My Work Is Not Yet Done by Ligotti Thomas

Author:Ligotti, Thomas [Ligotti, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Random House UK
Published: 2011-05-31T06:00:00+00:00

8

On Richard’s orders, Chipman went to see what was what with Sherry. It was just after the close of the work day and the floor on which Sherry’s office was located was quiet and empty, save for a few members of the cleaning staff who moved among the cubicles, emptying out each employee’s trash containers and doing a bit of vacuuming. Knocking lightly on the door of Sherry’s office, Chipman looked around for anyone who might be observing him before slipping into the room and closing himself inside.

“What the hell,” said Chipman aloud.

The ceiling light still illuminated the windowless office, but it was dim and flickered at strobe-like intervals. This was done strictly for effect on my part, as was the general disarray of the room, which appeared as if a miniature whirlwind had turned the place all higgledy-piggledy, with bookshelves knocked to the floor, a desk that leaned at a forty-five degree angle against the wall, and the contents of every file drawer and desk drawer scattered everywhere. While there was no sign of Sherry, her purse was among the disturbed contents within those four walls. Chipman saw it at the back of the room, its strap torn off and its leather outerskin crushed like a deflated football.

As he stepped cautiously through the debris, Chipman saw something glinting on the floor, something that blinked in sequence with the ceiling light and which animated the scene around him. Bending down, he picked up the object, which to all appearances was a hand mirror that had been dumped, along with everything else, from Sherry’s purse. Light and shadow skittered across the reflecting surface of the mirror. This was all that Chipman could see at first. But as he inspected the object more closely he noticed that there was also a face in that mirror…and the face was not his own. Nor was it Sherry’s face, exactly. But it was the face of something, some Sherry-like thing, some creature from which almost every vestige of Sherry had been distilled and only the Thing part remained. And it seemed to be screaming with what seemed to be a mouth full of craggy teeth that, seemingly, were trying to eat their way out of the mirror.

Chipman dropped the mirror to the floor immediately, instinctively. Then he started crushing it underfoot, stomping on it with the heel of his shoe until the mirror was only a collection of sharp, glittering fragments which he frantically kicked into every corner of the room, thereby dispersing the image of something that had quickened his breathing and made his eyes stare as if they could still see the face in the mirror.

Standing amid the tremulous shadows of that office—its furnishings all atilt, little slivers of a funhouse mirror still shining among the debris about him—Chipman appeared lost within the narrow corridors of dark reverie. But he was brought back to himself when, from somewhere in the chaos of Sherry Mercer’s old office, the telephone began to ring. Chipman scrambled

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