My heart races. I turn over the page:
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About the Book
As the mirror told its tale, the face was first just ghostly. Then,it changed and drew you in, to the darker places you've never been to - to the sound of distant memories, to a haunting within, bedevilled amongst the desolation of the London Blitz, and to the submerged underbelly of riotous modern London. An art deco mirror is re-hung in its original setting, a gallant art deco building adjacent to London bridge on the South Bank. It begins tormenting its residence a locally based nurse, originally from South Africa. Did she obtain the apartment by chance? A hospital diary diary reveals the haunting banshee and a different fate starts to unravel. the diary indicates the mirror is taunting the author, an army surgeon weary of the war in Europe. The toying becomes more rabid hurling the unsuspecting reader and author into confusing ,darker times.
About the Author
Tate Adams is a person so fascinated by people, their past history , who, why and what, has made that person who they are today. History , science and technology is also a key part of the authors intrigue . How so many times a small discovery has changed a whole world . Tate Adams writes from research, but narratively influenced by the proxy of the dream realm. Many ideas have blossomed from the darting wake up scream of a nightmare, leaving the author unable to rest and the images of the dreams , fingerprinted permanently as a true to life experience. The authors message within their writing is to obtain the reader to think about the world around them, cherish what they have ,how precious friends and loved ones truly are. Tate Adams wants to bring a better understanding of the poor and needy (why they are so), and those caught in the cross fire of war. Tate Adams also supports Vision care charity for the homeless.