Mirror Mirror

Dallas Heritage Village

Dallas Heritage Village is a living museum boasting thirty-eight buildings. The entrance road, Main Street, leads into the Village proper; left behind are the electric lights of the park and upon entering the world of the mid to late 1800s, gaslights line the street.
Along the causeway, the small town takes form. The Blum Brothers' General Store and the Main Street Saloon sit side by side, their sides in clapboard. Along the side roads and alleyways, the various other services such as the post, the physician's office, schoolhouse and the church can be found. Further in and up against the edges of the village are the two story, pre-Civil War residences of the solid, upstanding citizens of the day including the Millers and the Sullivans.

Day slowly begins to turn to evening. The hour is not so late that the Village is closing for the afternoon but it is late enough that most tourists have begun to leave the area. Tourists are not the only ones that are in and out of the Dallas Heritage Village. Proprietors and shopkeepers are also in abundance. Many beginning to restock their shops for the next day or dragging in barrels that were set outside.

Gwen Whyte, otherwise known as the apothecary and pharmacist for the village was off sick today. This left her daughter in charge. The poor girl can now be seen struggling with a barrel of goods in an attempt to drag it inside, muttering to herself. "You always cause problems. You never aide me you miserable wretch. Not even lifting it a bit."

It's really by accident that Mischa has found himself in the Village. He's been looking quite intently for a new bookshop that he heard was in the area and has long sinced parked the car somewhere and is now roaming on foot. Despite that he hasn't found what he's looking for, he's enjoyed seeing the various sights of the Village anyhow.
Mischa notes the young woman struggling with a barrel, only seeing her from behind at first. He gingerly steps up to her and takes in a deep breath. This may be an 'antiquated' area of town, but he still knows it's not a good idea to randomly approach a young woman. The librarian clears his throat and speaks up before attempting to move any closer. "Excuse me, miss. Do you need a hand with that?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you." Alexa relinquishes her hold on the barrel and steps around to the other side of it. Hair is brushed from her face. Her hands wipe upon the front of her white apron as she offers a smile. "My mother generally takes care of these things and has a much better time with them. There is either a trick I've missed or she solicits help from one of the other shopkeepers in the area."

"Oof." Mischa says as he steps forward and bends at the knees, lifting with his legs. This certainly is heavier than a stack of books, but eventually he manages it. He hasn't yet glimpsed her face, the barrel hindering his line of sight somewhat. "It's no problem, miss. And my guess is that she must have some help you don't know about. Maybe house fairies. In Russia, they're called the domovoi."

"I should hope she doesn't have fairies." They have enough issue with a poltergeist on the loose. Alexa moves toward the shop, swishing the skirt of her homespun muslin dress as she goes. "Through here then. I just need to lock things up and run home to change before heading to the pharmacy." Considering that they are in a Civil War era apothecary/pharmacy that may sound absurd. "Thank you again for your help. It's most appreciated."

Mischa follows Alexa toward the shop with the barrel in his arms. As soon as they're safely within, he puts it down. "I'll drag it wherever it needs to be." He's not sweating just yet but he is a little more out of breath than he should be. The librarian shakes his head at his own general health (or lack thereof) before looking up at Alexa. When he sees her face, he does a double take or two. "W…" Whatever he starts to say catches in his throat.
The man's face turns a very not so nice shade of green before he moves to balance himself against the counter in the shop. "I'm s-sorry, you j-just look like…" Someone who'd almost successfully forgotten about until right now.

Moving around the shop Alexa tries to decide where the barrel belongs. It's not in the doorway and that seems to be fine enough for her. "It's good there. Easy enough to drag out on my own in the morning if I need to do it." The reaction to her face causes her to bring a hand up to it. Has she cut herself? Her hair gotten loose from the braided bun? "Are you quite alright? Do you need the smelling salts? I'm sure we have some around, though this isn't the setup I'm used to."

Mischa's logic soon takes over. If this were the vampire that he had previously helped to kill, she probably wouldn't be offering him smelling salts. Unless she were luring him into a false sense of security. Paranoia soon takes over and the librarian nervously shakes his head. "No, I'm sorry. I just got back from Hawaii and I think I ate some bad fish there…" He trails off and glances to Alexa once more. His gaze could probably be described as penetrating, or even slightly leering. "I'm sorry, you just look like this girl… the resemblance is truly uncanny. I… I thought she was dead."

Daylight should dictate that she's not a vampire unless she has one doozy of an ability. Alexa is about to offer something for the bad food. A stomach purge, a potion of some sort. The words he speaks catches her completely off her guard. There is a look of worry in her eyes. A tension opens between herself and the man. "Is my face so familiar then? You are the third person to tell me such in as many weeks. Quite almost verbatim. I am not dead." The hint of upset in her voice is accompanied with a crash from a shelf behind the counter. This causes her to startle a little and spin around. "What? Now you'll appear? Fat lot of good that did me!"

"I…I…" Mischa stammers a bit before he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair, the already tousled locks becoming downright messy. "No, you're not dead. But I very much hope that the woman you resemble— no, sorry. I know I must sound insane. The thing is, she wasn't terribly nice… I… I just…" He tries to further explain only to be cut off by the crash from the shelf. He too startles, jumping like a frightened cat and nearly hiding behind the barrel that he helped to bring in. "W…what?"

