A Faint Rustling Stills The Trees
A short story by Giulia Alvarez, based upon The Reaper's Image, By Stephen King

“Steve Bates! Headphones. Off.” Mr. Entwistle barks at me when we get off the bus, “We're on an educational trip, not a... punk-party trip!” I can't help snickering at this. As 'cool' as Mr. Entwistle tries to be, (The Who posters and the photos of John Entwistle up on his wall) He just can't seem to manage the speaking part. I smile to myself at the thought of Mr. Entwistle's short, plump body in tight black jeans and a Sonic Youth T-shirt, and his bald head adorned with a mohawk. My smile falls as the museum looms before me, gray and huge in the late October light. I hug my leather jacket tightly around me as a gust of wind shoves our class towards the museum. Eerie.

“Yo, can you believe that? The wind was, like, pushing us.”

“Yeah, spooky, right?”

Two minutes pass. The conversations return to the boring crap that teenagers come up with, such as, 'Ehmahgawd, did you SEE his face?' or 'You're trading Eli Manning for Roethlisburger? Bad trade, dude. Blah, blah, blah Fantasy Football...” I'm sorry, in my opinion the only reason that Fantasy Football exists is for skinny nerds in pink hot pants and Star Trek sweatshirts to get their taste of playing football without tripping over their laces and smashing their thick-rimmed glasses on Turf.

After snapping out of my anti-fantasy football reverie, I hide behind Mitchell Frampton, the biggest kid in the class, to plug into The Ramones and forget the stupid mirror we're here to see. It's not like it's relevant to the Second World War.

“Bates, don't be an idiot. Everyone can see your jewfro from here,” Natascha Elliot tells me, tapping my shoulder from behind. Ew. Not her. Is she really going to make my day a living hell again? I send daggers with my eyes and scoff,

“Well, Elliot, don't you want me to get in trouble? Don't you hate me just so much that you want to see me wallow in despair? Why're you giving me advice?”

“Because I'd rather see you killed by Frampton than Entwistle,” She smiles her goofy little smile, “I'm totally rad enough to spare you from the dude's wrath,” she grins, and I scowl at her.

“I swear to God, Elliot, I will smash that mirror we're wasting our time here for in your face.” Unfortunately, at that moment Entwistle approaches the three of us, slaps me upside the head, and gives both Frampton and Elliot a dirty look.

“I suggest you pay attention instead of flirting, Steven. If you intend passing my class, this trip is vital.” He waggles a fat finger resembling a salami in my face then walks away. Wrinkling my nose, I pull out my ear buds and walk into the warmth of the museum. The next few minutes are a blur of Elliot poking me hard in the ribs, me ignoring her, and being punched in the arm by Frampton. The reason? I take up too much space. Hypocrite.

We shuffle, squashed like sardines, into a new room. My ears pick up some explanation of what the room holds, but frankly I'm not in the mood to listen at the moment.

When I turn to the center of the room, my eyes widen. There's this mirror. This fabulous, sparkling mirror. I can't help but let my jaw drop. It's... incredible. It's unbelievable. I peer at myself in it. Surprisingly, I don't recoil and look away at my image like I usually do. I'm tall and lanky, but right now I actually look like a normal-sized teenage kid. My wild black hair, a mess of springy curls, looks remotely neat, and my smile isn't so wide and idiotic. I actually look like the kind of guy girls like now.

“Wow,” I whisper. I grab my cheeks and squish and stretch them. I look like some sort of a movie star, even when I contort my face into crazy expressions.

“Haha, Bates, what the hell are you doing?” I stop abruptly at the sound of Elliot's voice. Is it really necessary for that girl to crash every mental party I throw?

“Busy remarking to myself of how much better I look here than you,” I tell her, not taking my eyes away from my perfection. Speaking of... I turn to the guide. He reminds me of my obese uncle Harrison.

“...this mirror can be even called perfect!” Finishes the tour guide proudly, his double chin wobbling as he nods enthusiastically. There is a hushed murmur of agreement in the crowd. I can't resist arching an eyebrow and belting out some teenybopper song about nobody being perfect or something.

“Uh, no, it can't,” Elliot says. “There's a funky black spot in the corner.” I automatically turn to the corner. I can't see anything. I let out a scoff. Wait a second... if I squint, there is a weird black thingy there.

“Yeah... yeah, I see it, too.” I mutter, “Wow, Elliot, for the first time in your life you actually did something right,”

“Nice way to slip in a bad insult there, kid,” she says, tugging nervously on a strand of magenta-dyed hair. “Mr. Entwistle, can I visit the facilities?”

“Sure you can,” the tourguide interjects. “It's over there, down the stairs and to the right.”

“Thanks, man,” says Elliot as she scurries, quicker and in a more frenzied way than usual, down the stairs. I look back in the mirror. My image, now, doesn't seem so beautiful... it's menacing, in a way. The black spot is bigger now, and it takes a shape. A hooded figure... weird.

“Can I get a drink of water?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I have a chance to think. I'm not even thirsty.

“Water fountain's right next to the bathroom,” the tour guide says offhandedly, not even looking at me. Frampton grins, his chocolate-covered teeth showing. I feel ill.

Going downstairs, The only thought in my head is “why can't I stop?” First of all, I'm not even thirsty. Second of all, going down there would only make the rumors seem more true, that me and Natascha are having some sort of 'secret affair'... Wait, did I just call her by her name? In my head? I must be going crazy. I turn a corner, nibbling at my index finger anxiously. What am I expecting?

The hallway I'm nearly sprinting through suddenly grows dim, the overhead lamps flickering in an odd sort of synchronization. Something is coming. I turn another corner, finally reaching the blue door with chipped paint, marked Gentlemen. I'm relieved, until I look down.

Holy mother of God. An emaciated body lies unmoving on the floor, a pool of scarlet liquid surrounding it. I shut my eyes. Open them again. Shut them. Open them. Open. Shut. I shake my head in denial. No, no, no, no. No way in hell is there a dead thing here. Cautiously approaching the bloody mass, I nearly retch. It smells like meat that's been out for a week. Taking a look at the face, slashed and rotted, I realize it's Natascha. I hear an inhuman scream. It takes a moment to realize that it's me.

In the bathroom, I splash water on my face.

It's not real, it's not happening. You fell asleep on the bus.

It's not working. The pungent smell is still there, weighing down on me. I'm going crazy, I'm going crazy. My lungs begin to stop working. I'm choked. I can't move anything. I'm standing here in a public bathroom. Beads of sweat trickle down from my temple to my jaw. My face has no expression. The absence of the terror inside me on my face surprises me.

Bloody slashes appear on my wrists, without anyone touching them. I feel a thick, warm liquid dribble down my hand, down onto the floor. Puddles of scarlet. Before I know it, he's there, the hooded figure. The black hooded figure. He's there in the mirror. The memories begin flooding into my mind, seemingly meaningless.

An eagle swoops soundlessly over a prairie. A single, long cut slowly forms along my neck, inch by inch. I see it in the crappy reflection of me. My white shirt is stained red. A poppyfield, extending forever and ever, to the horizon. Flashes and flashes of pain. Nothing. The reflection of a red-stained somebody crumpling to the ground in agony.

Darkness creeping over a valley in the country. Then nothing. A guitar playing in front of a subway. Nothing again. Clouds rushing by in the blue, blue sky.

Moments.

All gathering towards this one.

FIN.