Kevin Lucia's Blog, page 20
October 2, 2019
The Mask, Chapter 3
3.
October 3rd, 20193:45 PM
"Did you see the look on that Oakley bitch's face when I told her 'get bent, you old hag?'"
Jasper Riley brayed like a donkey, exposing big teeth, and spraying a fine mist of spittle which thankfully didn't hit Scott as they walked west toward Black Creek Bridge on the edge of town. Scott forced a wide sneer and said, "Sure did. Looked like she was having a seizure, or something."
Jasper guffawed again and slapped his leg. "Priceless, man! She didn't know what to do! I'll bet she won't even give me a zero for not doin the damn homework, it messed with her so bad."
Scott shook his head, amazed at Jasper and his self-perceived hilarity, but not in a way which would've flattered the dime-a-dozen small town bully-in-training. Jasper Riley was a walking, talking cliche. Danzig t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, dangling skull earrings, peroxide-blond mohawk, torn and ripped jeans, and worn but wicked-looking engineer's boots stomping down the sidewalk. Smoking cigarette in one hand, a can of Skoal in his rear pocket. A textbook juvie who spent the weekends sneaking into bars and strip clubs, thanks to older cousins who "knew people."
Jasper stuck his cigarette into his mouth. Took a long, slow drag. Puffed it out leisurely. Honestly, if he'd managed to blow smoke rings, Scott wouldn't have been surprised. "So are you comin out with this weekend, Taylor? Been in town for two weeks, been hangin with me an Terry, an you still ain't been out."
With his free hand, Jasper struck Scott's shoulder with a good-matured slap. "Gotta give you a proper Clifton Heights welcome, dude."
Scott managed another sly grin, knowing that he was an even worse cliche than Jasper. Jasper was a cookie-cutter, carbon-copy bully who would someday grow up to be a senior who drag-raced on the outskirts of town, dated eight girls, and beat up seventh graders like them. Not any different than thugs found in small towns across the country.
Him? Hell, he was an even worse stereotype. Mom and Dad split in the middle of last year. He decided screw it, stopped doing homework, traded his As for Ds, quit sports, and started spending every weekend drinking behind barns or out "camping with the guys," smoking weed and drinking even more.
What's Mom do? Follow the plot of every bad family movie in existence. She moves him from the already pissant small town of Old Forge to the even smaller and more pissant town of Clifton Heights, to "escape bad influences." And what's the first thing Scott does? Attaches himself to the worst possible influences he can find, just to spite her.
He took a puff from his own cigarette and held it, until the smoked buzzed against the back of his throat. He exhaled. Funny, how he'd never smoked or taken a drink in his life, until the week after his parents broke the news of their impending divorce. Cliche upon cliche, compounded by stereotype, Amen, Hallelujah.
Jasper swatted him on the shoulder again, as they came to a stop just past Bassler Memorial Library. "Well, c'mon. Are you comin out this weekend, or not?"
Scott puffed. On one hand, he didn't see why not. It wasn't like Mom could stop him. With her working nights at her new job waitressing for The Skylark Diner, she was pretty much tied up all weekend evening. And he certainly had nothing else better to do. But a weird feeling had nagged Scott all day long. He couldn't pin down what it was, or where it came from. He just felt unsettled. As if something invisible had tipped slightly off balance.
He'd felt the same at school all day. He thought others had felt it too, even if they couldn't identify it. Even Jasper. Sure, he cut up rough in class all the time and played the cutthroat punk to the hilt, but telling Ms. Oakley to "get bent?" That seemed a bit much, even for him.
The school had just felt weird. There'd been whispered talk about a custodian who'd walked out of school a few days ago and had never come back. Rumors had been spreading among the students that the guy had gone a drinking binge; he'd been a kiddie porn perv and had been fired, all sorts of crazy things.
And today, Mrs. Seaver had been out, and no one seemed to know why. Not that he cared one way or another. In his still young career as a delinquent, Scott had learned quickly that most substitute teachers were fresh meat, easy to intimidate. Ms. Vaverchak, a thin, blond, meek young woman who couldn't have been over twenty-five years old, had been no exception.
"Well? C'mon. My older cousin is the bouncer at The Golden Kitty. He'll get us in. We can get wasted, and have real live naked girls dance in our laps!"
Jasper struck him in the shoulder again. Scott snorted. "Yeah, sure. You do know those dances cost money, ri..."
He looked away, across Black Creek Bridge, and his voice died mid-word. Though he hated to admit it, what he saw on the other side of the bridge sent a chill up his spine, and he shivered. "What..." he coughed, not from his cigarette's smoke, but from a strange anxiety which clawed at his throat. "What the hell is up with that?"
Jasper followed his gaze and frowned when he saw the same thing Scott did. Standing on the other side of the bridge were two people. Too hard to tell from their distance, but though they were shaped differently - one of them taller and lankier, the other shorter and stouter - something about their faces looked similar. Almost the same. Like they were related, or....
"Fuck me," Jasper spat. "Are they wearin fuckin masks?"
Scott narrowed his eyes. The strangers on the other side of the bridge had to be a good hundred yards away, so he couldn't make out specifics about their faces...but something in his gut said Jasper was right. The general shape of the faces, the long stringy black hair...did they look like their mouths were hanging open, screaming, with no sound?
Yeah. Fuck yeah. They both had masks on.
"What the hell is this, Jasper? Some sort of hazing prank? Your older cousins all dressed up, trying to get the new kid to shit his pants?"
Jasper didn't say anything. He glanced at his newfound friend (a bad influence, as his mother would say), expecting a wide grin, followed by another one of Jasper's braying laughs.
What he saw unnerved him. Jasper was scowling, almost growling, like a dog faced with something threatening. Underneath, he could see Jasper was just as creeped out by the masked duo as he was.
"No way," Jasper finally muttered through clenched teeth. "I ain't got nothin to do with this. Mother's better not be thinkin of messin with me, 'cause..."
In perfect synchronization, the masked duo stepped onto the bridge and started walking toward them, their gait stiff-legged, arms hanging slackly by their sides.
Jasper's bravado fled at the sight. "Fuck this, man."
He glanced at Scott. "I'm headin home. There's another bridge across the creek about a mile that way," he pointed past Bassler Library, up Kovac Road, and was already moving in that direction. "It'll take me to my house the back way. You wanna come?"
But Scott was already moving across the street. One of the few cool things he'd found here was a little junk store called Handy's Pawn and Thrift, which was on Acer Street, only a few steps away. It boasted an oddly interesting collection of this and that, and - unbeknownst to his new crop "of bad influences" - Scott liked to kill time there after school, looking at all the odd things. "I'm good," he tossed over his shoulder, pointedly not looking at the weirdos in masks crossing the bridge, "I'm gonna stop into that junk shop. Kill a few minutes there."
Scott expected a sneer or a jab at that, but Jasper must've been spooked bad, because he just nodded and turned down Kovac Road in a jog. "See you tomorrow!" he called out over his shoulder.
"Yeah! Sure." Scott turned and trotted across Main Street. When he hit the opposite sidewalk, he dared look back at Black Creek Bridge, his stomach tightening. They were probably across the bridge now, and he didn't know what he'd do if he turned and saw them striding toward him, those rubbery masks (he felt sure they were made of rubber) leering idiotically at him...
The bridge and street were empty.
Scott sighed explosively, not realizing how frightened he'd actually been until now. He turned around quickly, suddenly thinking somehow they'd gotten behind him, but he saw nothing but empty street back that way.
He was alone.
Even so. He was three steps away from Handy's, right around the corner, down Acer Street. He'd go hang out in there for a few minutes (being in Handy's always made him feel better for some reason; the tall, white-haired but solidly built storekeeper friendly and welcoming), then go home. He may hang out with an idiot, but that didn't mean he was one.
