Masterlist

Dear Liza — F Mirror Ghost x Curvy F Human, NSFW

“But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza…”

The girls had barely touched the pineapple and green pepper pizza, despite insisting on ordering it, and you helped yourself to another slice, humming the rest of their sing-songy chant. Chaperoning your niece’s slumber party hadn’t turned out to be a bad gig, especially once the girls had it in their head that they were going to summon up a spirit in the bathroom mirror.

You could tell a couple of the girls had been unenthused to participate in the supernatural activity, had lagged behind and kept their eyes diverted from the mirror during the supposed summoning chant, but once it had been made clear that no ghostly apparition would be appearing, they loosened up, smiling and laughing with the other girls. Dear Liza was an urban legend, after all; a modern myth born from the sugar-fueled chaos of sleepovers and slumber parties for decades.

You decided not to tell them they were wrong.


You’d been eleven years old, at Stefanie Schneider’s birthday slumber party when you’d seen the woman in the mirror. It had been a party much like the one you were currently supervising: a group of giggling girls, pizza and snacks and a too-loud radio, messaging boys in your class on Myspace and posing as glamorous twenty-two-year-olds in chat rooms. It had been Stefanie’s obnoxious cousin who had wanted to try calling Dear Liza in the bathroom mirror. You’d been standing at the back of the crowd of preteens in front of the mirror, one of the shyer girls with no desire to summon up a demon.

But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza…

“You guys aren’t even saying anything,” the cousin had snapped referring to you and your quiet comrades in the back. “It only works if we all do it!”

That hadn’t made any sense to you, and you’d decided on the spot that the whole thing was silly—there was no such thing as a ghostly apparition who appeared in mirrors for a bunch of middle schoolers, and you felt the security of strength in numbers. When you’d spied the birthday girl herself roll her eyes in the mirror during the next round of chanting, you’d been emboldened. 

“But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza?”

You were the star of your concert chorale, sang with both church and school and show choir. You knew how to belt, and you gave the sing-songy lines your all. The cousin had glared, Stefanie had laughed, and that had been the end of the summoning session.

It hadn’t been until later that same week that you’d seen her.

You’d been singing the song as you got ready for school, the repetitive melody stuck in your head; had looked up from where you’d been spitting toothpaste into the sink and froze, the toothbrush hovering uselessly half-way between your hanging-open mouth and the running water of the faucet.

The woman standing behind you was a stranger. Pale and frightening and unsmiling, her hard eyes had met yours in the mirror and you’d gasped, whirling around to find no one in the room with you. When you’d turned back to the mirror, she had been gone.

You’d never told anyone of your eerie encounter, and you’d never seen her again.

The girls lost interest in the game not long after, and you were forced back into chaperone mode as they settled into their high-end sleeping bags to take pictures of each other with Snapchat filters, and you put the unsettling memory out of your mind.

The rest of the week passed as it normally did—teaching voice at the local community college by day, and waiting tables at the Italian restaurant that advertised “live opera” by night. Running plates of over-priced cannelloni while you gusted out Caro mio ben was not what you’d envisioned for yourself when you’d graduated, to say the least, but what you made in tips at the restaurant was nearly equal to your salary from the university. It was a galling fact, but one that had you sticking with the side job, despite the amount of til the fat lady sings jokes you had to endure from middle-aged men who each thought they were singularly the funniest, wittiest patrons to ever grace the dining room.

It was after a night at the restaurant that it happened. You’d come straight home from your shift, sticking a take-home meal in the fridge before shedding your clothes as you moved through the apartment to the bathroom. As steam filled the small room, you tried to clear your mind, pushing the tension of the long day away. 

You’d been a shower singer for as long as you could remember. The hot humidity of a shower had always been your favorite way to open your voice, and you’d relied on doing so since high school. It had been somewhat difficult when you’d lived in your University dorm with its communal showers, but you persevered, moving to your own off-campus apartment your third year. Now you breathed around the steam, letting it fill you before engaging your muscles and breathing deep.

“But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza…”

The catchy, repetitive tune had been stuck in your head since the slumber party. You’d left your brother’s house the next morning as he served up silver dollar pancakes to your niece’s bleary-eyed friends, accepting his profuse thanks and humming your way out the door. The song had been there, hovering at the back of your consciousness all week. The moment you were not otherwise occupied—in between reviewing Mi chiamano Mimi with your eleven a.m. student and Batti, Batti with your noon student, then with the standard Italian arias you performed table-side at the restaurant—the repetitive lines bloomed in the forefront of your mind on an endless loop.

“But where are you hiding, dear Liza, but where?”

The whir of the exhaust fan seemed overloud when you cut off the water, the ghost of your voice seeming to reverberate in the misty room. You were off the next night, your first Friday evening free in what felt like ages. You’d been working these twelve-hour days for weeks, and the thought of a free night to catch up on Netflix with a bottle of wine and then retire early with your vibratory sounded wonderful. You were standing in front of the mirror, looking without seeing as you toweled out your hair, and several moments had passed before you took in the fogged-up reflection.

Behind you stood a dark shape.

In an instant the heat from your shower dissipated, goosebumps rising on your skin and your heart lodged itself in your throat. You were unable to scream. Instead, you were rooted to the spot: unable to scream, to breathe, to do anything other than tremble in fear, mindless panic consuming you as the dark figure moved. As you watched, frozen in fear, an unseen hand swiped at the fogged over-glass. 

You were able to see her then—her bloodless complexion, emphasized by the dark, bruise-like circles around her eyes, which were trained on yours in the mirror. Dear Liza. You recognized her instantly; the dull, lifeless hair, pallid skin, and the steely-eyed gaze you remembered from childhood. Why had you sung that song?! A remote part of your brain considered that in order to actually summon up the specter in the mirror, one must need to actually sing her little song. Mindless chanting was clearly not enough.

