The Ghost in the Back Room Mirror

The first time Damir saw the mirror fogged up, he thought the window was open. It wasn't. The small mirror in the back room of the pet shop was covered with a white cloud. It reached from the bottom edge to just above the middle.

By the time he had cleaned it with his sleeve, he had forgotten about it. The next morning, the same cloud was there again. So was the day after.

"It's the cold," Fiona said on Thursday. She was the driver who brought the seed and the sawdust. Her loud laugh was the best part of Damir's week. She came into the back room with a sack on each shoulder. Then she saw the glass and stopped.

"It isn't cold in here," Damir said. "The heater has worked for years. And look at the shape. It's the same every day."

Fiona put the sacks down and stood in front of the mirror with her hands on her hips. "Somebody has been breathing on this," she said.

"There's nobody here at night," Damir said. "I lock the door myself."

"Then you have a ghost," Fiona said. She grinned. "A very clean ghost, because it only does the mirror."

Damir laughed, but it was not a real laugh. He had worked in the shop for two years. He had never felt nervous in the back room before. Now he caught himself checking the corners each time he went in.

"I'll solve it," Fiona said. "I'm good at puzzles. I do the crossword in the van during my lunch break."

"You don't have time," Damir said.

"I have ten minutes before my next delivery, and I have you." She took out a pen and wrote on the back of her hand. "Rule number one. A ghost leaves no clues, so if I find any, it isn't a ghost."

She walked slowly round the room. The back room was small and tidy. It had a sink in one corner, a shelf of cage bedding and a cold metal table. There was a low stool by the door, and a heat lamp that hung over an empty box.

"Clue number one," Fiona said, pointing at the mirror. "Look at where the fog is. It starts at the bottom and stops at about my elbow. If a person had breathed on it, it would be at head height."

"A short person," Damir said.

"A very short person," Fiona said. "Or something close to the floor."

Damir bent down. The fog was thickest in the lower corner. In the white mist, someone had drawn a tiny curve, like the beginning of a smile.

"Clue number two," Fiona said. She had moved to the sink. "Look at the tiles."

Damir followed her. On the grey floor, a faint line of small damp marks ran from the sink to the door. They were round, and each one was about the size of a coin. Each one was a little apart from the next.

"Footprints," Damir whispered.

"Very small footprints," Fiona said. "And whoever made them was in no hurry. Look how far apart they are. It was walking, not running."

"Why would a ghost walk slowly?" Damir asked.

"Because it isn't a ghost," Fiona said. She looked at her watch. "I have to go. But think about it. And by Friday, I want clue number three."

She picked up her keys, winked at him and went out. The van door banged outside. Damir stood alone in the back room, feeling both nervous and strangely cheerful.

That evening, he turned the whole room over. He looked behind the shelves and under the table. He opened every drawer. He found two broken pens, a ball of string and a tin of dog biscuits. Nothing explained the fog. Then he went to the sink to wash his hands. As he reached for the tap, he saw something small and green lying near the drain.

It was a lettuce leaf, dry and curled at the edges.

Damir stared at it. He had no lettuce in the shop. He fed the rabbits with pellets and dried grass, never with leaves.

At six o'clock on Friday morning, he stood in front of the shop. He held a coffee in each hand. Fiona's van pulled up, and she climbed out with a smile.

"You came early," she said. "You've got something."

"I have clue number three," Damir said. He held out the lettuce leaf in a paper bag. "I found it beside the sink."

"So," Fiona said slowly. "A fog low on the mirror, small damp footprints, and a lettuce leaf." She took the coffee and drank half of it. "It sounds like somebody has been giving a bath to a very polite, very hungry visitor."

"A bath?"

"Warm water makes steam," Fiona said. "Steam makes fog on a cold mirror. We don't need a ghost, we need someone who likes warm water, walks slowly and eats lettuce."

They unlocked the door together. The shop was dark and still, and the back room was in shadow. Damir opened the door slowly, and they both stopped.

The room was warm and full of mist. On the metal table sat a plastic washing-up bowl full of steaming water. In the bowl sat a very old tortoise. Her long neck was stretched out, and her eyes were half closed.

Behind her, a man in a dressing gown stood with a small towel over one arm. He looked at Damir, then at Fiona. He had the look of a person caught doing something silly.

"Ah," he said. "Good morning."

"You're the owner," Damir said. "I have only met you twice."

"I live upstairs," the man said. "She has a warm bath every morning at six. The vet said it was good for her shell. But I didn't think the shop assistant should have to worry about it, so I never mentioned it."

"I thought the shop was haunted," Damir said.

"Haunted?" The man looked worried. "By whom?"

"By whoever fogs up the mirror," Fiona said. She pointed at the tortoise. "We have found her. She seems quite pleased with herself."

The tortoise opened one eye. She looked at them as if they were the strangest creatures she had ever seen. Then she closed it again.

"She does like the mirror," the man admitted. "I hold her up in front of it every morning, so she can see her own face. She seems to enjoy it."

Damir looked at the mirror, then at Fiona, and then he began to laugh. This time, it was a real laugh. Fiona joined him until she had to lean on the table.

"Mystery solved," she said, wiping her eyes. "The ghost is a tortoise."

"A very old tortoise," Damir said. "And she still spends longer in the bathroom than I do."