*
By the time Jasper had reached the small bike bridge which branched off Kovac Road and over Black Creek Bridge, his spiteful and arrogant facade had reasserted itself. He sneered, willfully forgetting the pants-pissing fear (which he'd never admit to Scott) which had shaken his knees not ten minutes ago.
Fucking loonies in this town. Running around playing dress up in damn masks. They were lucky his cousin Marcus from Utica hadn't been here. Marcus would've cut those crazy assholes up. Jasper couldn't wait until he turned sixteen. Soon as he did that, he was quitting school and going to live the good life with Marcus in Utica, hitting strip clubs, smoking pot, getting laid...
Something scraped against the road behind him.
A boot on asphalt.
And something sharp and hard slammed into his back, right near his spine, and punched through clothes, flesh, and muscle. Pain worse than anything he'd ever felt exploded through him, and blood rushed up his throat and geysered out his mouth in a deep red fountain.
A deep, burning cold spread through his body, from that point. He felt the object (a knife, his brain thought dully) pull out, and then felt it slam into another part of his back. This didn't hardly hurt at all, however. Just felt colder, and the knife sawing against his insides felt strangely distant. Like a dentist tugging on a Novocaine-numbed tooth.
The knife pulled out again. Hands roughly spun him around, and pushed him. He flopped onto his back, arms and legs twitching uselessly against the ground. A form bent over him, face hovering a mere inches from Jasper's, and his eyes - the light fading from them - registered two things before everything went dark for good.
One, a breast pocket name tag on what looked like a work uniform, which read McDonough.
Two...the figure indeed was wearing a rubber mask. A mask which was bubbling, stretching, melting off, and dripping onto his face. As his skin burned, Jasper was able to muster one final mewl...before gouts of molten rubber fell from the mask into his mouth, and pushed down his throat.
October 3rd, 20193:45 PM
"Did you see the look on that Oakley bitch's face when I told her 'get bent, you old hag?'"
Jasper Riley brayed like a donkey, exposing big teeth, and spraying a fine mist of spittle which thankfully didn't hit Scott as they walked west toward Black Creek Bridge on the edge of town. Scott forced a wide sneer and said, "Sure did. Looked like she was having a seizure, or something."
Jasper guffawed again and slapped his leg. "Priceless, man! She didn't know what to do! I'll bet she won't even give me a zero for not doin the damn homework, it messed with her so bad."
Scott shook his head, amazed at Jasper and his self-perceived hilarity, but not in a way which would've flattered the dime-a-dozen small town bully-in-training. Jasper Riley was a walking, talking cliche. Danzig t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, dangling skull earrings, peroxide-blond mohawk, torn and ripped jeans, and worn but wicked-looking engineer's boots stomping down the sidewalk. Smoking cigarette in one hand, a can of Skoal in his rear pocket. A textbook juvie who spent the weekends sneaking into bars and strip clubs, thanks to older cousins who "knew people."
Jasper stuck his cigarette into his mouth. Took a long, slow drag. Puffed it out leisurely. Honestly, if he'd managed to blow smoke rings, Scott wouldn't have been surprised. "So are you comin out with this weekend, Taylor? Been in town for two weeks, been hangin with me an Terry, an you still ain't been out."
With his free hand, Jasper struck Scott's shoulder with a good-matured slap. "Gotta give you a proper Clifton Heights welcome, dude."
Scott managed another sly grin, knowing that he was an even worse cliche than Jasper. Jasper was a cookie-cutter, carbon-copy bully who would someday grow up to be a senior who drag-raced on the outskirts of town, dated eight girls, and beat up seventh graders like them. Not any different than thugs found in small towns across the country.
Him? Hell, he was an even worse stereotype. Mom and Dad split in the middle of last year. He decided screw it, stopped doing homework, traded his As for Ds, quit sports, and started spending every weekend drinking behind barns or out "camping with the guys," smoking weed and drinking even more.
What's Mom do? Follow the plot of every bad family movie in existence. She moves him from the already pissant small town of Old Forge to the even smaller and more pissant town of Clifton Heights, to "escape bad influences." And what's the first thing Scott does? Attaches himself to the worst possible influences he can find, just to spite her.
He took a puff from his own cigarette and held it, until the smoked buzzed against the back of his throat. He exhaled. Funny, how he'd never smoked or taken a drink in his life, until the week after his parents broke the news of their impending divorce. Cliche upon cliche, compounded by stereotype, Amen, Hallelujah.
Jasper swatted him on the shoulder again, as they came to a stop just past Bassler Memorial Library. "Well, c'mon. Are you comin out this weekend, or not?"
Scott puffed. On one hand, he didn't see why not. It wasn't like Mom could stop him. With her working nights at her new job waitressing for The Skylark Diner, she was pretty much tied up all weekend evening. And he certainly had nothing else better to do. But a weird feeling had nagged Scott all day long. He couldn't pin down what it was, or where it came from. He just felt unsettled. As if something invisible had tipped slightly off balance.
He'd felt the same at school all day. He thought others had felt it too, even if they couldn't identify it. Even Jasper. Sure, he cut up rough in class all the time and played the cutthroat punk to the hilt, but telling Ms. Oakley to "get bent?" That seemed a bit much, even for him.
The school had just felt weird. There'd been whispered talk about a custodian who'd walked out of school a few days ago and had never come back. Rumors had been spreading among the students that the guy had gone a drinking binge; he'd been a kiddie porn perv and had been fired, all sorts of crazy things.
And today, Mrs. Seaver had been out, and no one seemed to know why. Not that he cared one way or another. In his still young career as a delinquent, Scott had learned quickly that most substitute teachers were fresh meat, easy to intimidate. Ms. Vaverchak, a thin, blond, meek young woman who couldn't have been over twenty-five years old, had been no exception.
"Well? C'mon. My older cousin is the bouncer at The Golden Kitty. He'll get us in. We can get wasted, and have real live naked girls dance in our laps!"
Jasper struck him in the shoulder again. Scott snorted. "Yeah, sure. You do know those dances cost money, ri..."
He looked away, across Black Creek Bridge, and his voice died mid-word. Though he hated to admit it, what he saw on the other side of the bridge sent a chill up his spine, and he shivered. "What..." he coughed, not from his cigarette's smoke, but from a strange anxiety which clawed at his throat. "What the hell is up with that?"
Jasper followed his gaze and frowned when he saw the same thing Scott did. Standing on the other side of the bridge were two people. Too hard to tell from their distance, but though they were shaped differently - one of them taller and lankier, the other shorter and stouter - something about their faces looked similar. Almost the same. Like they were related, or....
"Fuck me," Jasper spat. "Are they wearin fuckin masks?"
Scott narrowed his eyes. The strangers on the other side of the bridge had to be a good hundred yards away, so he couldn't make out specifics about their faces...but something in his gut said Jasper was right. The general shape of the faces, the long stringy black hair...did they look like their mouths were hanging open, screaming, with no sound?
Yeah. Fuck yeah. They both had masks on.
"What the hell is this, Jasper? Some sort of hazing prank? Your older cousins all dressed up, trying to get the new kid to shit his pants?"
Jasper didn't say anything. He glanced at his newfound friend (a bad influence, as his mother would say), expecting a wide grin, followed by another one of Jasper's braying laughs.
What he saw unnerved him. Jasper was scowling, almost growling, like a dog faced with something threatening. Underneath, he could see Jasper was just as creeped out by the masked duo as he was.
"No way," Jasper finally muttered through clenched teeth. "I ain't got nothin to do with this. Mother's better not be thinkin of messin with me, 'cause..."
In perfect synchronization, the masked duo stepped onto the bridge and started walking toward them, their gait stiff-legged, arms hanging slackly by their sides.
