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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Mother of All Revenge Plays"  I could turn myself into Caleb's mom, you think, and the sweat pops out on your brow as you stare down at the woman sprawling unconscious on the bed. That could be me there. That could be me, and I'm laying there, and then my eyes pop open and I look around, and I get up and go to the mirror and ... that's my face. That's my body. I could be her, wearing her clothes and telling her son what and not to do. I could so totally fuck with him if that was me with her body. The hate-fucktred you feel for Caleb is so strong that the fantasy actually makes you hard. She is dressed in a dusty-green blouse and faded denim jeans, which are rolled up to just below her knees. Impulsively, you pop open buttons, then pull her blouse apart and her jeans down, to find she is wearing a very generic-looking bra and panties. Sydney, when she returns, finds you bent over Mrs. Johansson in an awkward embrace, fiddling with her bra hooks. "Oh my God, Will," she squeals. "What are you doing?" "Getting her clothes off her," you retort. "Dur." "Don't 'dur' me, Will Prescott," she says, and she grabs your wrists. "I'll take care of this. You wait outside." "I'm putting on her mask," you blurt out. Sydney freezes. You point to Caleb's mom. "I wanna wear the mask, be her." Sydney's eyebrows shoot up. "Did you just say—?" She shakes her head, as though to clear it. "What did you say?" "I said, I want to be the one in her mask. I wanna be Caleb's mom. I wanna fuck with him," you add when Sydney continues to look vaguely alarmed. "And I can't think of a better place to fuck with him than as—" "Oooooh!" Sydney's exclamation of understanding breaks out in a long, low, thrilling gush. "Ohhh! You want—! Oh my God, Will!" To your utter amazement, she throws her arms around your neck and gasps, "I had no idea Caleb pissed you off this bad!" * * * * * So she gets it, but she still insists on pushing you out of the bedroom and closing the door on you. You protest, pointing out that when you've got Mrs. Johansson's body you'll get to see and play with anything she's got anyway, but Sydney firmly blocks you, saying that there's a difference between "squicky" (she winks when she says it) and "icky" (which she frowns at). Apparently undressing Caleb's mom is "icky" and therefore bad, while wearing her body and using it to torment her son is acceptably "squicky." So while she works, you hunch on the low, ratty sofa in the living room, clasping and unclasping your hands nervously. You jump up when Sydney comes out at one point, but it's only to fetch the plastic bag that she brought in from your truck. Then she's back a moment later to tell you to go in the bathroom and take off your clothes. Five minutes later she knocks softly on the bathroom door (hey, if she can lock you out of one room, you can lock her out of another!) and asks for your clothes. Then, with a giggle after you've opened the door, she adds that there's "another Will Prescott" in the house, who is maybe even more adorable than you because he's so shy and freaked out. "I don't think you were thinking of doing it this way when you made him earlier." "Funny," you mutter as you thrust your clothes at her. "Do you want me to send him home? Or keep him here?" "Send him home," you say. It would be weird to see him; and also, you figure you should clear out as soon as possible, just to avoid any chance of accidentally running into Caleb. "I already texted Caleb, told him I was going to be a little late," she says, "just to keep him out and about, waiting for me. I'll text him again after I'm gone, telling him I had to cancel." "Where are you gonna go?" you ask, for you'd assumed she would stay behind with you, at least for a little while. "Oh, I'll probably go hang out with my boyfriend." She laughs as your face falls, and shuts the door on you. Another five minutes pass, and she knocks again. "Okay, we're going," she says. "I sent Will"—she uses your name without any irony or hiccup—"on ahead to bring my car back. You have my number?" You nod, numbly. "Well, once you figure out what you want to do next, talk to me. And don't take too long," she adds. "I've got the dummy to keep me happy for a little while, but I'm going to miss you, Will." She looks a little wistful, and for a moment you think she's going to dart into the bathroom to give you a kiss, but instead she pulls the door closed again. You're left blinking in confusion as you hear her soft footsteps going down the hall. A moment later you hear