Oddest of All (15 page)

Then she burst into tears and hurried on.

Harley ran into the bushes, pinched his nostrils, and got out of the mask as fast as he could.

 

He did not sleep well that night, his rest plagued by strange dreams of faceless figures chasing him through the forest. The clock beside his bed showed 2:00
A.M.
when he got up and moved the mask from his desk to the bottom drawer of his dresser.

The next day, October 30, he took a detour on his way to school so he could walk past Tiyado Lane. Without intending to, he turned onto the street itself. It was short, running only four blocks before ending in a wide circle. On the far side of the circle, behind bent and rusted iron gates, was the driveway that led to Tiyado Mansion.

Harley stood at the gate and looked up. The mansion was perched on top of a hill, almost a hundred yards from the gate. At a display in the town library, he had seen—and admired—pictures of how the place had looked when it was new. It made him sad, now, to see the sagging roof, broken windows, and rotting porch. Once, Tiyado Mansion had been spectacular. Now it just looked . . . tired.

Harley turned and hurried to school, where he was yelled at three times for failing to pay attention.

 

The next night was Halloween. Harley decided against going trick-or-treating, partly because he thought he might be too old for it, partly because he figured wearing the mask would be pointless, since most people would think he was just some good-looking kid who couldn't be bothered to put on a costume. And anyone who did recognize the face of Eamonn Tiyado would probably freak out the way that woman on the street had.

Instead he went to the community bonfire at the high school. Though he hadn't planned to wear the mask, at the last minute he tucked it into his backpack. Then he kissed his grandmother good-bye and signed that he would see her in the morning, both of them knowing full well that she would be asleep by nine o'clock.

He wasn't sure why he took the mask with him.
Just in case
, was all he told himself. But along the way
just in case
somehow changed to
just for fun
and he decided to put it on.

That was his first mistake. He didn't make the second until two hours later. The bonfire was dying down then. For most of the evening Harley had enjoyed the anonymity that came from having a new face. People looked at him curiously, and though he could often sense a bit of admiration—or envy—for his good looks, for the most part everyone left him alone. The only exceptions to this were a few girls who came over to talk to him. He got the sense that they had been sent on information-gathering missions by their friends, and when he refused to say anything about who he was or where he had come from—he had already learned his lesson in that regard—they retreated to their groups. He was amazed at how much easier it was to talk to a pretty girl when he had a handsome face of his own.

Then he spotted Annie Dexter. He hadn't expected her to be there. Remembering the first conversation he had had with her while wearing the mask, Harley turned to the refreshment table to avoid her. Grabbing a donut, he took a huge bite. As he swallowed, he felt a coldness seize his body. His face began to tingle. He had the terrifying feeling that the mask, already sealed against his skin, was now melting into it.

Only then did he remember the warning on the tag: “Do not eat or drink while wearing the mask. To do so is to court disaster!”

When Harley had read those words, he had thought they were nonsense, a weak attempt at Halloween humor. Now he knew, with sickening certainty, that the warning was vitally important. Rushing from the crowd, he hid in the shadows, pinched his nostrils, and blew.

Nothing happened.

Panic swelling within him, he clawed at the mask.

He would have had better luck trying to tear off his own skin.

And then came something worse, something infinitely worse: A voice in his mind begged,
Take me home! Please, take me home!

Terror pulsed through Harley's veins. Yet the desperate power of the call was overwhelming. He bolted from the school yard. Without really thinking about it, he ran toward Tiyado Mansion.

The night air was crisp, scented with Halloween magic. Fallen leaves swirled around his feet, and a full moon slipped in and out of the massing clouds. The streets were quiet and mostly empty, though he could hear a band of older boys hooting in the distance. Jack-o'-lanterns still glowed in front of some houses, but most of the porch lights were out, indicating that people were done dispensing candy.

Harley's side ached, and he began to slow his pace.

Take me home!
urged the voice in his head again.

Harley ran even faster, driven by the urgency of the words. Overhead he heard the first rumble of thunder. The wind picked up, whipping the leaves across the street and bending the tops of the trees. A few minutes later, gasping for breath, he turned onto Tiyado Lane. Despite the sense of urgency that had driven him here, he stopped in his tracks. Something was wrong. At first he couldn't figure out what. Then, with a shock, he realized that all the cars looked as if they had come from some old movie. Next he noticed that the streetlights were strangely different from the ones he was used to. And the trees! Most of them were smaller than he remembered, and other big trees stood where he had never seen any before.

Lightning sizzled overhead. The world shimmered, and all at once Harley was seeing the street as it looked in the present. More lightning, another shimmer, and the street shifted back into the past.

He would have turned and fled, except the voice, stronger than ever, was still urging,
Take me home! I have to go home!

More lightning, and Tiyado Lane was back in the present. When Harley reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the lane he slowed down. The towering iron gate that barred the path leading to Tiyado Mansion was closed. He pulled at it. The gate was not locked, but it creaked piteously, barely moving. Another flash of lightning and the gate—straighter and no longer rusty—swung open smoothly and silently.

Home! Home!
urged the voice.

The rain began pouring down as Harley raced up the long drive. The mansion loomed above him, its windows flickering, shifting with each bolt of lightning, so first it was all ablaze, then dark and foreboding.

Was the house really moving back and forth through time, or was it simply his vision that kept changing?

At the top of the hill, Harley stopped, panting for breath.

I must go home! Please take me home!

The cry was irresistible. Harley sprinted onto the porch. Without bothering to ring or knock, he pulled open the door.

Standing behind it, as if she had been waiting for him, was the old woman who had spoken to him at the edge of the path the day he got the mask. Lightning sizzled behind him and Harley gasped. Suddenly the woman wasn't old after all, but young and pretty.

