The Book of Masks (Abridged)

The Big Double-You

"I'D PLANNED ON SHOWING YOU these elements one at a time," Blackwell says as he ushers you into one of the spare bedrooms. "Try not to get too excited—or too frightened."

You tense. He's never warned you about the library. What could be so awful that it makes the library seem normal?

He gestures to the thing in the corner. It looks like a store mannequin, but not one of those detailed ones. It's just a gray thing, vaguely humanoid in shape and size. "That is something you may have read about," Blackwell says. "A golem."

As he speaks, he unlocks a cabinet. Inside, on its back wall, hang three blue masks—personas as he calls them—and on the shelf sit two metal bands. He catches you looking over his shoulder, and maneuvers to block further views. He takes one of the masks down, and closes and locks the cabinet.

"I am making a considerable sacrifice on your behalf," he sighs. "But you are worth it. In fact, I think I'll turn a profit on it. Here. Lay down on the bed and put this on."

"Who is it? Do I need to take my clothes off?"

"It's no one yet," he says, "and you can lay down as you are."

You stretch out on the bed and put the mask over your face. The feeling this time is quite different. You are overcome with drowsiness, and a feeling of heavy weights settles over you. They seem to press you down into the bed. They press on your eyes and on your mind. They sink over you and drag you down. You feel as though you are drowning.

With a gasp you sit up; the mask falls into your lap. You feel as though you have woken from a long and exhausting sleep. "What happened?"

"You were out for quite a number of minutes," Blackwell says. He is standing by the window, looking down into the garden. "Look at the mask now."

You examine it, as you had examined the mask of Jared on Sunday. Like that mask, it contains an image: something like a 3D effect. You gasp to recognize your own face.

"Yes, this is where it gets a little frightening," Blackwell says. "But don't be afraid. It's just a tool. Now turn it over."

You examine the inside of the mask, and swallow hard. The mask of Jared had simply been blank and blue all over, but inside this one, attached to the reverse of the brow, is a metal strip. Over it, in the air, float ethereal letters: WILLIAM MARTIN PRESCOTT.

"When did you make this?" Your voice sounds strangled.

"Just now," he replies. "And I finished it while you were asleep. It is my last blank mask, until you finish the one you are working on now. Well, it was blank. Then you put it on your own face, just now."

"Why does it know my name?"

"Because it knows you, now." He doesn't walk toward you directly; he sort of strolls around the room until he is by your side. "The mask of Jared only records his image. But that one ... You see that metal strip? It's ... well I suppose it's like a microchip. And it now holds everything that was inside your head. All your memories. Your likes and dislikes. Your personality. Your dispositions. Your talents and skills. Well, most of them." He is by your side now and points to your temple. "The stuff that makes you into you, not just your body, but the stuff on the inside, is now inside that mask as well."

"What happens if I put it on?" You feel very cold.

"If you put it on? Nothing. You can't disguise yourself as yourself. But if another person put it on ... Well, I'm afraid they would look just like you. They would be able to think and act just like you, too. They would be the perfect imposter, because there is nothing you know that they wouldn't, nothing you can do that they couldn't, and just as easily and naturally."

Something seems to be squeezing your throat now. "What are you going to do with it?"

You look up at him. He holds your eye. Then he smiles genially. "Not that, Will. I respect your privacy just as much as you respect mine. But we need to fool your family. That is where the golem comes in."

He takes the mask and puts it against the mannequin in the corner. The mask vanishes, as though dropped into a pond, and the thing ripples and changes. It seems to flex and distort. And then it is no longer a featureless mannequin, but an identical but naked duplicate of you. It opens its eyes.

First it looks at Blackwell, and then it looks at you. It stares. Then its mouth opens in surprise and delight. You unconsciously shrink back as it steps forward.

"Whoa," it says in a voice that you recognize is your own. "Like, double your pleasure, double your fun, eh, boss?" It grins at Blackwell.

