William let out a scream. His cry was muffled inside the mask.
He could feel the mask tighten onto his face. It felt warm and dry and … alive!
“Nooooo!” He uttered another cry and grabbed at the cheeks. He struggled to pull them away from his skin. “Take this off! Randolph — help me! Take this off!”
William grappled with the mask. Why did it seem to be tightening so rapidly? Pressing itself to his skin. He struggled to see through the open eyeholes. But his vision was clouded, as if a heavy fog had invaded the room.
He lowered his hands to the bottom of the mask and tried to slip his fingers underneath. Tried to pry it up, away from his throat.
But no.
His hands slapped frantically at the mask, exploring, searching for the bottom, for where the mask ended and his skin began.
It’s attaching itself to me!
The laughter of the floating masks seemed distant now. Even his own cries sounded as if they were coming from far away.
He felt a red, raging anger build in his chest.
Is the anger coming from me? Or from the mask?
He tore at the sides of the mask. “Randolph! Help me! Take this off!” His voice came out rough and raspy — not his voice at all.
He squinted through the eyeholes. “Randolph! You win! Take this mask off me!”
The masks giggled and bounced in front of him, a floating wall. They circled him slowly, mouths hanging open. He couldn’t see his brother. Couldn’t see him anywhere.
And then as he stared in growing horror, he watched the masks turn away from him. They whirled away, still laughing, and floated to the door. The open front door.
In seconds, the masks were gone. Vanished into the night. He could still hear their laughter from outside.
“Randolph?”
He turned from the open door. He spun all around. “Randolph?”
His brother had vanished, too.
William tossed back his head and let out an animal cry. He could feel wave after wave of anger roll down his body until his chest felt about to explode.
He grabbed and slapped and tugged at the hideous mask. But he couldn’t budge it. The skin of the mask had attached itself to him. It had become his skin now.
And the evil of the mask filled him with rage, a powerful fury so strong, so overwhelming, he could no longer control himself.
Bellowing his rage, William slammed the front door shut, so hard it thudded like thunder. He slapped a vase off a table, sending it crashing to the floor. Then he lifted the table in both hands and heaved it across the room into the fireplace.
He took his dining table in both hands and smashed it against his cabinet of glasses and china. He tore through the living room, slapping books off the shelves, pulling down shelves, pulling down everything that came in front of him.
He shattered the lamps with his bare hands and ripped the curtains off the walls. In minutes, his house was destroyed, piles of broken glass everywhere, broken chairs on top of shattered chinaware, paintings ripped in two.
Breathing in loud wheezes, he didn’t stop — until Hansel crept into the room. The frightened dog had his ears down, his tail tucked between his legs.
“Hansel!” William roared. “Hansel!” The sight of the dog made him feel a little calmer. The dog watched him warily and wouldn’t come close.
“Hansel, look what he has done to me. Randolph has doomed me. Doomed me!” He reached out to the dog. But Hansel whimpered and backed away.
“You don’t recognize me — do you?” William cried. “You don’t recognize me because of this evil mask.”
Once again, he began tearing at the mask, pulling it, prying at it, trying to rip it away with both hands.
Come off. Come off. Come off!
With a terrifying burst of strength, William gave a final heave. He opened his mouth in a scream of agony as the mask tore away. It made a loud ripping sound as it ripped free.
William screamed again as unbearable pain roared over him, crippling him. And he saw the blood flow from his head.
Holding the mask, he saw the skin clinging to its inside. And he knew what he had done.
He knew.
I’ve torn my FACE off with the mask!
He dropped to his knees. The pain was too powerful. He couldn’t stand.
I’ve torn my face off. The only way to remove the mask.
And now I must wait to die.
William gripped the mask in his fist. Chunks of his skin clung to the mask. Blood poured all around him.
I can’t let anyone else fall victim to this evil Haunted Mask.
I must hide it away. I must hide it so no one will ever find it.
He staggered to his feet. His head felt as if on fire … burning … burning …
He saw Hansel cowering in a corner, whimpering softly.
“You will be okay, Hansel. Someone … a kind someone will take care of you.”
It broke his heart to leave Hansel there. But William knew he had no choice. He had to protect others from the evil of this mask.
Grasping it tightly, he stumbled up the stairs to the attic. Blood flowed down his forehead. It pooled in his eyes and made it hard to see. He knew he didn’t have much time.
He dropped to his knees again. His hands fumbled over an old trunk against the attic wall. The trunk was black with gold decoration and a gold latch on the front.
William flung open the lid. The smell of mothballs rose up to greet him. He peered inside. The large chest was filled with old costumes. Costumes and masks.
“Must … hide … the mask,” he murmured, feeling himself grow weak.
He jammed the ugly mask into the trunk. Pushed it deep. Slid it under the pile of old costumes. Down … down to the bottom. Hidden where no one would ever find it.
With a groan, William slammed the lid down. He pushed in the gold latch. Listened for the click. Used every bit of his remaining strength to shove the trunk back against the wall.
Then …
I must find a place to die.
He realized he was on his knees beside the big attic closet. The deep closet that ran nearly the length of the attic.
Yes. Perfect.