the front door close. Distractedly, you glance around the bathroom, and catch sight of yourself in the mirror behind the vanity: a skinny, teenage boy with scraggly whiskers on his chin and cheek and upper lip; a shock of straw-colored hair; and a nervous and resentful expression on his face. You wince, which makes you look even more like an emaciated rabbit in need of what your dad would call "an attitude adjustment." Well, you reflect to yourself, I've got another face and body waiting for me in the bedroom. Might as well put those on. A lot of the fevered excitement you felt earlier has drained away. Possibly it's from the wait; possibly it's from the chill you feel at being naked; most probably it's from the emptiness of the house now that Sydney is gone. She has left the mask sitting face up on the pillow in Mrs. Johansson's bedroom, and the clothes she was wearing are neatly folded nearby. You sink onto the bed and kick the bedroom door shut with your toes before picking up the mask. It glows a faint blue, and you touch it with your fingertips, trying to recall the face that has been captured within it. Then you turn it over and see the name floating just over the sealed-up surface: SARAH CHARLOTTE JOHANSSON. That's going to be my name. You fall onto your back, swing your legs up onto the bed, and hold the mask over your face. You close your eyes and lower it. At first it is cold upon your face. But then it warms and grows very heavy. It seems to sink into your face and into your brain, bringing a black oblivion—like a heavy and suffocating tar—with it. It fills your head, and you know no more. * * * * * Your eyes shoot open and your heart hammers in your breast. Someone was trying to grab me! They were trying to put a bag over my head! You blink in puzzlement and raise your head. It takes you a moment to recognize the bedroom, and you wonder how you came to be back there. Did they carry you back here? Where are they? Then a hard chill runs through you when you look down at yourself, and see that you're stark naked. Oh Jesus! you think in a panic. What were they planning to do to me? You hold your breath, and listen. You are answered by absolute silence. With infinite care you sit up, and are startled to find your clothes folded up on the bed next to you. The sight of them reminds you of something, but you can't place the memory. There's something you should know, and the fact that you can't remember it fills you with dread. What did they do to me? Where are they? And—? It is surprisingly hard to finish the last question. It's as though some part of your brain is frantically trying to stop you from even thinking it. And who are they? You flinch at the approach of a memory, and your stomach sinks. Your brain tries to bat it away, but with the feel of a horror movie the memory begins to well up and suffocate you. You had just turned off the TV—there being nothing on—and were thinking of picking up the cheap paperback you bought at Arnholms' last week, when you heard cars pulling up outside, and a minute later a knock. You went to the door, figuring it had to be a friend of Caleb's. It was, in fact, it was— Vertigo grips you, and you clutch the sides of your temples as the memories coming pouring in: You opening the door and looking inside as Mrs. Johansson looked back. You smiled at Will and she told you that Caleb wasn't home. He told you that you came back to pick something up from his room because he (Caleb) called him (Will), so you let you in, and there was a girl with him and she came in with you too, and he grabbed Caleb's mom and held you and then the girl was shoving something into your face ... The moment passes, and the world is again still and firm. You raise your face and smile faintly to yourself. Calmly you separate out the clothes you folded and begin pulling them on. The panties. The bra. The blouse. The jeans. Your skin prickles all over as you work, and when you are dressed and fitted you quietly walk out into the hall and thence into the bathroom. It's all exactly as you'd imagined. The care-lined and tired-looking face of Sarah Johansson looks back at you from the mirror. Your lips twitch, and you push and resettle the tumbledown, reddish-brown curls. "Hello, Mrs. Johansson," you murmur to yourself in your new voice. A gleam comes into your reflection's eye. "Is Caleb around? "No, he isn't," you reply. "But his friend Will is." Your hand goes to your throat, and you stroke it. A giggle and a shiver both ripple through you. "He's in here with me." Next: Coming soon! Check back! |
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