An Accidental Psychomanteum

Met Em after work for a cup of tea at Mad Hatters down Western Road. The place was mostly empty; people clearing up behind the counter, a couple of women sat behind me talking about vegetarianism. There was a man on the brown leather seats by the door, shaved head and a laptop, sat small under an exhibition of photographs I didn't pay any attention to.
Felt later than it was. Only quarter past five. The wet-cold of yesterday morning had become something purer. There was a seriousness to the air tonight. The taste of snow, that old black January rumour.
Headed up to the toilets before I left. Footsteps on floorboards, clatter on the steps. Wood-angles up on the landing. Discarded things that looked like an old school chair, an old piece of gymnasium equipment. The air was still and heavy, tasted of vague dust and corridors.
Above the stairs a long, narrow mirror, and opposite this mirror an identical one. Walking up or down the stairs necessitates being caught between both mirrors. They are fairground mirrors, distorting reflections into some long drawn out parody of whatever -or whoever- is caught between. Look up at myself as I descend, at the myriad - the imperfect infinity- of warped reflections.
There used to be something called a psychomanteum, something that dates from Greek times, though was more commonly used in the Victorian era. Basically it was a mirrored room, an interior space designed for an illusion of forever. The Ganzfeld effect caused by staring at a uniform field of colour helped ensure hallucinations.
The device was used for contacting the dead, a radio to receive messages from the reflected.
Despite looking as I pass down the stairs, my fairground selves don't meet my gaze. They seemed preoccupied, lost in glances and locked-up thought.
I suppose Mad Hatters has closed for the night now.
I wonder if anyone has switched the psychomanteum off?