The Haunted Mask II (6 page)

Wow. Will he be shocked! I told myself. Chuck thought that I ran out of that
store basement empty-handed. When I sneak into his house and creep up on him
wearing this disgusting mask, he’ll
faint!

I glanced at the clock. I had an hour before dinnertime. Mom and Dad weren’t
even home yet.

Yes, I’ll do it! I decided.

“Heh-heh-heh.” I practiced my old-man cackle. “Heh-heh-heh.” The scariest,
most evil cackle I could do.

Then I grasped the wrinkled neck of the mask in both hands. Stepping in front of the mirror, I raised the mask over my
head.

And tugged it down.

It slid easily over my hair. It felt soft and warm as I pulled it over my
face.

Down over my ears. Over my cheeks.

Down, down.

Until I felt the top of the mask settle onto my hair. I twisted it until I
could see out of the narrow eyeholes.

Then I lowered my hands to my sides and stepped closer to the mirror to check
myself out.

So warm.

I suddenly felt too warm.

The rubbery mask pressed tightly against my cheeks and forehead.

Warmer.

“Hey—!” I cried out as my face began to burn.

So hot…

So hard to breathe.

“Hey… what is
happening
to me?”

I could feel the skin of the mask tightening around my face.

My cheeks burned. A sour odor swept over me, choked me.

I gagged. I sucked in a deep breath through my mouth. But the mask was so
tight, I could hardly breathe.

I grabbed the ears with both hands. The outside of the mask felt normal. But
inside, I was burning up!

I tried to tug the mask off. But it wouldn’t slide up. The hot rubber stuck
to my face.

I groaned as the putrid odor washed over me again.

I tugged harder. The mask didn’t budge.

I gasped for breath.

I grabbed the stringy hair—and pulled. I slid my hands under the chin—and
pushed.

“Ohhh.” A sick groan escaped my throat. My hands dropped limply to my sides.

I suddenly felt so tired. So weak.

So totally weak.

Every breath was a struggle. I bent over. My body began to tremble.

I felt so weak. And old.

Old.

Was this how an old man felt?

Calm down, Steve, I scolded myself. It’s just a rubber mask. It fits a little
too snug, that’s all.

It’s stuck to your face. But you’ll pull it off, and you’ll be fine.

Calm down. Count to ten. Then examine the mask in the mirror. Grab it from
the bottom, and you’ll be able to pull it up. No problem.

I counted to ten. Then I stepped up close to the mirror.

I nearly cried out when I saw my reflection. The mask really was awesome! So
real. So gross.

With my eyes staring out of it, the face seemed to come alive. The brown lips
sneered back at me. When I moved
my
lips, they appeared to move too. The
green gobs of goo trembled inside the big nostrils. The spiders appeared to be
crawling through the tangled, yellow hair.

It’s only a mask. A really cool mask, I said to myself.

I started to feel a little calmer.

But then a cackle escaped my throat. “Heh-heh-heh.”

Not my cackle!

Not in my voice! An old man’s cackle.

How did that happen? How did I utter such a strange sound?

I clamped my lips shut. I didn’t want to make that sound again.

“Heh-heh-heh.”

Another frightening cackle! In a shrill, high-pitched voice. More like a dry
croak than a laugh.

I tightened my jaw. Clenched my teeth. Held my breath so I wouldn’t cackle
again.

“Heh-heh-heh.”

I wasn’t doing it!

Who was cackling like that?

Where was the shrill, dry laugh coming from?

I gaped at the old face in the mirror, suddenly frozen in fear.

And then I felt a strong hand grab my leg.

With a choked gasp, I whirled around.

And peered down through the tight eyeholes of the mask.

I instantly saw that it wasn’t a hand on my leg. It was teeth.

Dog teeth.

“Sparky—it’s you!” I cried. But my voice came out in a dry whisper.

Sparky backed away.

I cleared my throat and tried again. “Don’t be afraid, Sparky. It’s only me.”
My voice! It sounded more like a dry cough.

It sounded like my grandpa!

I had an old man’s face—and an old man’s voice.

And I felt so tired. So totally weak and tired.

As I reached to pet Sparky, my arms drooped as if they weighed a thousand
pounds. Both of my knees cracked as I bent down.

The dog gazed up at me and tilted his head. His short stub of a tail wagged
furiously.

“Don’t be scared, Sparky,” I croaked. “I was just trying out this mask.
Pretty scary, huh?”

I lowered my face and tried to pick Sparky up.

But as I leaned forward, I could see the dog’s eyes go wide with terror.
Sparky let out a shrill
yip
—jumped out of my hands, and went tearing
across the room, barking at the top of his lungs. Barking in total fright.

