If you are walking through the western part of the city center on a day where it is raining, you may catch sight of a figure standing in the center of a small alley, locked in between two tenement blocks. It’s hard to see him in the rain, but the distinguishing traits are easy to make out – black suit, white shirt, no umbrella. There is something wrong with his head: the murky, light-brown flesh seems to ripple and quake with the rain, like the dark surface of a pool disturbed by splashes of water, throwing bizarre shapes and stranger waves across his features that endlessly reflect his surroundings.
Stand at the threshold between the road you are on and the lane, and listen. The man will speak slowly, in a series of distorted voices that fade in and out of one another, like several children shouting underwater. The man speaks one verse of an unknown, unknowable poem that trembles and quivers in your ears, like the crashing waves of a radio signal being transmitted through water. When he finishes, he performs a small gesture – clasping his hands together like in prayer – before he trickles away, disappearing from sight as rain lashes across in your eyes.
From that moment on, whenever you stare into the surface of any body of water, you will see the reflection of another Glasgow, with perpetually twilit streets swept by rain from bruise-purple thunderclouds, tenements dominating the murderous skyline with windows filled with flickering candlelight. This city is our cosmic mirror image, and, as a reflection of us, our life, and our city, the image of the other Glasgow can act as a barometer for the supernatural activity in Glasgow.
But when They fill the rainswept streets, staring out through the darkening water surface with their pallid, empty eyes, wearing the faces of your mother and father, you must find shelter; you will find that the water surfaces can be more than just windows – they can be doors to those who seek to come through and take your transcendant eyes.