Jasper's bravado fled at the sight. "Fuck this, man."
He glanced at Scott. "I'm headin home. There's another bridge across the creek about a mile that way," he pointed past Bassler Library, up Kovac Road, and was already moving in that direction. "It'll take me to my house the back way. You wanna come?"
But Scott was already moving across the street. One of the few cool things he'd found here was a little junk store called Handy's Pawn and Thrift, which was on Acer Street, only a few steps away. It boasted an oddly interesting collection of this and that, and - unbeknownst to his new crop "of bad influences" - Scott liked to kill time there after school, looking at all the odd things. "I'm good," he tossed over his shoulder, pointedly not looking at the weirdos in masks crossing the bridge, "I'm gonna stop into that junk shop. Kill a few minutes there."
Scott expected a sneer or a jab at that, but Jasper must've been spooked bad, because he just nodded and turned down Kovac Road in a jog. "See you tomorrow!" he called out over his shoulder.
"Yeah! Sure." Scott turned and trotted across Main Street. When he hit the opposite sidewalk, he dared look back at Black Creek Bridge, his stomach tightening. They were probably across the bridge now, and he didn't know what he'd do if he turned and saw them striding toward him, those rubbery masks (he felt sure they were made of rubber) leering idiotically at him...
The bridge and street were empty.
Scott sighed explosively, not realizing how frightened he'd actually been until now. He turned around quickly, suddenly thinking somehow they'd gotten behind him, but he saw nothing but empty street back that way.
He was alone.
Even so. He was three steps away from Handy's, right around the corner, down Acer Street. He'd go hang out in there for a few minutes (being in Handy's always made him feel better for some reason; the tall, white-haired but solidly built storekeeper friendly and welcoming), then go home. He may hang out with an idiot, but that didn't mean he was one.
*
By the time Jasper had reached the small bike bridge which branched off Kovac Road and over Black Creek Bridge, his spiteful and arrogant facade had reasserted itself. He sneered, willfully forgetting the pants-pissing fear (which he'd never admit to Scott) which had shaken his knees not ten minutes ago.
Fucking loonies in this town. Running around playing dress up in damn masks. They were lucky his cousin Marcus from Utica hadn't been here. Marcus would've cut those crazy assholes up. Jasper couldn't wait until he turned sixteen. Soon as he did that, he was quitting school and going to live the good life with Marcus in Utica, hitting strip clubs, smoking pot, getting laid...
Something scraped against the road behind him.
A boot on asphalt.
And something sharp and hard slammed into his back, right near his spine, and punched through clothes, flesh, and muscle. Pain worse than anything he'd ever felt exploded through him, and blood rushed up his throat and geysered out his mouth in a deep red fountain.
A deep, burning cold spread through his body, from that point. He felt the object (a knife, his brain thought dully) pull out, and then felt it slam into another part of his back. This didn't hardly hurt at all, however. Just felt colder, and the knife sawing against his insides felt strangely distant. Like a dentist tugging on a Novocaine-numbed tooth.
The knife pulled out again. Hands roughly spun him around, and pushed him. He flopped onto his back, arms and legs twitching uselessly against the ground. A form bent over him, face hovering a mere inches from Jasper's, and his eyes - the light fading from them - registered two things before everything went dark for good.
One, a breast pocket name tag on what looked like a work uniform, which read McDonough.
Two...the figure indeed was wearing a rubber mask. A mask which was bubbling, stretching, melting off, and dripping onto his face. As his skin burned, Jasper was able to muster one final mewl...before gouts of molten rubber fell from the mask into his mouth, and pushed down his throat.
The Mask, Chapter 2
2.
October 2nd, 2019
6:45 PM
Margret Ann Seaver flipped over the last of her seventh grade students' poorly written essays on potential and kinetic energy. With a sigh, she closed her grade-book, shuffled the essays into a manila folder, then closed the folder and pushed it aside. She picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black, which had been waiting patiently for her to finish grading, and gurgled two fingers into the tumbler sitting next to her right hand.
She screwed the cap back onto the bottle. Picked up the tumbler and tossed the whiskey back. She closed her eyes and savored its warmth working toward her stomach, where it settled into a pleasant glow.
It had been an awful two days. The worst since the start of the school year. Maybe the worst she'd endured in three years. Seventh graders never proved to be the most studious of sorts, but this year's crop had turned into one of the worst she'd weathered in a while. None of them could sit still; not if their lives depended on it.
And their writing? Especially those who claimed not to have a computer or printer at home, and had to write by hand? God. She knew traditional penmanship was no longer taught at the elementary level (a piss-poor sign of the times, that), but she couldn't believe half of these students had been allowed to write in such illegible chicken-scratch. She thought it unconscionable. Unethical, even. What the hell were those primary teachers doing these days? Securing the self-esteem of generations of students by pandering to individual whims, at the expense of academic rigor?
She sighed and rubbed her forehead, dismayed at the venom pulsing in her thoughts. She'd always promised herself she'd retire rather than become a cynical old bat who no longer saw the good in her students, no longer took a simple joy from teaching. Her students were kids. They were to be expected to act as such. None of their sneering dismissiveness or their crude behavior was personal. And she knew the elementary school teachers in Clifton Heights were doing their best. She just couldn't seem to keep from feeling vindictive when she got tired like this.
Of course, the desk situation in her classroom hadn't helped. A new student from Webb County Junior High had transferred to Clifton Heights a week ago. Guidance placed him - Scott Carter - into her class two days ago, making 8th period General Science 25 students large. Problem was, she only had 24 desks.
At the end of the day, she'd requested a new desk from Principal Stedman who, in usual fashion, kicked the matter to William Donovan, head custodian. Donovan had gruffly (almost reluctantly, she thought, as if put out by the idea of doing his job) promised she would have 25 total desks by the start of school yesterday morning.
But she'd never gotten said desk. When she went to the office yesterday on her lunch break to ask why, she'd been waved aside by an uncharacteristically curt Stedman. Apparently, a custodian hadn't come to work, or had come to work and then left before school started without telling anyone, leaving a laundry list of tasks uncompleted. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, the desk she needed wasn't a priority.
8th period General Science proved to be a disaster. The new student, Scott Carter, didn't seem to be a bad sort; not really. In fact, though she'd only known him for two days, Margaret sensed a quick mind and engaging personality hiding behind his disinterested facade.
Unfortunately, not only was he committed to maintaining that facade at all costs, he also couldn't sit still...even worse than his classmates. He was always moving, fidgeting, and chatting with students near him. Because he didn't have a desk, he'd been sitting on the heater in the back of the class. That wasn't working. She spent most of class today trying to contain him, and very little time on her planned lesson.
She looked at the bottle of Johnny Walker. Weighed the pros and cons of another drink, or returning the bottle to the liquor cabinet. Eventually she settled on a compromise, pouring only one finger of whiskey, which she quickly knocked back. Her mouth stung less this time, but the glow in her belly lightened by several degrees.
Being a widower at age fifty-five was only making things worse. She didn't struggle with the grief these days, not really. Though Steve's heart attack three years ago had been unexpected, she'd moved past it better than she'd imagined she would in those first few awful, wrenching days.
No, what she struggled with now was simply the lack of Steve as a sounding board. A quiet and simple man who'd worked construction, Stephen Seaver had been a marvelous listener. She couldn't count the days she'd come home from school feeling as she did now, but after only ten minutes of pouring it out to Steve's quiet and drinking ears, she felt ready to tackle another school day. And minus the jolt of liquid courage, too. Without Steve, however, she'd been coming home from work and stewing alone in her own juices for the past three years, and drinking just a little bit more every year.
