Chapter 5: Eve White Eve Black

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Author’s Note: I bring you a shorter chapter this week so that you can catch up on the longer earlier chapters. Don't forget that you can chat with me about Hall of Mirrors inside my Discord server. In case you're not familiar with Discord, it is a chat app used mostly by gamers that's used all around the world to build community around topics and hobbies. It's free to download and use, and I am proud to say that we have moderators in my Discord to ensure a safe space for all visitors. What's more, I chat daily with you in a closer way that most authors don't. I hope you're having a safe and enjoyable week, and I look forward to your feedback on this latest chapter. It's spicy.

-Cesar Torres
Chicago

Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres
Copyright @ 2022 Cesar Torres. All Rights Reserved.

Hall of Mirrors by Cesar Torres

Chapter 5: Eve White Eve Black

NESTOR BUÑUEL

The diner was called The Lucky Platter, and the food was so goddamn delicious that for a few moments, Nestor was transported to other places, longtime places, that were vapors and images in his memory.

“What dream’s got the novelist’s fancy today?” Delia said.

“You caught me woolgathering. Busted!”

“Very busted.”

“It’s less of a dream, but more of a lingering vision,” Nestor said. He focused his gaze on Delia. Her soft lips, her bright eyes. His ears attuned themselves to her voice. “And I’m not just talking about this food. I think about what you and I could have had together.”

“You’re still on that shit?” Delia said. “I thought we came here to discuss a serial killer’s confessions, as well confidential info you couldn’t tell me during the interviews today.”

“I know. But I also need to say that… I know our ships have sailed into diametrically opposed directions. You’ve always made a big impression on me.”

“I’m seeing someone,” Delia said.

“Doesn’t surprise me. Are they a cop?”

“Thankfully, no. They own a small air conditioning repair company in the Lower East Side.”

“That’s good. Happy for you. You know, when we were both in the police department together, time moved in such a way that it seemed as if nothing would ever change.”

“How so?”

“It just felt as if you, me and the other cops we worked with would be running investigations, capturing criminals, working our beat forever. It seemed as if our world would never change.”

“But the winds blew in a different direction, didn’t it?” Delia said. “Listen, you told me today that we would have to wait until dinner to talk about Puttock.”

“He shares some similarities with Son of Sam,” Nestor said. “Berkowitz was convinced a demon in the form of a god compelled him to commit his crimes.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That’s the through-line. Puttock believes he’s dialoguing with beings from another place,” Nestor said.

“Puttock is not Berkowitz,” Delia said. “He’s a well-read man. Methodical. He’s a planner. If you ask me, his talk of supernatural entities is only a scare tactic. I think it’s just a show he’s putting on. But there is a missing piece in this profile…”

“What piece?” Nestor said. 

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes. He’s obsessed with you, Nestor.”

“Wish it was mutual. I want to forget him.”

“He’s as obsessed with you as he is with stories of demons and black millipedes in the walls.”

“Ah fuck off,” Nestor said, with a nervous chuckle.

“He studies every single gesture you make. You couldn’t see it, because you didn’t review the footage from the first two days of interview like I did. I think on some level, Puttock really admires you.”

“He’s wasting his time with someone like me. Nothing to see here other than a retired cop getting very close to sixty.”

“You undersell yourself, Nestor.”

“I’m gonna get another round of drinks for us,” he said.

“You go ahead, I’m good. I need to be rested for tomorrow’s sessions.”

“Aw, come on,” Nestor said. But Delia was not one to cave in to peer pressure. She just sat there quietly while Nestor flagged the waiter down for another beer.

“Back at the prison today, you said something was watching us,” Delia said.

“I meant it. We’re being watched on two different levels. On one level, the prison is full of cameras, and we can’t be sure that our phones are not being monitored during the interviews with Puttock.”

“But that’s a given. There’s no places left in society where cameras and mics aren’t present.”

“I get that. But there’s a second level. From that level, something else watching us,” Nestor said. “I have felt it in Chicago a few times, and now, I feel it here too, in the prison.”

“Something supernatural,” Delia said.