"William Prescott, may I present you with William Prescott," Blackwell says, ambiguously.

Your twin steps forward, grinning at you. It extends its hand. "Can I touch it, boss?"

"Him, William, him. You are the 'it'."

"Oh, right." Its fingers flex hungrily as it reaches for your face.

You put your hand to its, and your fingers lock together. Its grin widens. You block its other hand.

And then you are wrestling.

"Fight it, Will, fight it!" Blackwell exclaims. "You can't let your doppelganger defeat you!"

With a snarl it pushes you back on the bed, but you twist out from under and push it off. You jump at it, and the pair of you ram into the wall. Its face turns red, and it glares at you, pushing you back. You slip and fall and it piles onto you, trying to grab a hold around your head and neck that will lock you down. But then it slips—its bare feet scuttling on the polished wooden floor—and you twist over and push it down. You climb up and sit on its chest.

"Get off me, you fucker!" it shrieks. "I'll make you suck my cock!"

"Oh, eat my shit!"

Its lip curls. "I'll give you twenty dollars to leave me alone."

You look up at Blackwell in alarm. "Can it do that?"

"Of course not. It is a creature of magic, and incapable of practicing it."

You grin at your double. "Looks I'll be the one fucking you up."

"Suck it, Prescott!"

"Alright, stop it, both of you." Blackwell leans over and puts a finger in the thing's face. "You have to do what he says."

"How come? He's not the boss of me, and you can't make him the boss of me neither."

"But you want to do what he says," Blackwell says in an insinuating tone.

It blinks. "Oh, that's right. Dur!" It smiles again at you, but this time it is completely free of malice. "Sorry about that, dude. Pax?" He extends a hand.

You shake and help pull it to its feet. Once up, it hangs a friendly arm around your neck. "We're gonna have a fuckload of fun, you and me, you know?" It looks down. "I mean, look at that, I'm getting a boner just thinking about it!"

"This has been a delightful meeting of minds," Blackwell says, looking at his watch, "but it is time for you to go home, Will."

You and your twin look at him, and then you look at each other, and then you and Blackwell look at the golem.

Its face falls. "Oh, shit!"

* * * * *

Blackwell puts you in a wonderfully thick bathrobe once it is gone (in your clothes) and leads you downstairs into his living room, where the two of you sit down, each to polish a mask while discussing plans.

"You'll have to start spending the nights here, of course," he says. "I want you, and not your twin, to go to school, however. He'll stop by on his way to class, and the two of you will switch out. Pressing the mask to your face will give you all the memories it has accumulated in the meantime, so you won't get lost."

"How many of these things do you have?"

"At least two," he says curtly. "I need the next one we finish for another ... project ... of mine. The next mask will be yours to do with as you wish. I'll show you how to seal it and to make the mind strip. We should be ready by the beginning of next week, so you should start giving thought to what you will do with your mask."

That's what you do for the rest of the evening, even while trying to be distracted by the old movie he puts in the DVD player.

* * * * *

Shortly before midnight—"It isn't healthy to walk afterward"—he takes you to the guest bedroom. Like the other rooms on the second floor, it is small and a little cold; the floor is wood, and the ceiling feels too low. But it is cozy, and you feel tired. Blackwell's parting words give you pause, though.

"This house has a security system," he says, "but as you can imagine, it is a little unorthodox. It is also very sensitive. Pray do not prowl the halls before dawn."

You slip between the sheets and try to relax. When you sold the book back to Blackwell you were determined to have nothing more to do with him. Now you are sleeping in his house. Idly, you wonder what your doppelganger is up to in your own bed. If it really is a perfect duplicate of you ...

You grimace and blush.

* * * * *

The glowing face of the digital clock—a real anachronism in this room—reads a little after two when you hear the door handle jiggle. You look over: someone or something is fumbling at it. Is it Blackwell, trying to get in? He said there was a security system, but could it be a burglar?

Footsteps move off down the hall, and there is sound of a far off door opening and closing.