Things couldn't go on like this. She had to get her act together. Write her resignation letter and retire. She'd turned eligible this year, and suspected Stedman would rather hire a young graduate for a pittance than continue paying her 30+ years salary. It was just so hard to let go, to make herself believe it was all over...
Something creaked, down the hall.
Margaret looked up, unconcerned at first. It was probably Macy, her stuck-up Siamese. Or maybe Tufty, Macy's rambunctious tabby-cat roommate. They were always waking her up at night, chasing mice, their claws clicking against bare wood floors way past midnight...
Her thoughts trailed off.
As she stared at her front door, which had somehow opened all the way. At first she couldn't comprehend the sight. She'd locked it. Hadn't she? And if she hadn't locked it, how had it opened? Who had opened it? How long had it been open, while she'd sat at the table in the den, oblivious, numbly grading essays? It occurred to her, then, with deep cold spike to her stomach.
The creaking sound.
Had come from behind her. From the hall leading to the bedroom, bath, the guest room...
Behind me!
She tried to bolt out of her chair, but the whiskey combined with her fatigue slowed her down. She didn't even get close to straightening her legs before two hands yanked her by the shoulders out of the chair. She was thrown - like a limp bag of laundry - the floor. She landed hard enough to shiver the walls and knock two pictures down. Their glassy shattering seemed distant and far away.
A dark form knelt over her. Icy terror gripped her heart. Her lungs fluttered as she gasped for breath, and her bladder gave away completely. The man kneeling over her, the man holding what looked like a gigantic butcher knife, was wearing a mask...and the mask seemed worse than everything else. Long, stringy, very real hair exploded in all directions. The rubber face had a sickly gray pallor, which also looked real..though that of a terminally ill man. Eyes bulged in different directions at the same time, and a wide, black maw screamed soundlessly.
She opened her mouth - to plead what, she didn't know - but before she could utter a sound, the masked man's arm pistoned back and slammed the butcher knife deep into her belly. Unimaginable pain exploded and radiated all over her abdomen. She jerked and vomited blood in a rush, arms and legs twitching.
The man wearing the mask leaned into the blade, digging it around her guts. She tried to scream, to cry, or just whisper - Why? - but blood clogged her throat, cutting off speech, and air. She gagged up more gouts of blood, but it didn't matter, her throat remained clogged.
Very quickly, her vision telescoped down a long, dark tunnel. Her eyelids fluttered. She felt pain leaching away, replaced by bone-deep numbness. She wasn't sure which she preferred. Numbness meant she was dying. However, it also meant no more pain.
Life began to slip away. And as it did, the man in the mask did the oddest thing. The very last thing Margaret Seaver saw before hopefully going to join Steve. It raised bloody and savaged hands to its neck, (the backs of them looked like they been slashed multiple times with razors blades) and began peeling away what looked like flesh.
She realized, as the lights dimmed, the man was pulling off his mask (though experiencing great difficulty, tugging and grunting, as if it had somehow grown roots into his face), and, as her synapses fired their last, realized with a sense of confused amazement that the man was reaching toward her, mask in hand, and was slipping it over her head, and where the rubber touched her skin, it burned, and was the last thing she ever felt.
Chapter 3
October 2nd, 2019
6:45 PM
Margret Ann Seaver flipped over the last of her seventh grade students' poorly written essays on potential and kinetic energy. With a sigh, she closed her grade-book, shuffled the essays into a manila folder, then closed the folder and pushed it aside. She picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black, which had been waiting patiently for her to finish grading, and gurgled two fingers into the tumbler sitting next to her right hand.
She screwed the cap back onto the bottle. Picked up the tumbler and tossed the whiskey back. She closed her eyes and savored its warmth working toward her stomach, where it settled into a pleasant glow.
It had been an awful two days. The worst since the start of the school year. Maybe the worst she'd endured in three years. Seventh graders never proved to be the most studious of sorts, but this year's crop had turned into one of the worst she'd weathered in a while. None of them could sit still; not if their lives depended on it.
And their writing? Especially those who claimed not to have a computer or printer at home, and had to write by hand? God. She knew traditional penmanship was no longer taught at the elementary level (a piss-poor sign of the times, that), but she couldn't believe half of these students had been allowed to write in such illegible chicken-scratch. She thought it unconscionable. Unethical, even. What the hell were those primary teachers doing these days? Securing the self-esteem of generations of students by pandering to individual whims, at the expense of academic rigor?
She sighed and rubbed her forehead, dismayed at the venom pulsing in her thoughts. She'd always promised herself she'd retire rather than become a cynical old bat who no longer saw the good in her students, no longer took a simple joy from teaching. Her students were kids. They were to be expected to act as such. None of their sneering dismissiveness or their crude behavior was personal. And she knew the elementary school teachers in Clifton Heights were doing their best. She just couldn't seem to keep from feeling vindictive when she got tired like this.
Of course, the desk situation in her classroom hadn't helped. A new student from Webb County Junior High had transferred to Clifton Heights a week ago. Guidance placed him - Scott Carter - into her class two days ago, making 8th period General Science 25 students large. Problem was, she only had 24 desks.
At the end of the day, she'd requested a new desk from Principal Stedman who, in usual fashion, kicked the matter to William Donovan, head custodian. Donovan had gruffly (almost reluctantly, she thought, as if put out by the idea of doing his job) promised she would have 25 total desks by the start of school yesterday morning.
But she'd never gotten said desk. When she went to the office yesterday on her lunch break to ask why, she'd been waved aside by an uncharacteristically curt Stedman. Apparently, a custodian hadn't come to work, or had come to work and then left before school started without telling anyone, leaving a laundry list of tasks uncompleted. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, the desk she needed wasn't a priority.
8th period General Science proved to be a disaster. The new student, Scott Carter, didn't seem to be a bad sort; not really. In fact, though she'd only known him for two days, Margaret sensed a quick mind and engaging personality hiding behind his disinterested facade.
Unfortunately, not only was he committed to maintaining that facade at all costs, he also couldn't sit still...even worse than his classmates. He was always moving, fidgeting, and chatting with students near him. Because he didn't have a desk, he'd been sitting on the heater in the back of the class. That wasn't working. She spent most of class today trying to contain him, and very little time on her planned lesson.
She looked at the bottle of Johnny Walker. Weighed the pros and cons of another drink, or returning the bottle to the liquor cabinet. Eventually she settled on a compromise, pouring only one finger of whiskey, which she quickly knocked back. Her mouth stung less this time, but the glow in her belly lightened by several degrees.
Being a widower at age fifty-five was only making things worse. She didn't struggle with the grief these days, not really. Though Steve's heart attack three years ago had been unexpected, she'd moved past it better than she'd imagined she would in those first few awful, wrenching days.
No, what she struggled with now was simply the lack of Steve as a sounding board. A quiet and simple man who'd worked construction, Stephen Seaver had been a marvelous listener. She couldn't count the days she'd come home from school feeling as she did now, but after only ten minutes of pouring it out to Steve's quiet and drinking ears, she felt ready to tackle another school day. And minus the jolt of liquid courage, too. Without Steve, however, she'd been coming home from work and stewing alone in her own juices for the past three years, and drinking just a little bit more every year.
Things couldn't go on like this. She had to get her act together. Write her resignation letter and retire. She'd turned eligible this year, and suspected Stedman would rather hire a young graduate for a pittance than continue paying her 30+ years salary. It was just so hard to let go, to make herself believe it was all over...
Something creaked, down the hall.
Margaret looked up, unconcerned at first. It was probably Macy, her stuck-up Siamese. Or maybe Tufty, Macy's rambunctious tabby-cat roommate. They were always waking her up at night, chasing mice, their claws clicking against bare wood floors way past midnight...
Her thoughts trailed off.