“I don’t believe in the supernatural,” Nestor said. “I prefer rationality and science.”

“But yet you believe in a trinity, the Virgin Mary, and the Resurrection, right?”

Nestor slid his soup plate away from him. He took a long drink before mustering the will to speak. By the time he did, three fourths of the bottle were already gone. The silence between him and Delia started to stretch again.

“They’re fucking metaphors, Delia. All religions use metaphors. The stories  from the Bible, the Koran, the Bhagavad Gita, they are not factual.”

“Noted. But you’re still circumventing what I’m talking about,” Delia said.

“Guilty as charged, I suppose,” Nestor said.

“So you’re gonna tell me that the thing that’s watching us, that thing that Puttock is referring to—that’s a metaphor too?”

“It’s complicated, okay?”

“Makes sense. You’re the most complicated cop I ever met,” she said.

“You’re just like my business partner Felix.You won’t let shit drop.”

Delia recoiled from Nestor’s words, but she was not afraid of him. He felt self conscious as he outdrank her, but fuck it, he needed to be able to wind down. Despite his crankiness, she was willing to put up with an old dog like him. His fourth beer arrived, and as he squeezed a lime on the rim, he built up the courage he needed.

“Okay, fine. I’m ready to talk about the being that’s watching us. But it’s connected to things in my past.”

“Go on,” she said.

“It started in 2025, when I was assigned to Puttock’s ritualistic murder of Marlene Grue. Her killing reminded me yet again just how savage and shitty humans can be to each other. You know what was the most fucked up moment for me? Going through Marlene’s drawers. In them, I found her hormones. She was going through menopause, and her doctor had her on hormone replacement therapy. I take T weekly—I have done so for many years. And in that moment, Marlene’s humanity hit me like a ton of bricks. We were the same age. Gender aside, we were flip sides of the same coin.”

Nestor felt no pain, no grief at the moment. He just felt pleasantly numb, thanks to the beer.

“I had no idea Marlene had such an impact on you,” Delia said.

“I could have had a life like hers. When I was just in college, and before I became a cop, many, many years ago, I had dreams of going to Harvard law school and becoming a big lawyer in Manhattan. Just like her. I fantasized a lot about it. In 2025, I was feeling career burnout, and I realized that my idealistic notions of being a cop were nothing more than dreams. The profession had become corrupt, racist, and people no longer trusted cops to protect them. And then Marlene ends up sliced open, flayed really, and her heart cut out from her chest. Her murder made me realize that evil exists. And you know, as I went through the investigation of the murder scene, the evidence, I kept experiencing strange occurrences. Things I just could not explain. Did you know that the staff at the movie theater heard birds throughout the theater that morning?”

“I recall seeing some of those quotes in your report, yes. And don’t forget, I was there, too, working the case.”

“Every single person in that movie theater heard bird sounds, loud and clear, and to this day, no one can figure out how or why.”

The diner was playing a soft tune by Roy Orbison that had been mashed up with lo-fi beats, as was the latest music trend for young people. Roy’s voice reverberated through the place, haunting each booth, the counter space, the kitchen.

“It turns out that birds—their songs, their shadows, their songs, their presence—were appearing in geographical locations close to Puttock’s crimes. Not just at the movie theater. Other people heard and saw them, and as you noted, even Devin witnessed their presence. Right before he quit, Devin shared that strange story with you, remember? He said he saw a gigantic owl with human hands instead of feet.”

“So there’s sorcery involved,” Delia said. She didn’t sound incredulous. “Puttock is a witch, is what you wanted to tell me.”

“No, not quite. The birds don’t belong to Puttock, and they’re not his familiars. The birds are beings with intelligences and consciousness all their own.”

“Beings?”

“Exactly. I am not even sure if they are birds as we think of them. I don’t think they are from this plane of existence.”

“You have evidence for this?”

“Their gigantic size. The fact that they seem to have four eyes instead of two, and the way in which they seem to be attuned to human thoughts and emotions…”

“Birds aren’t that smart, Nestor.”

“I knew this would be hard to explain to you,” Nestor said. He had started a fifth beer, but he paused for a moment to rub his temples. A headache had just started to bloom.

