Seeing demons in the mirror

By Michele Zirkle Marcum - Contributing Columnist

Editor’s Note: Listen to the podcast of this column.

The face staring at me in the mirror isn’t just my image, but that of a demon’s.

Somehow I just floated from the bed where I’d been sleeping to this stool. Fog forms around my feet. My body feels weightless, not human.

The solid, earthly consistency of my familiar physical body is now a transparent spirit form — a fluid motion of iridescent energy with swirls of light coursing throughout and radiating from within. I stare at my hands, turning my palms over and over, and watch the aura around them glow like the bioluminescent bay I kayaked through in Puerto Rico, awestruck that I control such extremities and that a single thought sets them into motion.

I am the aura. I am the light, yet I’m still me and I know I’m the observer of a truth not visible unless the veil between worlds is parted — like now. This is unreal, yet more real than any experience I’ve ever had in the third dimension.

I shudder. I’m not alone. Keeping my head bowed, I peer into the peripheral space to my left and right where sparkling white entities surround me. I know they are angels.

Without any physical contact or audible command, the angel directly in front of me insists that I raise my head and look into my dresser mirror. I sense the angel can read my thoughts as I silently plead with him to spare me the sight. I know what I will see — the most horrific me I’ve ever seen, my true self, but my will is irrelevant. I must obey.

My head begins tilting upward. I strain to stop it, but I can’t regain control and within seconds I’m fixated on my reflection. My entire face looks crispy, carved like a pumpkin and deep-fried with charcoal black scars disfiguring my cheeks and forehead. The crown of my elongated head sways to the left and waves into a tapered point.

My eyes are locked into the windows to my soul, but my blue eyes aren’t the only ones staring back at me in the mirror. A demon’s gaze is boring through me. I want to escape — to scream and run, but I’m paralyzed as I stare at the grotesque face that’s fused to mine. My face is a demon’s face — pure evil.

I’m unable to bear the macabre vision another second and suddenly crash back into my physical body that’s still lying on the bed. I jerk my head off the pillow and snap on the lamp feeling like I’ve just snorted an ammonia capsule for a record-breaking squat in a power-lifting meet. I scour the room for any remnant of evil emanating from my mirror, ready to scream at the first sight of any spirit, good or bad.

The stool I just sat in is gone. There are no angels or fog. Everything in the room is the same as before.

Everything that is — except me.

By Michele Zirkle Marcum

Contributing Columnist

Michele Zirkle Marcum is a native of Meigs County, author of “Rain No Evil” and host of Life Speaks on AIR radio.

Michele Zirkle Marcum is a native of Meigs County, author of “Rain No Evil” and host of Life Speaks on AIR radio.