As she stared at her front door, which had somehow opened all the way. At first she couldn't comprehend the sight. She'd locked it. Hadn't she? And if she hadn't locked it, how had it opened? Who had opened it? How long had it been open, while she'd sat at the table in the den, oblivious, numbly grading essays? It occurred to her, then, with deep cold spike to her stomach.
The creaking sound.
Had come from behind her. From the hall leading to the bedroom, bath, the guest room...
Behind me!
She tried to bolt out of her chair, but the whiskey combined with her fatigue slowed her down. She didn't even get close to straightening her legs before two hands yanked her by the shoulders out of the chair. She was thrown - like a limp bag of laundry - the floor. She landed hard enough to shiver the walls and knock two pictures down. Their glassy shattering seemed distant and far away.
A dark form knelt over her. Icy terror gripped her heart. Her lungs fluttered as she gasped for breath, and her bladder gave away completely. The man kneeling over her, the man holding what looked like a gigantic butcher knife, was wearing a mask...and the mask seemed worse than everything else. Long, stringy, very real hair exploded in all directions. The rubber face had a sickly gray pallor, which also looked real..though that of a terminally ill man. Eyes bulged in different directions at the same time, and a wide, black maw screamed soundlessly.
She opened her mouth - to plead what, she didn't know - but before she could utter a sound, the masked man's arm pistoned back and slammed the butcher knife deep into her belly. Unimaginable pain exploded and radiated all over her abdomen. She jerked and vomited blood in a rush, arms and legs twitching.
The man wearing the mask leaned into the blade, digging it around her guts. She tried to scream, to cry, or just whisper - Why? - but blood clogged her throat, cutting off speech, and air. She gagged up more gouts of blood, but it didn't matter, her throat remained clogged.
Very quickly, her vision telescoped down a long, dark tunnel. Her eyelids fluttered. She felt pain leaching away, replaced by bone-deep numbness. She wasn't sure which she preferred. Numbness meant she was dying. However, it also meant no more pain.
Life began to slip away. And as it did, the man in the mask did the oddest thing. The very last thing Margaret Seaver saw before hopefully going to join Steve. It raised bloody and savaged hands to its neck, (the backs of them looked like they been slashed multiple times with razors blades) and began peeling away what looked like flesh.
She realized, as the lights dimmed, the man was pulling off his mask (though experiencing great difficulty, tugging and grunting, as if it had somehow grown roots into his face), and, as her synapses fired their last, realized with a sense of confused amazement that the man was reaching toward her, mask in hand, and was slipping it over her head, and where the rubber touched her skin, it burned, and was the last thing she ever felt.
Chapter 3
October 1, 2019
The Mask, Chapter 2
2. October 2nd, 20196:45 PM
Margret Ann Seaver flipped over the last of her seventh grade students' poorly written essays on potential and kinetic energy. With a sigh, she closed her grade-book, shuffled the essays into a manila folder, then closed the folder and pushed it aside. She picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black, which had been waiting patiently for her to finish grading, and gurgled two fingers into the tumbler sitting next to her right hand.She screwed the cap back onto the bottle. Picked up the tumbler and tossed the whiskey back. She closed her eyes and savored its mild warmth working toward her stomach, where it settled into a pleasant glow.
It had been an awful two days. The worst since the start of the school year. Maybe the worst she'd endured in three years. Seventh graders never proved to be the most studious of sorts, but this year's crop had turned into one of the worst she'd weathered in a while. None of them could sit still; not if their lives depended on it. And their writing? Especially those who claimed not to have a computer or printer at home, and had to write by hand? God. She knew traditional penmanship was no longer taught at the elementary level (a piss-poor sign of the times, that), but she couldn't believe half of these students had been allowed to write in such illegible chicken-scratch. She thought it unconscionable. Unethical, even. What the hell were those primary teachers doing these days? Securing the self-esteem of generations of students by pandering to individual whims, at the expense of academic rigor?
She sighed and rubbed her forehead, dismayed at the venom pulsing in her thoughts. She'd always promised herself she'd retire rather than become a cynical old bat who no longer saw the good in her students, no longer took a simple joy from teaching. Her students were kids. They were to be expected to act as such. None of their sneering dismissiveness or their crude behavior was personal. And she knew the elementary school teachers in Clifton Heights were doing the best they could. She just couldn't seem to keep from feeling vindictive when she got tired like this.
Of course, the desk situation in her classroom hadn't helped. A new student from Webb County High had transferred to Clifton Heights High a week ago, and Guidance placed him - Scott Carter - into her class two days ago, making 8th period General Science 25 students large. Problem was, she only had 24 desks.
At the end of the day, she'd requested a new desk from Principal Stedman who, in usual fashion, kicked the matter to William Donovan, head custodian. Donovan had gruffly (almost reluctantly, she thought, as if put out by the idea of doing his job) promised she would have 25 total desks by the start of school yesterday morning.
But she'd never gotten said desk. When she went to the office yesterday on her lunch break to ask why, she'd been waved aside by an uncharacteristically curt Stedman. Apparently, a custodian hadn't come to work, or had come to work and then left before school started without telling anyone, leaving a laundry list of tasks uncompleted. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, the extra desk she needed wasn't a priority.8th period General Science proved to be a disaster. The new student, Scott Carter, didn't seem to be a bad sort; not really. In fact, though she'd only known him for two days, Margaret sensed a quick mind and engaging personality hiding behind his disinterested facade. Unfortunately, not only was he committed to maintaining that facade at all costs, he also couldn't sit still...even worse than his classmates. Because she didn't have a desk for him, he'd been sitting on the heater in the back of the class, and that simply wasn't working. She spent most of the class today simply trying to contain him, and very little time on her planned lesson.
She looked at the bottle of Johnny Walker. Weighed the pros and cons of another drink, verses putting the bottle back in the liquor cabinet. After several seconds of further debate, she settled on a compromise, pouring only one finger of whiskey, which she quickly knocked back. Her mouth stung less this time, but the glow in her belly lightened by several degrees. Of course, being a widower at age fifty-five only made things worse. She didn't struggle with the grief these days, really. Though Steve's heart attack three years ago had been unexpected, she'd managed to move past it better than she'd imagined she would in those first few awful, wrenching days. No, what she struggled with now was simply the lack of Steve as a sounding board. A quiet, simple, but not unintelligent man who'd worked construction, Stephen Seaver had been a marvelous listener. She couldn't count the days she'd come home from school feeling as she did now, but after only ten minutes of pouring it all out to Steve's quiet and drinking ears, she felt ready to tackle another school day. And without the jolt of liquid courage, too. Without Steve, however, she'd been coming home from work and stewing alone in her own juices for the past three years, and drinking just a little bit more every year.
Things couldn't go on like this. She had to get her act together. Write her resignation letter and retire. She'd turned eligible this year, and suspected Stedman would rather hire a young graduate for a pittance than continue paying her 30+ years salary. It was just so hard to let go, to make herself believe it was all over...
Someone creaked, down the hall.
Margaret looked up, unconcerned at first. It was probably Macy, her stuck-up Siamese. Or maybe Tufty, Macy's tabby-cat roommate. They were always waking her up at night, chasing mice, their claws clicking against bare wood floors way past midnight...Her thoughts trailed off.As she stared at her front door, which had somehow opened all the way. At first she couldn't comprehend the sight. She'd locked it. Hadn't she? And if she hadn't locked it, how had it opened? Who had opened it? How long had it been open, while she'd sat at the table in the den, oblivious, numbly grading essays? It occurred to her, then, with deep cold spike to her stomach.
The creaking sound.
Had come from behind her. From the hall leading to the bedroom, bath, the guest room...