He crawled into the closet. Allowed its darkness to swallow him up.
I am dying. But I will guard the trunk. I will stand guard here. Guard the Haunted Mask.
Even after I am dead, I will keep up my watch. Death will not stop me. I will stay in this closet and do my best to keep any innocent victim from the evil of the Haunted Mask.
The last sounds William heard were the quiet whimpers of Hansel, just outside the closet door.
“I don’t want to go to Polly Martin’s Halloween party,” I said. “I’m twelve years old, and I think I should be allowed to decide what parties I want to go to.”
I punched the couch cushion. “Polly gives the lamest parties on Earth. No. In the universe. Her parties are so lame, they give the word lame a bad name.”
My friend Devin O’Bannon laughed. “You’re funny, Lu-Ann.”
“I’m not being funny!” I screamed. “I’m serious. Why should Halloween be ruined because —”
“You’ve been friends with Polly since kindergarten,” Devin said. He jammed a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
“You sound like my mom,” I grumbled. “Just because we’ve known each other forever doesn’t mean we’re friends.”
Devin said something, but his mouth was so loaded with popcorn, I couldn’t understand a word he said. What a slob. But that’s okay. I mean, all my friends are jokers and weirdos.
Devin and I were sitting on opposite ends of the couch in my den. We both had our feet up on the coffee table. Devin kept scooping up handfuls of popcorn from the big bowl my mom made. Half of them went into his mouth, the other half on the couch and floor.
My side of the couch was clean. I don’t like popcorn. I only like sweets. I knew there was a carton of rocky road ice cream in the freezer. But I was feeling too
lazy to get up and get it. Too lazy and too upset.
“You know the other thing I hate about Polly’s parties?” I said.
He grinned. “Besides everything?”
“She makes you pay,” I said. “Five dollars a person. Why do we have to pay money to be bored? I can be bored just sitting here with you.”
“Thanks, Lu-Ann. You’re a pal.”
You can tell by the way I tease Devin that I like him a lot.
“Five dollars,” I muttered.
“Well, you know Polly. She’s never seen a dollar bill she didn’t like.”
“Guess Polly’s idea of a great party game,” I said with a moan.
“Spin the Bottle?”
“No. Shut up. That’s too exciting. Her idea of a good game is rubbing a balloon on your forehead until the static electricity makes it stick. Then seeing who can keep the balloon on their face the longest.”
Devin laughed again. “Got any balloons? We could practice.”
I gave him a hard shove. “Why do you keep laughing? It isn’t funny.”
He spit out an unpopped kernel. Then he stuck it on my nose.
I slapped his hand away. “Why are you so immature?”
“I learned it from you.”
“Could you be any less funny?”
“I could try.”
I grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl and dropped it in his red, curly hair. He shook his head hard, sending popcorn flying all over the den.
As I said, I like Devin a lot. He’s fun. Not like Polly Martin.
Polly is sweet and nice. Really. She’s very smart and a total knockout with her big green eyes and dazzling smile. Like a toothpaste model or something.
Her problem is that she’s soooo serious. All the time. I mean, she smiles sometimes, but I’ve never seen her laugh. She doesn’t get jokes. She never knows when you’re teasing her. She’s into Green Power, and saving the bald eagles, and she’s a vegetarian. You get the picture.
Not that there’s anything wrong with all that. But I told you, my friends are all jokers and clowns and goof-offs. So it’s hard to stay close friends with her.
“Why do you think being forced to go to Polly’s Halloween party is so funny?” I asked Devin. “You have to go, too.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Excuse me? Why don’t you?”
His grin faded. He raised his eyes to the TV on the wall. We had it on with the sound off. The TV is always on in my house. Don’t ask me why. There was some cooking contest on the screen, with teams of people scrambling to make cupcakes as fast as they could.
“Lu-Ann, you might think you’re the unluckiest person in the universe,” Devin said. “But I am. I would kill to go to Polly’s Halloween party.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“I wish.” He let out a sad sigh. “My Halloween is going to be a lot lamer than yours.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to continue.
He brushed more popcorn from his hair. “Do you know how to spell tragic?”
“Of course I do. I didn’t have to take first grade three times like you.”
“I only took it twice,” he said. “My life is tragic, Lu-Ann. My Halloween will be tragic. It’s the perfect word.”
Devin and I talk about perfect words sometimes. He knows I want to be a writer when I’m older. I’m really good at thinking up stories. Everyone says I have an awesome imagination.
My mom says my imagination is too awesome. She doesn’t mean that in a nice way. She wishes I was more serious, like my little brother, Mitch.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, creep,” I said. “Just tell me what’s so tragic.”
“My dad bought a pumpkin farm,” he said.
“Your dad isn’t a farmer. He works at an insurance company. Oh. Sorry. I mean, he worked at an insurance company. I know he’s been looking for work. But … pumpkins?”
Devin rolled his brown eyes. “Tell me about it. Actually, he just leased it. It’s one of those Pick-Your-Own-Pumpkin places. You know. You walk in the field and pull your own pumpkins off the vine. Big thrill, right?”
