The _Slavering Stoat_ is a creaky, low-ceilinged pub, tucked away in one of the less salubrious back alleyways of down-town Murkstone-Snatchly. Invariably, the beer was warm, tending to sour. The clientele likewise warm and tending to sour. And the staff… Let’s just say ‘sour’ sums them up. The Stoat had only the one bar, set in a dark, comfortable if somewhat smelly set of interconnected alcoves and a large, always guttering ingle-nook fireplace. You probably wouldn’t want your mother to know you’d been there, but it was, for all of its peculiarities, a basic, old fashioned town boozer. One aspect of the place that is not normally something that would attract five stars in a tourist guide, the latrine facilities at the Slavering Stoat were, well, best described as ‘medieval basic’. But even even the most basic systems can fail, and so it was on this wet Thursday. The door was locked and there was a sign that said, simply: “Out of Order Due to Trout Spawn. Use the upstairs bathroom.”

Normally, the upstairs bathroom was in that mysterious and unknown part of the pub inhabited only by the landlord and his family. It was normally off-limits to guests and was, if thought about at all, only dimly dreamt of by those very few who realised that the landlord and his family could not possibly rely on the ‘downstairs facility’ without having long since been permanently unwell - to the point of a ghastly death - with amoebic dysentery, cholera, beaver fever, cryptosporidiosis and rat pee disease.

The upstairs bathroom was altogether different to the public loo. True, the taps had a tendency to rattle ominously when you looked at them the wrong way. It had towel rails and a sink. It had a mirror. It had an actual porcelain toilet. With a fold down seat. It was verging on being a room of luxury. But it was also, somehow, wrong. Not cursed, not possessed, just… _wrong_.

It was the kind of room that made your kneecaps itch. The kind of place that smelled much more of ozone than lavender. The sort of room that made small dogs yelp if you mentioned it in conversation.

Which is where Reginald “Reggie” St. John-Smith-Sinclair found himself on a rainy afternoon.

Reggie had not meant to visit the upstairs loo, or indeed any public house lavatory facility. But an over-enthusiastic prostate and over-active kidney had left him, on this occasion, with little choice.

An important aspect of Reggie’s personality and character was, what his father had always referred to as a ‘lack of spine’. It is true to say that Reggie was not a brave man. He considered toast too be adventurous if it had seeds on it and regarded odd socks with deep alarm and suspicion.

So poor old jelly-spine Reggie could not have ignored what happened next.

He’d flushed the toilet, turned to wash his hands, and looked up into the mirror.

The mirror blinked.

Mirrors are not supposed to blink, and further, the eye that blinked at him from the mirror was _not his own_. It was violet, glowed faintly, and winked disconcertingly.

The mirrored glass rippled like water, then bulged outward, and made a loud sound. One of those sounds for which no word has ever been coined but which sounded a lot like “_schlorp_.” Moments later, a round, swirling portal about the size of a dustbin lid formed in the mirror.

A scent of cinnamon, burnt toast, and wet canvas tent flaps wafted into the bathroom.

There was a soft voice from nowhere that said, “Ten seconds.”

Reggie blinked at the portal. It was spinning. It was humming. It was also…closing.

“Ten seconds?” Reggie asked aloud, “‘till what?” But the voice didn’t answer.

He glanced behind him. The bathroom door was still solidly in place. There was a vaguely reassuring whiff of Harpic.

Then he looked back at the mirror. Somewhere, far away through the portal, he thought he saw a castle floating upside-down, a flock of golden pigs playing what may or may not have been chequers, and someone riding a velocipede and wearing a lurid waistcoat.

Nine seconds.

A thought occurred to Reggie.

_What if…?_

Just go downstairs, finish his pint suspiciously soggy pork scratchings then go home to his flat. He’d soon forget about the mirror. Probably.

Or…

_What if I…?_

It was madness. Total nonsense. Likely fatal. But, in the tiniest corner of Reggie’s overly cautious heart, something shifted. It wasn’t courage. Fat chance of that. But… not every decision is a terrible decision.

Eight seconds.

He stuck a finger toward the portal. It didn’t burn. It didn’t suck his arm off. It felt…cool. Inviting. Like the feel and smell of an old bookshop.

Seven seconds.

He stuck his _whole hand_ in. There was a fizzing sound, and he yanked it back with a yelp.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.

Six seconds.

He stared at the mirror. He thought of his job at the council offices, but not for long. He thought of his fridge at home. How long would the three slices of ham keep for? He wondered who would feed his goldfish, Brian.

Five seconds.

From deep within the mirror/portal, something called, “Reggie! We’re late!”

He gasped. “How do you know my name?”

The portal didn’t answer. Instead, a clock somewhere struck, and an accordion played La Vie En Rose.

Four seconds.

Something flickered at the edge of his vision: a shape, cloaked and spindly, watching from the far end of the mirror-realm. It raised a hand in greeting.

Three seconds.

He wavered. Hesitated. Did a small, panicky little dance-on-the-spot-sort-of-thing.

Two seconds.

“Bugger it,” he muttered.

And with the sort of resolve he normally saved for having to complain in restaurants, Reggie dove headfirst through the mirror.

With another, possibly final _schlorp_, the portal closed.

⸻

Downstairs, Old Mabel wiped another pint glass and watched the ceiling tremble faintly, like a hamster dreaming of war.

“Another one, then,” she muttered.

Arthur, the pub cat leapt silently onto the bar, curled up, and purred.

Mabel sighed. “That’s the third this year. We’ll need to put up another sign.”

Arthur flicked his tail in agreement.

She pulled out a fresh piece of cardboard and a black marker.

“WARNING: THE MANAGEMENT ACCEPTS NO RESPONSIBILITY IF YOU LOOK IN THIS MIRROR AND IT BLINKS BACK.”

Satisfied, she leaned the sign against the bar, poured herself a gin and absinth, and toasted the ceiling.

⸻

Reggie landed face-first in a puddle of lemon-coloured sand beneath a sky full of stars.

“Ah,” he said, wiping himself down.

A seven-foot-tall lady in a Can-Can outfit offered him a cup of tea.

Reggie took it. The adventure had begun.

The tea, although not Yorkshire tea, was passable.