Another bolt of lightning, and age reclaimed her.

The voice in Harley's head cried out again, not words this time, just a sound so filled with loss and sorrow that Harley's heart nearly burst with pain.

What did it all mean?

Unable to see because of the sudden tears filling his eyes, he backed away. But before he could turn and run, the woman grabbed his arm. She pulled him into the house, then slammed the door against the mounting storm.

Slammed it, too, Harley felt, against the world he knew and any chance he had of returning to it.

The woman fell to her knees and stared at him. Wiping the rain from his face, Harley could see tears welling in her eyes. She reached out wonderingly to touch his cheek, then sighed. “It's not really you, is it?”

Harley didn't know what to say.

As if his silence gave her hope, she whispered, “Eamonn?”

He shook his head, too fearful to speak.

She sighed again and stood. “Of course not. You couldn't be.”

“What's happening?” whispered Harley. “I don't understand.”

“This is the last night. I had hoped he would come home.”

Harley shook his head. “I don't know what you mean.”

The old/young woman smiled sadly. “Nor should you.” She glanced at a clock on the wall. “We have a little time. Take off the mask, and I will tell you a story.”

“I can't. It won't come loose.”

She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “What have you done to yourself? Never mind. If what you say is true, then tonight is your last chance, too. At least, it is if you want your own face back.”

He followed her through the house, which continued to shift with each lightning flash, one moment well kept and orderly, the next a cobweb-festooned horror of peeling wallpaper, sagging ceilings, and buckled floors. When they came to the kitchen she motioned for him to sit at a long table.

She took a chair opposite him. Staring straight into his eyes, she said, “I don't know who you are, or where you found that mask, but I'm glad you've come. It was the only chance for Eamonn. And now it seems that I am the only chance for you. So we'll have to work together.”

Harley started to ask a question, but the woman shook her head. “Just listen.”

A flicker of lightning showed through the window and the suddenly beautiful woman sitting across from him began her story.

“I was born in the mountains of central Europe. When I was in my early teens, my parents married me to an artisan, a man who made masks for royalty, for the court balls. I did not complain at their choice; in those days we did as our parents told us. Besides, he was very handsome, with dark flashing eyes and clever hands. But there was something hard and hidden in his heart, and he could be cruel as well as kind. But still I loved him. Loved him deeply.

“During the second year of our marriage my husband began to disappear without explanation. At first it was only for days, but as time went on his absences grew longer and longer. After each absence he would return with many masks, so I assumed he had been working. Even so, I wondered if he had another woman. Jealousy began to eat at my heart. Finally I decided to follow him on one of these trips.” She shuddered. “That was how I learned about the Faceless Ones.”

“The Faceless Ones?” whispered Harley, fearing the answer but needing to know.

Lightning flashed outside the window. Once again she was the haggard crone Harley had met at the edge of the woods.

“The Faceless Ones were my husband's victims. They were—had been—people born with great beauty but weak character. Or perhaps their character was weak
because
of their beauty, because it made life too easy for them. In any event, they were my husband's natural prey, and he was able to bring them under his power and steal their faces.”

Harley shivered. Against his will, his fingers crept to the handsome face now covering his own plain, pudgy features.

“He stole their faces then sold them as living masks to men and women who were rich and royal but hardly fair of feature. The customer would go off on a journey ugly and months later return home with not only a new face but a new name, telling some story about being the favored first cousin—and heir—of the rich and royal man or woman who had died tragically while traveling abroad.

“For years my husband sold these masks and made a great deal of money in doing so. But as his victims grew in number, so did our danger.”

“Why?” asked Harley.

“Because they did not die from their loss. Instead they lived on, lurking in the shadows. Waiting.” She glanced away for a moment, then said slowly, “As the numbers of the Faceless Ones grew, they slowly found each other and vowed to work together for their revenge. They did not dare appear in the daytime, of course. But at night they were always waiting just outside the light—waiting for us to stumble into their hands.

“In time the danger grew so great that my husband decided we should flee Europe. We had plenty of money, for his customers had paid him dearly for the ‘masks' that changed their lives. We came to this country, leaving behind—we thought—his faceless victims, those shadow people who lived in loss and misery.

“Finally we settled in this town, which seemed like a good place to be forgotten. We changed our name to ‘Tiyado,' built our home, had our son.”

Harley felt a shudder ripple down his spine. “Eamonn?” he whispered.

She nodded. “Yes, we called him Eamonn, and he was the joy of my existence. For a time the three of us lived in perfect happiness. Then one night I saw a figure lurking outside our home and knew with horrid certainty that the Faceless Ones had followed us. It had taken them years, and the lord alone knows how they did it, but they had chased us and traced us, and now they were on our doorstep.

“For months we lived in terror. At last, despite my pleas and my tears, one Halloween night my husband went to talk to them. ‘What do you want?' he asked.

“And they told him.”

She turned away, her shoulders shaking with sobs, and Harley suddenly knew what the Faceless Ones had demanded as their revenge. “They asked for Eamonn's face, didn't they?” he whispered.

The old woman answered without turning back to him. “I begged my husband not to do it. I told him we could flee again, find a new place to live. But his heart was hard, and he had never loved the boy anyway, not as a father should. He knocked me out and tied me up, and when I woke, my husband and my son were gone. My husband came back. My son did not. And my husband was never my husband after that.
Never
.”

“And you never saw Eamonn again?” asked Harley.

“No, I saw him often. He lived in the woods with the other Faceless Ones. I took him food and clothing. But I never saw his beautiful face again—not until tonight, when you appeared at my door wearing it.” Turning back to look at him directly, she whispered, “Eamonn lost his face fifty years ago tonight. This is the last chance, the last chance for him to get it back. I had been praying for some miracle to appear. I wasn't expecting . . . you.”