Delia put her hand on Nestor’s closed fist. He lowered his head, took a few deep breaths.

“It’s okay,” Delia said. Her touch meant everything to Nestor. “I got you.”

“The truth is, those birds belong to no one, and they are not working for Puttock. I think that those birds came to Earth to warn us; to stop terrible things from happening.”

Delia shifted in the booth, as if ants had just crawled down her back. “The birds tried to save Marlene Grue?” she said.

“I think so. They may have warned her, but we’ll never know, because she’s not alive to tell her story. So… there you have it.”

Delia passed on dessert, but Nestor put away a flan and a large coffee. Now that they had crossed this bridge together, there was no going back.

“And how does this connect to Puttock?” Delia said.

“Very simple. Puttock wants to enter the place where the birds are from.”

“I’m willing to stay with you on this for a moment. Is it possible to go there?”

“There are things the rational human mind can’t process,” Nestor said. “I have no answers when it comes to these experiences. Just questions.”

“I need some time to think about what you just told me. This is not what I expected for you to talk about.”

“What did you think I was gonna tell you?”

“I seriously thought you were going to draw a connection between Puttock and terrorist cells— or maybe narcos who worship Santa Muerte, like something from Breaking Bad. I never imagined you would tell me about…birds.”

“I trust you to keep this in confidence,” Nestor said.

“You don’t have to worry about that. But I need time to think.”

“I’m ready to head back to the hotel,” Nestor said. “We have to get up pretty early tomorrow if we want to avoid the noontime heat.”

“Are you ready to sit in a room with that psychopath one more time? Be honest,” Delia said.

Nestor nodded, then he tripped on the sidewalk as they headed out into the parking lot.

“I hope the fucker doesn’t splurge on prison pizza again,” Nestor said. “That shit’s gonna give me diarrhea.”

Delia gripped the steering wheel with both hands and she scanned the road ahead, as night encroached them. These roads were deserted, and the wind howled around them as they pulled up to the Quinta Inn where they were staying.

As she drove, she thought about birds. Most bird populations were down around the country, down to just 25% of what they were fifty years before. And though the highway was dark, the sky provided a faint glow the color of opal. She imagined what it would be like for a bird to fly across the windshield at this hour of night, but none did. The air was devoid of fauna.

Their hotel rooms were adjacent to each other, and Nestor took a moment to say goodbye as Delia pressed her key card into the door plate. She had only had half a glass of wine, and yet he could smell the shiraz on her. He loved that smell. And coupled with the scent of her hair products and the ghost of her perfume, he felt bold enough to lean on her doorway for just a second. He only wore his black t-shirt, a second skin that accentuated his hard muscles. Delia locked her eyes on his. He held his jacket under the crook of his right arm, and with his right thumb, he massaged the back of his hand.

“Ask me into your room, if you’re game?” Nestor said. “Just this once.”

He held his breath for a moment, waiting for her to curse him out, or maybe to slap him. But instead, Delia cocked her head and smiled. They stepped in through the doorway, kissed each other beneath it, and without hesitation, they shut the door behind them so they could have some privacy.

Delia’s mouth on Nestor’s lips became an intoxicant that made his head spin and his heart race. He slipped out of his jacket and t-shirt, caressing her breasts while she ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. He knew with certainty that this was a once-in-a lifetime occurrence. This allowed him to savor her brown eyes, her supple skin, the curvature of her hips to their fullest. They fucked standing, taking turns pressing each other up against the wall of the hotel room. Nestor’s approach was gentle, explorative, and he loved the way Delia’s body accepted his hands. He went in deep, massaging her clit until she couldn’t stop panting. He wanted to fuck on the bed, to thrash in the sheets, to pump his hips into her very center, but tonight, this tryst had to be quick, brief, and strong. Better to down a shot of good whiskey than to drink a bottle of Bud Light, he thought. Delia went down on him, and he remembered what it was like to have a woman so close to his body that they melted into each other.