Behind me!She tried to bolt out of her chair, but the whiskey combined with her fatigue slowed her down, and she didn't even get close to straightening her legs before two hands yanked her by the shoulders out of the chair. She was thrown - like a limb bag of laundry - the floor. She landed hard enough to shiver the walls and knock two pictures to the floor in the hall. Their glassy shattering seemed distant and far away. A dark form knelt over her. Icy panic gripped her heart, her lungs fluttered as she gasped for breath, and her bladder gave away completely...for the man kneeling over her, the man holding what looked like a gigantic butcher knife, was wearing a mask...and the mask seemed worse than everything else. Long, stringy, very real like hair exploded in all directions. The face a sickly gray pallor, which likewise looked real..though that of a terminally ill man. Eyes which bulged in different directions at the same time, and a wide, black maw, which screamed soundlessly.
She opened her mouth - to plead what, she didn't know - but before she could utter a sound, the masked man's arm pistoned back and slammed the butcher knife deep into Margaret's belly. Unimaginable pain exploded and radiated all over her abdomen, and she vomited blood in a rush, jerking and twitching.But the man wearing the mask leaned into the blade, digging it around her guts. She tried to scream, to cry, or just whisper - Why? - but blood clogged her throat, cutting off speech and her airway. She gagged up more gouts of blood, but her throat remained clogged.Very quickly, her vision telescoped down a long, dark tunnel. Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt pain leaching away, replaced by bone-deep numbness. She wasn't sure which she preferred. Numbness meant she was dying. However, it also meant no more pain.Life began to slip away from her. And as it did, the man in the mask did the oddest thing, the very last thing Margaret Seaver saw before hopefully going to join Steve. It raised bloody and savaged hands to its neck, and began peeling away what looked like flesh. She realized, as the lights dimmed, the man was pulling off his mask (though experiencing great difficulty, tugging and grunting, as it had somehow grown roots in his face), and, as her synapses fired their last, realized with a sense of confused amazement that the man was reaching toward her, mask in hand, and now was slipped it on over her head, and where the rubber touched her skin, it burned, and was the last thing she ever felt.
Margret Ann Seaver flipped over the last of her seventh grade students' poorly written essays on potential and kinetic energy. With a sigh, she closed her grade-book, shuffled the essays into a manila folder, then closed the folder and pushed it aside. She picked up the bottle of Johnny Walker Black, which had been waiting patiently for her to finish grading, and gurgled two fingers into the tumbler sitting next to her right hand.She screwed the cap back onto the bottle. Picked up the tumbler and tossed the whiskey back. She closed her eyes and savored its mild warmth working toward her stomach, where it settled into a pleasant glow.
It had been an awful two days. The worst since the start of the school year. Maybe the worst she'd endured in three years. Seventh graders never proved to be the most studious of sorts, but this year's crop had turned into one of the worst she'd weathered in a while. None of them could sit still; not if their lives depended on it. And their writing? Especially those who claimed not to have a computer or printer at home, and had to write by hand? God. She knew traditional penmanship was no longer taught at the elementary level (a piss-poor sign of the times, that), but she couldn't believe half of these students had been allowed to write in such illegible chicken-scratch. She thought it unconscionable. Unethical, even. What the hell were those primary teachers doing these days? Securing the self-esteem of generations of students by pandering to individual whims, at the expense of academic rigor?
She sighed and rubbed her forehead, dismayed at the venom pulsing in her thoughts. She'd always promised herself she'd retire rather than become a cynical old bat who no longer saw the good in her students, no longer took a simple joy from teaching. Her students were kids. They were to be expected to act as such. None of their sneering dismissiveness or their crude behavior was personal. And she knew the elementary school teachers in Clifton Heights were doing the best they could. She just couldn't seem to keep from feeling vindictive when she got tired like this.
Of course, the desk situation in her classroom hadn't helped. A new student from Webb County High had transferred to Clifton Heights High a week ago, and Guidance placed him - Scott Carter - into her class two days ago, making 8th period General Science 25 students large. Problem was, she only had 24 desks.
At the end of the day, she'd requested a new desk from Principal Stedman who, in usual fashion, kicked the matter to William Donovan, head custodian. Donovan had gruffly (almost reluctantly, she thought, as if put out by the idea of doing his job) promised she would have 25 total desks by the start of school yesterday morning.
But she'd never gotten said desk. When she went to the office yesterday on her lunch break to ask why, she'd been waved aside by an uncharacteristically curt Stedman. Apparently, a custodian hadn't come to work, or had come to work and then left before school started without telling anyone, leaving a laundry list of tasks uncompleted. She'd been told, in no uncertain terms, the extra desk she needed wasn't a priority.8th period General Science proved to be a disaster. The new student, Scott Carter, didn't seem to be a bad sort; not really. In fact, though she'd only known him for two days, Margaret sensed a quick mind and engaging personality hiding behind his disinterested facade. Unfortunately, not only was he committed to maintaining that facade at all costs, he also couldn't sit still...even worse than his classmates. Because she didn't have a desk for him, he'd been sitting on the heater in the back of the class, and that simply wasn't working. She spent most of the class today simply trying to contain him, and very little time on her planned lesson.
She looked at the bottle of Johnny Walker. Weighed the pros and cons of another drink, verses putting the bottle back in the liquor cabinet. After several seconds of further debate, she settled on a compromise, pouring only one finger of whiskey, which she quickly knocked back. Her mouth stung less this time, but the glow in her belly lightened by several degrees. Of course, being a widower at age fifty-five only made things worse. She didn't struggle with the grief these days, really. Though Steve's heart attack three years ago had been unexpected, she'd managed to move past it better than she'd imagined she would in those first few awful, wrenching days. No, what she struggled with now was simply the lack of Steve as a sounding board. A quiet, simple, but not unintelligent man who'd worked construction, Stephen Seaver had been a marvelous listener. She couldn't count the days she'd come home from school feeling as she did now, but after only ten minutes of pouring it all out to Steve's quiet and drinking ears, she felt ready to tackle another school day. And without the jolt of liquid courage, too. Without Steve, however, she'd been coming home from work and stewing alone in her own juices for the past three years, and drinking just a little bit more every year.
Things couldn't go on like this. She had to get her act together. Write her resignation letter and retire. She'd turned eligible this year, and suspected Stedman would rather hire a young graduate for a pittance than continue paying her 30+ years salary. It was just so hard to let go, to make herself believe it was all over...
Someone creaked, down the hall.
Margaret looked up, unconcerned at first. It was probably Macy, her stuck-up Siamese. Or maybe Tufty, Macy's tabby-cat roommate. They were always waking her up at night, chasing mice, their claws clicking against bare wood floors way past midnight...Her thoughts trailed off.As she stared at her front door, which had somehow opened all the way. At first she couldn't comprehend the sight. She'd locked it. Hadn't she? And if she hadn't locked it, how had it opened? Who had opened it? How long had it been open, while she'd sat at the table in the den, oblivious, numbly grading essays? It occurred to her, then, with deep cold spike to her stomach.
The creaking sound.
Had come from behind her. From the hall leading to the bedroom, bath, the guest room...
Behind me!She tried to bolt out of her chair, but the whiskey combined with her fatigue slowed her down, and she didn't even get close to straightening her legs before two hands yanked her by the shoulders out of the chair. She was thrown - like a limb bag of laundry - the floor. She landed hard enough to shiver the walls and knock two pictures to the floor in the hall. Their glassy shattering seemed distant and far away. A dark form knelt over her. Icy panic gripped her heart, her lungs fluttered as she gasped for breath, and her bladder gave away completely...for the man kneeling over her, the man holding what looked like a gigantic butcher knife, was wearing a mask...and the mask seemed worse than everything else. Long, stringy, very real like hair exploded in all directions. The face a sickly gray pallor, which likewise looked real..though that of a terminally ill man. Eyes which bulged in different directions at the same time, and a wide, black maw, which screamed soundlessly.