"Nothing, just the poltergeist. Don't mind it." Alexa sounds quite crazy as she speaks. She doesn't seem to care. She wafts her hand in the direction of the broken jar. Just cotton balls. "Wasn't terribly nice? Who was this woman? No one will tell me, and I'm getting a bit perturbed by this. Surely it's nothing more than a passing resemblance. I have no twin to my knowledge."

Poltergeist? Mischa has certainly heard stranger. He imagines that this must be strange for the young doppelganger woman who he's just bumped into. "To be honest, I'm not entirely sure who she was. She… well, I only met her once. She was sort of hurting a friend of mine." Mischa doesn't want to out and out explain the torture, the trauma that he endured because of 'the incident'. It's something that he's done his damnedest to forget about despite the night terrors he still has. "She died shortly afterward. And no, this is more than a passing resemblance. You are her… doppelganger."

What little color there is in Alexa's pale face drains away at his explanation. "You met a woman once and she died shortly after? You are not instilling me with a sense of comfort." Backing against the shelves it looks as though she may just scream. Opening her mouth to do just that there is a look of surprise when instead of the scream rattling bottles can be heard behind her. Deep breaths are taken instead of a scream being issued. Techniques to keep her calm. "Take it back. I am doppleganger to no one. Those are dangerous words you speak. Ill of the dead and all."

"I won't take back what's true, but alright. You're not a doppleganger. All I know is that… you look just like her." Mischa flushes wildly at Alexa's insinuation that things did NOT turn out exactly great for the woman who looked like her. The bottles that rattle make Mischa's eyes grow quite wide. He too takes a few deep breaths in much the same vein as Alexa. "I don't mean you any harm. I don't know you." And she hasn't tied him to a chair and tortured him yet. These are good signs. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry for this. It's very strange."

"You, the lot of you, are all weird creepy stalkers." Alexa seems very convinced of this. Three men telling her she looks like a dead woman. A woman who is apparently dead after meeting them. "What are you? A group of serial killers? Hunting down women who look like me and killing them for fun?" With each spoken word, the shelves rattle a little more. The calming ability of her breathing techniques is apparently not working. "You're just trying to lull me into a sense of calm so you can strike, is that it?"

Now Mischa seems quite flustered. He flings himself away from Alexa as though she's just doused him in holy water before shaking his head. "N-no! That's absu— lull you into a false sense of security? That's what I thought you were going to do to me!" He cries out before he wraps his arms around himself. The color too has drained from his face. The poor man seems scarcely able to hurt a fly in his current state. "We're not… I'm not a serial killer." He really can't speak for the other two. "In fact, I don't even know who the other two are! The woman who looked like you, she was a vampire. She hurt my friend. Very badly. I've been trying to forget her face for months now, the horrible…" Things she did. And the horrible ones he did too. Despite the fact that the vamps who attacked Will Grant were scum of the undead world, Mischa still has a guilty conscience about it all.

"A vampire? You are equating me with a vampire?" Alexa inhales slowly, breath coming out all in a whoosh. As she is standing there, a bottle flies off the shelf toward the man. It comes within inches of his head before crashing against the door frame. "Do you think I am a vampire? Do you think I have the ability to hurt anyone?" Words become heated. Voice becomes pitched. Another bottle flies off the shelf but it seems to be circling her head.

"You're twisting my words! I don't know you and you're out in the daylight, or were. Obviously you're not a vampire." Mischa takes in a deep breath. The bottle that's circling Alexa's head has become a larger point of distress from, his eyes circling the bottle as it drifts round and round her head. The bottle that drew so close to his head has been almost totally ignored, save for a wince during the crack of the bottle. "And I don't know about you hurting anyone, but those bottles will hurt someone. So please just try to calm down, miss… we can work this out. I can leave right now. Is that what you want? I'll just… I'll go and we never have to see each other again and I'm sorry…"

The bottles? Alexa has an odd expression. Uncertainty. "That isn't me! It's the poltergeist. I can't control a ghost. If you want someone to do that, call the Ghostbusters, or an exorcist." They have. None of it has worked. The stress of continually being told that she is someone else is just causing her to be upset and that is when the poltergeist attacks. Both hands reach up to struggle the bottle away from the poltergeist. Once she has a firm grip on it the bottles on the shelves stop rattling. "You are all crazy."

Mischa frowns a little bit. "You're not exactly acting terribly sane yourself." It's possible that his feelings are hurt by her accusations. He tried to be polite. Now he's just upset. Mischa takes in a deep breath that lets itself out as a long sigh. "Miss, whatever your name is — I'm sorry to have upset you but I can just go now really. I don't want any trouble and I haven't done anything really wrong…" With that he starts to tiptoe toward the door.

"I am not acting anything. You accuse me of being some horrible vampire. Should I just shrug and wave it off?" Alexa looks visibly upset but as she keeps hold of the bottle there seems to be no further poltergeist activity. "You should leave." A simple agreement. "If I should see you or any of your serial killer friends, I will call the police next time. I am not going to be another woman that just disappears or dies on account of you." The words on their own would be strong. Sure. Delivered with a wavering voice they just sound weak and pitiful.

"I didn't accuse you o—" Mischa trails off there and opens up the door to the shop. The visibly frustrated man makes his way out of the shop and slams the door steadfast behind him. No point in arguing with someone who seems to have their mind set in concrete.

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