As you stared at her staring at you, a drop of condensation that had been clinging to the upper lip of your mirror broke free, dripping in a long slide, cutting through the fog that clung to the mirror. Instantly, her eyes were diverted from yours, tracking the water droplet and the slash of skin it exposed. Down your neck, giving a narrow glimpse of your throat before the droplet angled, slashing across your chest.

No arm raised beside you, but you could see the shadow in the mirror raise its reflected arm once more. Three fingers moved against the glass when the droplet had ended, exposing a portion of your heavy breast. Her hand hovering there, blue-white with slender fingers, and your breath came out on a shudder when those fingertips ghosted over your skin, moving over the swell of your pink skin, so different from her own. When she brushed against the puckered nipple, you jerked. The bloodless hand froze, repeating the motion carefully, then again, circling the pebbled peak until it hardened beneath her attention.

Your silence was broken when you gasped out a wheeze, your nipple captured between her thumb and index finger with the speed of a rattlesnake and pinched. Pinched and rolled, twisted in her cold, iron grip until you whimpered. You had a mind to turn when she released you, you did…but then her hand moved again, palming your breast and cupping its heavy weight, and you sagged, unable to pull your gaze away from her hand in the mirror as she kneaded your flesh, pulling on the sensitive nipple once more. You watched helplessly as you were caged, her other hand raising to cup your other breast, rolling that neglected nipple until it was as stiffened as its twin.

Your phone rang and your head swung to the bedroom door. It was less than a second that your attention was diverted, but when you looked back to the mirror, she was gone. Your nipples were reddened and hard, proof that it had not existed solely in your head. Rushing from the bathroom, you pulled the towel around yourself clumsily, your hands trembling from the effort. 

You were felt up by a ghost! Felt up and left deeply aroused. It was no surprise when the finger you pressed to your center came away slick, and you wasted no time before pulling your vibrator from the nightstand. Nestling it between your heavy thighs, you were able to rock against the wide, round head, giving your aching clit the stimulation it needed, while you writhed on the bed, pinching and rolling your nipples in an effort to create the sensation of her cold hands.

It would only be a few days before you summoned her once more. 

But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza…

You couldn’t take the not knowing, needed to have confirmation that it had happened, so you sang her song once more, letting the hot water rain down on your generous curves as your voice echoed against the shower tiles. This time it was your own hand that dragged through the mirror’s condensation, several fingers leaving a trail down the reflection of your naked body, leading to the juncture between your thighs.

Dear Liza did not disappoint.

She cupped your breasts once more, rolling the already-pebbled tips until you let out a breathy sigh, before dragging her chilled, bloodless hand down your body. Over the soft, round swell of your belly, ignoring for the moment your wide hips, she moved steadily, like a snake. You marveled over the iciness of her touch, clearly felt as she reached the mound of the you in the mirror, pausing only a moment before pressing between your fleshy thighs, finding their way into your hot folds. You arched against the sensation, ice pressed to fire, her long fingers curving to circle and stroke your clit. There were no such things as ghosts, that’s what you’d been told by your parents, by aunts and uncles and teachers and friends...how they were wrong.

When her cold digits pressed deeper, curling into you, you keened. Her movements were rhythmic and efficient, fucking into you steadily, her thumb continuing to work at that pearl of nerves until you came with a shudder, your heat pulsing and clenching against her frozen touch.

You didn’t understand. For the rest of the week you avoided your bathroom as much as possible, keeping your eyes averted from the mirror and hurrying through your daily ablutions. You didn’t understand how it was possible, why it was happening. There was absolutely no one in the bathroom with you, and yet you were able to feel her touch so clearly, so potently in the mirror. It didn’t make any sense.

You’d managed to put the pale woman in the mirror out of your mind for the rest of the week. Your students were preparing for NATS and tension and stress was high, and you’d swapped a shift with a co-worker, meaning you would not have a day off until the end of the weekend. 

That Saturday, the restaurant was bustling. Despite the crowds, tables turned over slowly, families lingering, and the amount of cash you’d collected left in puddles of soda glass condensation was scant, compared to other weekend shifts you’d worked. 

It was nearly the end of your shift, the promise of a day off dangling before you when it happened. Your ex walked in, arm-in-arm with their new girlfriend, looking glossy and happy and put-together. It was typical, you considered. It was nearly quitting time and you didn’t need a mirror to know you were a disheveled mess. Your curls, pulled up into a high ponytail, had begun to frizz around your face, and the last table you’d had sported a toddler with a plate full of rigatoni and deadly good aim. 

You didn’t need to see them, not when you felt like such a mess, not when you were stuck in the place you were in life—over-employed, underpaid, overweight, and exhausted. You managed to avoid getting stuck with their table, but the sight of them, looking happy and carefree and completely over you, had twisted a knife in your heart.

By the time you’d arrived home, your despair had morphed into restlessness. A shower to remove the sweat and marinara sauce of your shift, and then a little maneuvering…

You were glad that you were not short, you thought, stretching on your toes from the center of the mattress. When you were satisfied everything was secure, you stepped carefully from the bed, removing the short robe you’d put on. There was no steam here, nothing to obstruct your view or your pleasure.

Climbing back onto the bed, you stretched out on top of the coverlet, staring up at your naked body in the mirror on the ceiling. From this vantage point, your wide hips and full thighs didn’t seem so terrible, and you ran a skimming hand down your generous curves. You grinned at your reflection and spread your legs open wide.

But where are you hiding, dear Liza, dear Liza…

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s