She opened her mouth - to plead what, she didn't know - but before she could utter a sound, the masked man's arm pistoned back and slammed the butcher knife deep into Margaret's belly. Unimaginable pain exploded and radiated all over her abdomen, and she vomited blood in a rush, jerking and twitching.But the man wearing the mask leaned into the blade, digging it around her guts. She tried to scream, to cry, or just whisper - Why? - but blood clogged her throat, cutting off speech and her airway. She gagged up more gouts of blood, but her throat remained clogged.Very quickly, her vision telescoped down a long, dark tunnel. Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt pain leaching away, replaced by bone-deep numbness. She wasn't sure which she preferred. Numbness meant she was dying. However, it also meant no more pain.Life began to slip away from her. And as it did, the man in the mask did the oddest thing, the very last thing Margaret Seaver saw before hopefully going to join Steve. It raised bloody and savaged hands to its neck, and began peeling away what looked like flesh. She realized, as the lights dimmed, the man was pulling off his mask (though experiencing great difficulty, tugging and grunting, as it had somehow grown roots in his face), and, as her synapses fired their last, realized with a sense of confused amazement that the man was reaching toward her, mask in hand, and now was slipped it on over her head, and where the rubber touched her skin, it burned, and was the last thing she ever felt.
September 30, 2019
The Mask
1. October 1st, 20196:00 AM
It was the ugliest mask Lester had ever seen. Bulging, uneven eyes. A wide, screaming mouth. Crooked rotten teeth, and stringy black hair which felt entirely too real. The face's sickly gray rubber felt wrong between his fingers. Too slick. Too viscous. Like it wasn't entirely solid and might dissolve between his fingertips at any moment, even though he could see very clearly it looked dry, and solid.
Lester didn't like it. Not one bit.
But he couldn't seem to put it down. Kept turning it over and over in hands, as if he was searching for some clue as to who owned the damn thing - a name written on the inside, or a store tag - which was stupid. He'd found it tossed into the corner of Clifton Height's Junior/Senior High's dirt cellar. It obviously didn't belong to anyone.
How it had gotten down there was anyone's guess. As a custodian, Lester knew - more than most folks - how the kids liked to sneak around the school after hours. It was a decently sized building, and Colin Smith - a sixty-one year old fart only two years away from retirement, with bad hearing and eyesight to boot - was the only night custodian on staff. If a kid wanted to sneak around the school after hours, it wouldn't too hard a feat to manage.
Also, way too many master keys had been copied over the years, and all of them were never accounted for at the same time. Every couple of years, it seemed like a master key found its way into the hands of a select group of seniors. Lester had lost track of how many times he'd found soda and beer bottles tossed into the far corners of the dirt cellar, crushed cigarettes, and once, several used condoms and a pair of panties. One year, the seniors had even showed the audacity to somehow sneak in a Sony Playstation and hook it up to one of the old televisions stored down there.
As Lester turned the hideous, leering mask face up - so that it's bulging eyes (the color of rotten egg yolk) were staring at him - he figured that's how the damn thing had gotten down there. It was too god-forsaken ugly and downright disgusting to be an old theater prop. At some point, a senior who had a master key and liked to sneak down here to drink, smoke pot, and get laid had brought along the damn thing, (who the hell knew why, because who the hell knew WHAT these kids were thinking today), and forgotten. End of story. Case closed.
He shook himself, fighting off a strange drowsiness. He didn't have time to mess around with the damn thing. He'd come down here because Mrs. Seaver needed an extra desk for her classroom because a new student had transferred in. Colin had been too lazy (as usual) to do it last night, so here he was, humping his ass down here in the morning before school. He had several others things he needed to get done, so he should be finding a suitable desk and taking it to Mrs. Seavers room in the Science Hallway, not mucking around with a weird old rubber mask which felt strange, and made him feel slightly sick to his stomach, for some reason.
But he couldn't it down. Couldn't make himself toss it away into the darkness, where an instinctive part of him said it belonged, where it would safe, where it couldn't hurt anyone (though that seemed a very strange thought, and didn't make much sense). In fact, with a start, he realized that as he'd stood there thinking those odd thoughts, his hands had been working the mask, and now was raising it to his head, was stretching it wide...to pull it down over his face.
No! He thought, suddenly frantic and, unreasonably, afraid, as the smell of something old and rotten filled his nostrils. No, I can't! he screamed inside, as he stretched the rubber mask wide enough to accommodate his head. With hands which seemed to operate of their own free will, Lester McDonough pulled the rubber mask over his hand, and blackness fell.
It was the ugliest mask Lester had ever seen. Bulging, uneven eyes. A wide, screaming mouth. Crooked rotten teeth, and stringy black hair which felt entirely too real. The face's sickly gray rubber felt wrong between his fingers. Too slick. Too viscous. Like it wasn't entirely solid and might dissolve between his fingertips at any moment, even though he could see very clearly it looked dry, and solid.
Lester didn't like it. Not one bit.
But he couldn't seem to put it down. Kept turning it over and over in hands, as if he was searching for some clue as to who owned the damn thing - a name written on the inside, or a store tag - which was stupid. He'd found it tossed into the corner of Clifton Height's Junior/Senior High's dirt cellar. It obviously didn't belong to anyone.
How it had gotten down there was anyone's guess. As a custodian, Lester knew - more than most folks - how the kids liked to sneak around the school after hours. It was a decently sized building, and Colin Smith - a sixty-one year old fart only two years away from retirement, with bad hearing and eyesight to boot - was the only night custodian on staff. If a kid wanted to sneak around the school after hours, it wouldn't too hard a feat to manage.
Also, way too many master keys had been copied over the years, and all of them were never accounted for at the same time. Every couple of years, it seemed like a master key found its way into the hands of a select group of seniors. Lester had lost track of how many times he'd found soda and beer bottles tossed into the far corners of the dirt cellar, crushed cigarettes, and once, several used condoms and a pair of panties. One year, the seniors had even showed the audacity to somehow sneak in a Sony Playstation and hook it up to one of the old televisions stored down there.
As Lester turned the hideous, leering mask face up - so that it's bulging eyes (the color of rotten egg yolk) were staring at him - he figured that's how the damn thing had gotten down there. It was too god-forsaken ugly and downright disgusting to be an old theater prop. At some point, a senior who had a master key and liked to sneak down here to drink, smoke pot, and get laid had brought along the damn thing, (who the hell knew why, because who the hell knew WHAT these kids were thinking today), and forgotten. End of story. Case closed.
He shook himself, fighting off a strange drowsiness. He didn't have time to mess around with the damn thing. He'd come down here because Mrs. Seaver needed an extra desk for her classroom because a new student had transferred in. Colin had been too lazy (as usual) to do it last night, so here he was, humping his ass down here in the morning before school. He had several others things he needed to get done, so he should be finding a suitable desk and taking it to Mrs. Seavers room in the Science Hallway, not mucking around with a weird old rubber mask which felt strange, and made him feel slightly sick to his stomach, for some reason.
But he couldn't it down. Couldn't make himself toss it away into the darkness, where an instinctive part of him said it belonged, where it would safe, where it couldn't hurt anyone (though that seemed a very strange thought, and didn't make much sense). In fact, with a start, he realized that as he'd stood there thinking those odd thoughts, his hands had been working the mask, and now was raising it to his head, was stretching it wide...to pull it down over his face.
No! He thought, suddenly frantic and, unreasonably, afraid, as the smell of something old and rotten filled his nostrils. No, I can't! he screamed inside, as he stretched the rubber mask wide enough to accommodate his head. With hands which seemed to operate of their own free will, Lester McDonough pulled the rubber mask over his hand, and blackness fell.
