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The Trap
By H. P. Lovecraft
with Henry S. Whitehead
It was on a certain Thursday morning in December that the whole thing began with that unaccountable
motion I thought I saw in my antique Copenhagen mirror. Something, it seemed to me, stirred—something
reflected in the glass, though I was alone in my quarters. I paused and looked intently, then,
deciding that the effect must be a pure illusion, resumed the interrupted brushing of my hair.
I had discovered the old mirror, covered with dust and cobwebs, in an outbuilding
of an abandoned estate-house in Santa Cruz’s sparsely settled Northside territory, and
had brought it to the United States from the Virgin Islands. The venerable glass was dim from
more than two hundred years’ exposure to a tropical climate, and the graceful ornamentation
along the top of the gilt frame had been badly smashed. I had had the detached pieces set back
into the frame before placing it in storage with my other belongings.
Now, several years later, I was staying half as a guest and half as a tutor
at the private school of my old friend Browne on a windy Connecticut hillside—occupying
an unused wing in one of the dormitories, where I had two rooms and a hallway to myself. The
old mirror, stowed securely in mattresses, was the first of my possessions to be unpacked on
my arrival; and I had set it up majestically in the living-room, on top of an old rosewood console
which had belonged to my great-grandmother.
The door of my bedroom was just opposite that of the living-room, with a hallway
between; and I had noticed that by looking into my chiffonier glass I could see the larger mirror
through the two doorways—which was exactly like glancing down an endless, though diminishing,
corridor. On this Thursday morning I thought I saw a curious suggestion of motion down that
normally empty corridor—but, as I have said, soon dismissed the notion.
When I reached the dining-room I found everyone complaining of the cold, and
learned that the school’s heating-plant was temporarily out of order. Being especially
sensitive to low temperatures, I was myself an acute sufferer; and at once decided not to brave
any freezing schoolroom that day. Accordingly I invited my class to come over to my living-room
for an informal session around my grate-fire—a suggestion which the boys received enthusiastically.
After the session one of the boys, Robert Grandison, asked if he might remain;
since he had no appointment for the second morning period. I told him to stay, and welcome.
He sat down to study in front of the fireplace in a comfortable chair.
It was not long, however, before Robert moved to another chair somewhat farther
away from the freshly replenished blaze, this change bringing him directly opposite the old
mirror. From my own chair in another part of the room I noticed how fixedly he began to look
at the dim, cloudy glass, and, wondering what so greatly interested him, was reminded of my
own experience earlier that morning. As time passed he continued to gaze, a slight frown knitting
his brows.
At last I quietly asked him what had attracted his attention. Slowly, and still
wearing the puzzled frown, he looked over and replied rather cautiously:
“It’s the corrugations in the glass—or whatever they are, Mr.
Canevin. I was noticing how they all seem to run from a certain point. Look—I’ll show
you what I mean.”
The boy jumped up, went over to the mirror, and placed his finger on a point
near its lower left-hand corner.
“It’s right here, sir,” he explained, turning to look toward
me and keeping his finger on the chosen spot.
His muscular action in turning may have pressed his finger against the glass.
Suddenly he withdrew his hand as though with some slight effort, and with a faintly muttered
“Ouch.” Then he looked at the glass in obvious mystification.
“What happened?” I asked, rising and approaching.
“Why—it—” He seemed embarrassed. “It—I—felt—well,
as though it were pulling my finger into it. Seems—er—perfectly foolish, sir, but—well—it
was a most peculiar sensation.” Robert had an unusual vocabulary for his fifteen years.
I came over and had him show me the exact spot he meant.
“You’ll think I’m rather a fool, sir,” he said shamefacedly,
“but—well, from right here I can’t be absolutely sure. From the chair it seemed
to be clear enough.”
Now thoroughly interested, I sat down in the chair Robert had occupied and
looked at the spot he selected on the mirror. Instantly the thing “jumped out at me.”
Unmistakably, from that particular angle, all the many whorls in the ancient glass appeared
to converge like a large number of spread strings held in one hand and radiating out in streams.
Getting up and crossing to the mirror, I could no longer see the curious spot.
Only from certain angles, apparently, was it visible. Directly viewed, that portion of the mirror
did not even give back a normal reflection—for I could not see my face in it. Manifestly
I had a minor puzzle on my hands.
Presently the school gong sounded, and the fascinated Robert Grandison departed
hurriedly, leaving me alone with my odd little problem in optics. I raised several window-shades,
crossed the hallway, and sought for the spot in the chiffonier mirror’s reflection. Finding
it readily, I looked very intently and thought I again detected something of the “motion.”
I craned my neck, and at last, at a certain angle of vision, the thing again “jumped out
at me.”
The vague “motion” was now positive and definite—an appearance
of torsional movement, or of whirling; much like a minute yet intense whirlwind or waterspout,
or a huddle of autumn leaves dancing circularly in an eddy of wind along a level lawn. It was,
like the earth’s, a double motion—around and around, and at the same time inward,
as if the whorls poured themselves endlessly toward some point inside the glass. Fascinated,
yet realizing that the thing must be an illusion, I grasped an impression of quite distinct
suction, and thought of Robert’s embarrassed explanation: “I felt as though
it were pulling my finger into it.”
A kind of slight chill ran suddenly up and down my backbone. There was something
here distinctly worth looking into. And as the idea of investigation came to me, I recalled
the rather wistful expression of Robert Grandison when the gong called him to class. I remembered
how he had looked back over his shoulder as he walked obediently out into the hallway, and resolved
that he should be included in whatever analysis I might make of this little mystery.
Exciting events connected with that same Robert, however, were soon to chase
all thoughts of the mirror from my consciousness for a time. I was away all that afternoon,
and did not