Who are you? Horace asked. The image said nothing. Slowly Horace moved toward the image, and when he was standing just behind him, the specter turned again to the mirror and resumed its task.

What are you doing? But the reflection of himself continued to cover his entire face with white goo, deftly, expertly, with fingers, Horace’s fingers, that seemed accustomed to this odd activity. As if it were normal.

Soon the entire face was obscured, though Horace could recognize the face, the nose folks said to be just like his great-grandfather’s, the lips rumored to be like his grandmother’s, his father’s determined chin, his maternal grandmother’s sad eyes . . . but all was white now, finished in a white like porcelain, smooth and thick. The phantom picked up a brush, dipped it in what appeared black ink, and, with an uncanny grace, painted his lips a midnight black. He looked at Horace’s reflection in the mirror and ran his tongue over his top lip, but the ink did not smear. He just stared at Horace, expressionless, giving no indication as to why he was doing what he was doing or what he would do next.

The double stood up. He was exactly the same height as Horace, the same build. In his sparkling color, he turned to look at both their reflections in the mirror: Horace in his brown nakedness, covered with dirt and ash and grass in his hair, a gun in his hand, and the other Horace, white-faced, dressed as a clown.

Motioning toward the chair, the doppelgänger bade Horace sit, not saying a word. Nervously, Horace sat, wondering why he did not simply leave. He was becoming more and more uncomfortable, more and more frightened. Something awaited him. Something grave.

With an ominous movement, and with delicacy, the image picked up a tube of the same white greasepaint he had used and handed it to Horace, who eyed it with caution. He had no intention of taking it. He wanted only to leave and forget what he had seen.

No, he said.

But the spirit stood there, holding the tube for Horace.

I won’t.

They looked at one another, their eyes, the same eyes, trying to peer past the will of the other. Horace decided he would leave, and he moved to stand, but his reflection put his hand firmly on Horace’s shoulder and pushed the tube into Horace’s face.

I don’t want it. Leave me alone.