September 29, 2019
The Enrichment of Friends
I'm sitting here writing this in waning moments of RoberCon 2019, and I'm poignantly reminded of what Cons are all about, really, especially considering this year's circumstances. Unfortunately, due to events out of his hands, good friend and editor of Lamplight Magazine, Jacob Haddon, was unable to make the trip to RoberCon this year. Which meant I had to man the table myself. As things worked out, most of my writer friends were placed on a completely different floor. For the first time since RoberCon began, I found myself mostly isolated for the entire weekend.
I say mostly, because I did get to know the folks at SPECTERS (paranormal investigators) pretty well through the convention, especially Alonnie Phoenix, a local medium. In that case it worked out pretty well, because if I ended up near the "usual suspects" I might not have made her acquaintance. Even so, the weekend has been a bit of let-down, because I didn't get the time with my friends I usually do at RoberCon.
It simply underscored the real reason why I love to attend Cons. Yes, I do love selling my books - connecting with Constant Readers, meeting new ones. But I love hanging out with my friends even more. It's what makes Cons so precious.
However, I've also recently realized that it's time for these friendships grow past just writing events. Some of these people I'm known almost ten years. We've experienced a lot together; in person, and vicariously through The Book of Face. It's time to be really intentional about these relationships, and not let their growth hinge on my Con attendance, or our writing careers.
This was reinforced in grand fashion for me when Madi and I recently met up with authors Bob Ford, Kelli Owen, Wesley Southard, and his wife Katie. We met them at what remains of the PA mining town Centralia, the inspiration for the Silent Hill video games and movies, and Dean Koontz's novella, Strange Highways.
Graffiti Highway, Centralia, PAWe had a fun time. There's not as much "creepy stuff" to see, anymore. All the buildings are gone, and the steam vents are now closed. "Graffiti Highway," which used to be covered in weird spray-painted occult symbols, is now one big patch of layer upon layer of colorful graffiti.
Even so, we enjoyed ourselves. We talked about horror, writing, movies, and life stuff. We then went and shared a late lunch, and simply enjoyed each other's company. This is something which should happen more often. I love these people not just because they're my "writer friends," but because they're my friends. Hanging out at Cons is wonderful, but gatherings like ours in Centralia is what friendship is all about: spending time with each other, just because, and it's something which needs to happen more often.
The Illest Group From Centralia, PA. Ready to drop some mad lyrics.
I say mostly, because I did get to know the folks at SPECTERS (paranormal investigators) pretty well through the convention, especially Alonnie Phoenix, a local medium. In that case it worked out pretty well, because if I ended up near the "usual suspects" I might not have made her acquaintance. Even so, the weekend has been a bit of let-down, because I didn't get the time with my friends I usually do at RoberCon.
It simply underscored the real reason why I love to attend Cons. Yes, I do love selling my books - connecting with Constant Readers, meeting new ones. But I love hanging out with my friends even more. It's what makes Cons so precious.
However, I've also recently realized that it's time for these friendships grow past just writing events. Some of these people I'm known almost ten years. We've experienced a lot together; in person, and vicariously through The Book of Face. It's time to be really intentional about these relationships, and not let their growth hinge on my Con attendance, or our writing careers.
This was reinforced in grand fashion for me when Madi and I recently met up with authors Bob Ford, Kelli Owen, Wesley Southard, and his wife Katie. We met them at what remains of the PA mining town Centralia, the inspiration for the Silent Hill video games and movies, and Dean Koontz's novella, Strange Highways.
Graffiti Highway, Centralia, PAWe had a fun time. There's not as much "creepy stuff" to see, anymore. All the buildings are gone, and the steam vents are now closed. "Graffiti Highway," which used to be covered in weird spray-painted occult symbols, is now one big patch of layer upon layer of colorful graffiti.
Even so, we enjoyed ourselves. We talked about horror, writing, movies, and life stuff. We then went and shared a late lunch, and simply enjoyed each other's company. This is something which should happen more often. I love these people not just because they're my "writer friends," but because they're my friends. Hanging out at Cons is wonderful, but gatherings like ours in Centralia is what friendship is all about: spending time with each other, just because, and it's something which needs to happen more often. 
The Illest Group From Centralia, PA. Ready to drop some mad lyrics.August 24, 2019
Review: Ghost Music And Other Tales
Ghost Music And Other Tales by Thomas TessierMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
In many ways, this collection reminded me a lot of Alan Peter Ryan's THE BONES WIZARD. Very surreal stories which inhabit a shadowy borderland between day and night. Many of the stories are reinforced by strong foundations of realism, which are then nudged into the weird and the fantastic by Tessier's deft touch. Going to have to get his newest short story collection.
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Review: The Horror Club
The Horror Club by Mark MorrisMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
An excellent, lush, slow-burn horror novel. Not a book to burn through, but one to take time with. I especially enjoyed Morris' balanced, finely structured prose, and I especially liked the brief bit of fantasy world-building near the end - would've liked to have seen more of that nightmarish world. I clearly need to read more Mark Morris!
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July 25, 2019
New Short Story in Other Voices, Other Tombs
Live now, on Amazon: Other Voices, Other Tombs; featuring my latest Clifton Heights story, "A Circle that Ever Returneth," along with fiction from such fine folks as: Kealan Patrick Burke, Gemma Files, Ania Ahlborn, Mercedes Murdock Yardley, Michael Whitehouse, Michael Wehunt, Caytlyn Brooke, CW Briar, Cameron Chaney, Michelle Garza and Melissa Lason, Mike Duran, Gemma Amor, and J.D. McGregor. Edited by Joe Sullivan and John Brhel, from Cemetery Gates Media."Other Voices, Other Tombs is an anthology packed with unsettling stories from the finest independent authors in the horror genre. This collection runs the gamut of styles, including everything from literary horror to creepypasta. Ania Ahlborn, Kealan Patrick Burke, Michael Wehunt, Mercedes Yardley, and Gemma Files are widely considered some of the best authors working in dark fiction right now. Also included are stories from NoSleep Podcast legends: Gemma Amor, JD McGregor, and Michael Whitehouse. Other Voices, Other Tombs is a must-read for the Summer and Fall of 2019!"
This is another one of those very "personal" stories which found its roots in a real-life experience. If you've ever wondered how working at a can and bottle redemption center could be a tale of existential horror, wonder no more....
July 24, 2019
Review: Shadows 10
Shadows 10 by Charles L. GrantMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Not a single weak story in the entire collection. I really wish there was someway to release these and other classic anthologies in ebook form. Ah, well...
It's hard to put into words while I love quiet horror so much. I don't want to fall into the trap of saying one form of horror is "superior" to another. For me, however, I prefer quietly unsettling stories which don't scream, but only whisper. That, and so many of these stories - while quietly supernatural - don't center on obvious horror tropes. They center on human frailty, weakness, and life.
Probably some folks find these stories boring. No zombies here, no monsters, no werewolves, no vampires. Just shadows that flit in the corner of your vision, gone before you even realize they were there.
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July 20, 2019
Review: Dark Advent
Dark Advent by Brian HodgeMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Excellent post-apocalyptic tale that should be mentioned right up there with The Stand and Swan Song, and what makes it different than those is the purely human element of this story. There are hints of preternatural occurrences, but for the most part, this tale is about the struggle of humans after a world-altering catastrophe to try and carry on, despite the temptations to revert to our baser natures.
Yes, like the previous novels, there's the expected "two camps" - some humans band together collectively and retain their values, while some succumb to tyranny, despotic rule, and their own selfish desires. But unlike The Stand and Swan Song, there's no epic, supernatural forces backing each side. It's merely the best and worst of humanity, clashing amidst the debris of modern society, for the future of mankind. This is a book which should be more widely read, for sure.
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