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The apartment was a portrait of a bygone era. Encased in noir. Vintage furnishing. Brass lamps on rosewood tables. Rain tapped windows with soft impatience. Dust hovered over the projector beam in its own version of swing pop. The screen flickered, screening old memories. The walls were classic 1950s movie magic: Desi Arnaz, Humphrey Bogart.
And Vincent Price in a pose Brahm Stoker would be proud of.
A little silky terrier rested nearby while David Simms prepared to screen a black-and-white Price film he had newly restored. The classic movie buff insisted that the performances in old films were real; modern movies flashed too much and said too little.
Lauren Bacall appeared on screen. Elegant. Poised.
The silhouette of her side profile, clearly outlined, cigarette in hand.
Somehow —
Close. Too close.
A line, in mimicked quill script, flashed across the screen, catching David’s attention.
“Some performances never end. “
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The audio cut off. With a flick of his nimble fingers, David adjusted the reel on the antiquated device, and it came to life with a slow, loud crank.
****
He rewound the scene.
The projector clicked, as if it had moving feet.
Click. Click.
The familiar velvet vintage furniture. The brass lamps on the rosewood table.
Lauren appeared on screen, this time, facing the camera.
David blinked.
Probably faulty restoration.
He rewound the tape again.
Click. Click.
Then, his eye caught sight of a new glass on the table.
He blinked again.
The dialogue between the characters had also changed slightly.
Now slower.
To match the slowed speed of the characters.
Desi Arnaz, Humphrey Bogart.
Vincent Price. With-
Moving eyes.
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The room seemed to shrink. David almost felt–
Enshrouded.
Static crawled slowly through the old speakers.
Lauren’s eyes followed. And turned.
To look straight into the camera.
Her eyes fixed on his, refusing to leave.
Not loud.
Not hyperbolic.
Not monstrous.
But-
Aware.
David’s little dog backed away from the television with a frantic whimper.
She spoke, in quiet, almost dulcet tones.
“You’ve seen me before.”
Lauren’s smile widened.
Widened.
He froze.
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The film reel reached its end. The theatre that watched Lauren Bacall slowly emptied.
The silence lingered longer than the film. The room seemed oddly–
Discolored.
Only the old projector still buzzed with life.
The grandfather’s clock in the corner of the living room.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Leaving a lone figure seated quietly at the back.
In the plush, velvet armchair.
The screen cuts an inch closer.
Closer.
David saw the figure clearly.
In the audience.
Black and white.
One that David knew intimately.
Almost too–
intimately.
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Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.