Soon, Nestor’s skin was on fire, and his temples gushed with sweat. As his body shook, he let out a burst of machine-gun gasps, and he came. His orgasm fueled up his own need to bring pleasure, so without hesitation, he gave himself fully to Delia, and he made her cum too. She let out a long moan loud enough to be heard throughout the hallways of the hotel, and Nestor relished the thought of strangers hearing two people fuck with such passion.

As Nestor and Delia bathed in the endorphin rush of their orgasms, they held each other close. She kissed the crook inside his collar bone, and he ran his hand through her braids.

“We look like two bananas,” she said.

“Huh?”

“We both have our jeans around our knees. We look like half-peeled bananas.”

Nestor chuckled as he pulled up his jeans and cinched his belt.

“If you’re okay with it, let’s just say we celebrated our friendship by fucking,” Nestor said. “I have no expectations for anything beyond tonight, but I do want to thank you.”

“I get that. It’s appreciated. If it makes you feel any better, I have an open relationship. What we did is fine.”

“Sleep well,” he said.

Nestor got dressed and headed back to his room, The air in the hallway felt electric, charged to such a degree that he could feel his skin tingle. Tomorrow there would be hell to pay with a hangover, but he didn’t care. He had journeyed across a highway he had always dreamed of traveling.

From the Journal of Felix Calvo, October 25, 2022

What a night it’s been.

Around 9 pm, I heard shots coming from Broadway. Then silence for about ten minutes, followed by police sirens, and the pulsing screeches of polidrones flying. I still can’t believe the city of Chicago uses the polidrones as extra surveillance during emergencies. What a horrible sound they make.

You get used to the bullets at night. You just stay the fuck home to not deal with it. It’s just how it be.

I checked my smartphone for updates, and as it turns out, police clashed with vigilantes near Devon and Broadway, and the skirmish moved south, past Granville and down to Thorndale. Just one hour before the 10 pm curfews go into effect. One person shot dead. An innocent bystander this time.

Vigilante violence always becomes more frequent as elections get closer.

But tonight, the bullets are not what’s bothering me; Nestor’s not answering his texts. 

And that only means two things. He’s either balls deep working this Puttock case, or he’s out on a bender tonight.

Right now it’s 3 a.m., and still no response.

I’m almost done reading 9 Lords of Night.

I found something in this book that won’t let me relax. And I don’t know what it means.

The book is on my nightstand right now, begging for me to finish it, as if I were Alice and it were a cute bottle with an even cuter label. Read me.

I can’t wait to finish it in fact. But one of the chapters has left me shook. Really shook.

Carmona’s rich prose flows and expands like an epic poem, and I can’t deny that’s it’s beautiful writing. But as I was reading tonight, trying to distract myself from the gunfire happening down the street, the book described something I had never heard of before.

The novel introduced a cursed mythological creature, large as a mountain, ancient and immortal at the same time. A creature as powerful as Cipactli, the crocodile monster from the Aztec creation myths, or the Ahuizotl, the deadly dog with a human hand at the end of its tail, who likes to drown people when they swim in lakes at night.

I went and looked this creature up. It’s been mentioned a few times by anthropologists and archeologists, but very rarely.

Carmona’s book explains how the creature is known to vomit darkness, in the way an animal might throw up blood.

He describes this monster in very little detail, like a gargantuan eel or snake, emanating an odor that resembles carrion and seaweed. When this being vomits darkness, the darkness pools, and it drowns men and women inside their own fear and despair.

This abomination, according to Carmona, eats the dreams of humans.

It is a thief of dreams.

As I lie here, in bed, sweating up as storm, wondering if more people will be shot out in the street, I realize that I am struck by insomnia.

Outside the apartment, the temperature is 90, even though it’s almost Halloween, and I hear shouts, screams, and people running up and down the street. This time the violence sounds much closer to our apartment. Probably just a half block away. A gun goes off and glass breaks. More police sirens explode into the night, and from the corner of my eye I catch blue and red spinning lights of the polidrones, making sure people stay the fuck inside as the violence expands further into the night.

I honestly can’t wait for Nestor to come back home.

Do you have some reactions to this week’s chapter? Come chat with author Cesar Torres and other Coil fans inside the Cesar Torres’ Discord.
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