Chapter #15Through a Dead Man's Eyes by: Seuzz   You're in too much of a daze to do more than take it in as a brute fact: Inside of ten days, all your friends who had known about the masks--except for you and Caleb--have suffered fatal accidents. You curl into a fetal position after Lisa has hung up.
It's that book. It has to be the book. There is no other connecting thread. And of course, it's a magic book. It's the kind of book that lets you do awful things-- You groan as you recall the kinds of things that you and Caleb were talking about doing: replacing people, becoming them, stealing their lives, reshaping them to your own purposes. There have to be demons and things lurking around that book, executing the spells for its users; and naturally those things would bite you back.
What did Caleb say when he first introduced you to the masks? Something about how the book didn't like people unless he made an "impression" of you. But wait, that was just a story, wasn't it, an excuse to get a copy of you before telling you about the masks. So this whole thing began badly for you, with a lie. A small lie, maybe, but it still seems like an omen in retrospect. Your stomach, already unsettled, heaves. Bad beginnings make for bad endings: that's another one of your dad's pet phrases.
Your eye keeps flicking back to Sean's mask. Now there was a bad ending. Maybe two of them. Dying and being turned into a golem. Maybe not even in that order.
There might not learn anything by putting the mask on. It might turn you into a corpse. But the lure is powerful. Very powerful.
Too powerful. You pick the mask up.
But you're not so reckless that you just slap it onto your face. If you're going to risk turning yourself into a corpse, you will need to be sure you can get back. You should go do it at Caleb's house, so he can take the mask off you if the worst happens.
No, he probably wouldn't even let you put it on. So, you fish out a piece of paper scribble on it: "CALL CALEB." You look at it, then add "JOHANSSON" and his phone number. There. If anyone finds you and you're frozen in place as a corpse, then Caleb will come out and--
Oh, that won't do. Whoever finds you would probably be so freaked out they'd ignore the note. So on another piece of paper you methodically write: "I AM NOT DEAD. I'M NOT SEAN MITCHELL. I AM WEARING A MASK. TAKE IT OFF OF ME." And then you write out as detailed a set of instructions as you can for how to take a mask off someone.
There. You settle back on the bed, grip the paper in one hand and the mask in the other and--
You don't want your parents to find you like that if something goes wrong. Aside from the shock of finding Sean Mitchell's corpse in your bedroom--
You almost change your mind at this point.
No, you have to do it, but you have to leave your family out of it.
You empty your pockets of anything you don't want to lose--wallet, cash, cell phone--and go downstairs. "I'm going for a drive," you say. Car wrecks. So many car wrecks. You put your keys on the kitchen counter. "I'm going for a bike ride."
"It's almost dark," your mother says.
"I've got reflectors on my bike," you say. "And I'm not going near any busy streets." That's for sure. You'll be sticking to back alleys as much as possible. You leave before she can lodge any further objections.
But where to go?
* * * * *
Maybe it shouldn't have taken you so long to wind up at the cemetery. It really does seem like the only possible spot to do this. It's dark, so no one will see you if this process works. Someone should find you eventually if something goes wrong. If you do it while laying on Sean Mitchell's grave, you won't get tagged as a "mystery corpse."
With a beating heart you lay down on the pile of dirt that has Sean's remains under it, and do your best to settle comfortably back. From the fanny pack you take the mask and the note. The latter you spread and clutch tightly in your left hand. You lay back on the ground with the mask. You take a deep breath, concentrate on the glowing name on its inner surface, and drop it onto your face.
The world goes dark.
* * * * *
Your eyes feel like marbles. Heavy marbles made of lead. They feel like they're rolling about in their sockets. They finally roll in the right direction, and stars appear. You feel very heavy, but calm.
You could look at the stars forever.
Where are you? Oh yeah, the cemetery. The dirt is very comfortable. You'd like to nestle down into it. Oh, but you've got things to do. That mask.