“We did that when I was five,” I said. “I thought those long, twisty vines were creepy. Mitch was two and he started to cry. So we had to leave.”
“I’m going to cry, too,” Devin said. “But Dad thinks he’s going to make a fortune selling pumpkins. It’s only one week till Halloween. How many pumpkins can he sell?”
I shook my head. “Oh, wow.”
“Wait,” Devin said. “Here comes the tragic part. He got permission to take me out of school all week so I can help out on the farm.”
“Oh, noooo,” I moaned.
“Oh, yes. So where am I going to be spending Halloween? In a pumpkin patch.”
“No way. No way.”
“Polly’s party will be a total thrill by comparison,” Devin said, shaking his head.
His hand scraped the bottom of the popcorn bowl. “Hey, what happened to all the popcorn?”
“Very funny. Most of it’s stuck to your teeth.”
I was joking around, but I felt bad for him. He’s not a farm kind of guy. He actually spent his first seven years in New York City. Then his dad got transferred here to Dayton, Ohio.
But Devin is a city dude.
“You’re just going to rot with the pumpkins,” I said sadly.
He sighed. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up.”
That made us both laugh. I checked the clock on the cable box. Then I jumped to my feet. “See you when you get back,” I said. “Good luck.” I gave him a hard, phony handshake.
He stood up. “Lu-Ann, where are you going?” he asked as I pushed him toward the front door.
“I have to go scare my little brother now.”
I tell my brother, Mitch, a scary story every night before he goes to sleep. I just make them up as I go along.
Mitch likes my stories and he hates them at the same time. He doesn’t really like to be scared. He grits his teeth and shuts his fists and pretends he’s brave.
I don’t want to torture the poor kid. But I only know how to tell scary stories. That’s the only kind of story I can dream up. I guess I just have a scary mind.
Mitch and I look alike a little bit. We both have straight black hair and dark eyes and round faces. I’m very thin, but he’s pretty chubby. Mom says he hasn’t lost his baby fat.
How do you think that line goes over with Mitch?
Not too well.
Mitch is a quiet, serious kid. He’s only eight, but he likes to read endlessly long fantasy books about ancient kingdoms and dragons and battles and stuff.
He gets straight A’s at Meadowdale, his elementary school. But he doesn’t have a lot of friends.
I think it’s because he’s so quiet and shy.
We get along great even though we’re so different. The only thing we fight about is breakfast — toaster waffles or toaster pancakes? He goes for waffles, and I like the pancakes. Mom says it would be silly to buy both. So … big fights in the supermarket.
I took Mitch into the kitchen for his nightly bedtime snack — Oreos and a glass of milk to dip them in. Then we headed upstairs. Mitch climbed into his platform bed and pulled up the covers.
Dad got him a platform bed down on the floor because he tosses and turns and rolls around a lot at night. And he was always falling out of his old bed and hurting himself.
“What’s the story about?” he asked, fluffing the pillow behind his head. “Don’t make it too scary, okay?”
“Okay. Not too scary,” I said. Total lie.
“Tonight’s story is about an evil old man. The man was so evil, he could turn himself into a snarling, clawing monster. Just by concentrating on being evil.”
“What’s his name?”
“His name was Mitch,” I said. “Now, stop interrupting.”
“No. Really. What was his name?”
“His name was Evil Boris. But people just called him Evil. Everyone
was afraid of him. Every night, Evil Boris would take a walk around town and do something evil.”
“Like what?”
I had the bedroom lights turned low. Mitch’s dark eyes glowed in the dim light, wide with fright. His hands gripped the top of the blanket. I told the story in a whisper, just to make it scarier.
“Evil Boris liked to step on cats. Some nights he picked up big metal trash cans and poured garbage onto people’s cars. He crushed birds in his bare hands. He liked to smash windows on houses just to hear the crackling glass sound. And … and guess what else?”
“What else?” Mitch asked in a tiny voice.
“Once a week, he ate someone.”
“He ate people?” Mitch asked.
“He only ate kids, about your age,” I said.
I almost laughed. I love making up these stories. And it makes me happy when I can think of creepy ideas like that.
“He liked to taste them first. Maybe he’d start by chewing on an arm. Sometimes he started with a leg. But the strange thing is … Evil Boris always saved the head for last.”
Mitch made a gulping sound.
“Can you picture it?” I whispered. “Can you picture Evil Boris turning himself into a fanged monster and pulling apart someone your age … chewing … chewing … chewing and swallowing.”
“Stop, Lu-Ann,” Mitch begged. “I don’t want to picture it. You said you wouldn’t make it too scary.”
“But I didn’t tell you the scary part,” I whispered. “Don’t you want to hear the scary part?”
“No!” Mitch shouted. “No, I don’t.”
“The scary part is … Evil Boris lives in your closet, Mitch. He lives in the back of your clothes closet.”
“Noooo!”
Uh-oh. I think I went too far. Mitch was starting to lose it.
I could see the bedcovers trembling. And I saw the dark glow of his wide, frightened eyes.
“Mitch,” I said softly. I patted his shoulder. “It’s just a story. It isn’t true.” I smoothed a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I made the whole thing up. Don’t be afraid.”