You put on the mask, so shouldn't Sean be in here with you? You search in vain for any memory or image or feeling that would say you've got Sean Mitchell's brain inside with you. But there's nothing. Only Will Prescott.
Well, Will Prescott is here, isn't he? Your father's angry face flashes before your eyes. Okay, good.
You're still feeling very calm. But there's nothing here to learn. If Sean isn't in the mask, even though he should be--
He should be, shouldn't he? His name was in it. Whatever was walking around with this mask was acting like him. At least, you suppose it was. But if Sean isn't here ... Maybe you're not wearing the mask? You raise your hand.
Except you don't. Nothing seems to move.
Shit!
You redouble your efforts, willing your hand to move, but there is no response.
This is bad. It's what you feared. You're locked inside a corpse!
And then you notice a shadow waving around in front of you, eclipsing the stars. You concentrate on it, and it stops. It's arm-shaped, and as you stare at it you begin to make it out better. Yes, dimly illuminated by what little light pollution spills into the cemetery is an arm in front of you.
You will yourself into rising. And though you feel nothing--you might as well be floating on the glassy surface of a perfectly calm pool--the landscape shifts and you find yourself in what seems to be a "standing" position. Your vision swims, and you have to concentrate to keep any one thing in sight. But that's definitely not your arm. It is much too thick. As for your hands--
Where'd that piece of paper go? You almost topple over as you try look around. On, there it is. You reach out for it, and the ground rises to meet you.
Back on your benumbed feet, you stagger after it. But it skitters away, as though tugged by a spirit. You can't feel the wind, but there must be a breeze. You chase it, stumbling and falling, until you reach the cemetery wall, where the breeze lifts it and carries it high and far away.
Okay, you'll just have to get the mask off yourself. Your hand slams into your face. You try willing your fingers into position. When you think you've got it, you open your mouth to speak the magic words:
Gwaairraggghhhccchhh
Again, the ground rises to meet you.
You try again and again and again, but never are you able to form the words. You can barely walk, and your fingers move slowly and without coordination, so how in the hell could you ever get throat and tongue and jaw and lips to coordinate on words that you yourself could barely say properly when you were yourself?
Gwaairraggghhhccchhh, you say again, this time out of frustration.
Forget that piece of paper. You're just going to have to go find Caleb.
* * * * *
You shamble along with the wheels of the bike bumping into your legs. You'd tried riding it--despite the ludicrous image that formed in your head of a zombie on a bicycle--but balance and coordination were entirely beyond you.
Luckily, there's not much traffic out here on the edge of town. Farm Road--the street that edges past the cemetery--runs past a small wood, and you know a spot where you can take a short cut. Before you can get there, though, you see your shadow spreading before you, and hear the whine of tires on gravel. You turn, raising your arm against the glare of headlights. You should be taken in the dark only for a careless pedestrian.
The truck goes past. But then it brakes to a hard stop and spins around. The headlights blind you.
You drop the bike and try to run the other way. But even as you lurch off, you hear the voices of the pursuers: "Unholy fuck, Frank! It's a zombie Mitchell!"
"I know what it is, Joe! Stop it!" The air becomes bright, and when you raise your arms you see flames dancing along your arms. "Not like that, you idiot! Put it out!"
"How?"
You stumble backward, waving your arms, which only makes the flames burn higher. Probably your pursuers are more scared of you than you are of them, but it would be hard.
A figure runs up, arms high over its head. WHANG! You're felled by a hard blow from a shovel. WHANG! WHANG! WHANG! You roll around on the ground. The blows don't seem meant to kill you--could they?--but it's the guy's peculiar method of putting the fire out.
You roll helplessly on the ground, like a beetle on its back, even after the flames are gone. Two figures bend over you. "Gwaairraggghhhccchhh," you say, hoping to persuade them to leave you alone.
They just bend closer.
Crap. It's those two guys from Eastman.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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