“Sparky—it’s me!” I cried. “I know I sound different. But it’s me—Steve!”

I wanted to chase after him. But my legs felt so weak, and my knees refused
to bend.

It took me three tries to pull myself up to a standing position. My head
ached. I was too out-of-breath to run after Sparky.

Too late, anyway. I could hear him barking his head off, already downstairs.

“Weird,” I muttered, rubbing my aching back. I hobbled back to the mirror.
Sparky has seen masks before. He knew it was me. Why was he so scared? Was it my
weird voice?

How had the mask dried up my voice? And why did I suddenly feel one hundred
and ten?

At least, my face no longer felt on fire. But the skin of the mask still
pressed so tightly against my face, I could barely move my lips.

I have to get out of this thing, I decided. Chuck will have to wait until Halloween night to be scared out of his skull.

I raised both hands to my neck and searched for the bottom of the mask. My
neck felt craggy and wrinkled. The skin was dry.

Where was the bottom of the mask?

I leaned close to the mirror on my closet door and narrowed my eyes at my
reflection. I stared hard at the neck of the mask.

Wrinkled skin flecked with ugly brown patches.

But where was the bottom? Where did the mask end and my neck begin?

My hands began to tremble as they fumbled up and down my throat. I could feel
my heart begin to race.

I moved my hands slowly, carefully, up and down my neck.

Again. And again.

Finally, I let my hands drop to my side and uttered a weary, frightened sigh.

There
was
no mask bottom. No line at all between the mask and my neck.

The wrinkled, spotted mask skin had become
my
skin.

“Nooooo! Nooooo!” I wailed in my old man’s voice. I had to get the thing off
me! There had to be a way!

I squeezed the cheeks of the mask and tugged with all my might.

“Ow!” Sharp pain ran down my face.

I pulled the hair. That sent a wave of pain shooting down my scalp.
Frantically, I grabbed at the mask, slapped at it, pulled it, tore at it.

I felt each move. Each slap and tug made my skin hurt. Every touch hurt me as
if it were my own skin.

“The eyeholes!” I croaked.

I reached for the eyeholes. Maybe I could slip my fingers inside the eyeholes
and lift the mask off.

My hands fumbled around my eyes. My trembling fingers searched, poking and
rubbing.

No eyeholes. There were no eyeholes.

The rutted, scab-covered skin had melted onto me. It had become
my
skin.

The ugly, disgusting mask had become
my
face!

I looked like a horrifying, spider-infested, decaying old man. And I felt as
old and weird as I looked!

My throat tightened in terror. I sank against the mirror, pressing my ugly,
craggy forehead against the glass.

I shut my eyes. What can I do? What can I do? The question repeated like an
unhappy chant in my mind.

And then I heard the front door slam. And I heard Mom’s voice at the bottom
of the stairway. “Steve—are you home? Steve?”

What can I do? What can I do?
The question repeated and repeated.

“Steve?” Mom called. “Come down here. I want to show you something.”

No!
I thought, swallowing hard, my dry throat making a sick clicking
sound.
No! I can’t come down! I can’t! I don’t want you to see me like this!

“Oh, never mind!” Mom called. “I’m coming up there!”

I heard her footsteps on the stairs.

A shock of panic made me lurch toward the door. I nearly fell over. My old
legs were stiff, too stiff to move quickly.

I hobbled to the door and closed it just as Mom reached the second floor.
Then I leaned against the door, my hand on my throbbing chest, trying to catch
my breath.

Trying to think. Trying to decide what to say.

I couldn’t let her see me like this. I couldn’t let her see the mask. She’d
start asking questions. And I couldn’t let her see how the mask had changed me.

A few seconds later, she knocked gently on the door. “Steve, are you in
there? What are you doing?”

“Uh… nothing, Mom.”

“Well, may I come in? I brought you something.”

“Not right now,” I croaked.

Please don’t open the door!
I begged silently.
Please don’t come into
my room!

“Steve, why do you sound so strange?” Mom demanded. “What’s wrong with your
voice?”

“Uh…”
Think fast, Steve. Think fast.

“Uh… sore throat, Mom. A really bad sore throat.”

“Let me take a look at you. Are you sick?” Glancing down, I saw the doorknob
turn.

“No!” I screamed, pressing my back against the door.

“You’re not sick?”

“I mean, yes,” I croaked in my shaky, old-man voice. “I’m not feeling well,
Mom. I’m going to lie down for a while. I’ll come down later, okay?”

I stared at the doorknob, listening to her breathing on the other side of the
door. “Steve, I bought you those black-and-white cookies that you love. Your
favorites. Do you want one? Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

My stomach growled. Those cookies are my favorites. Dripping with chocolate
icing on one side and vanilla icing on the other. “Maybe later,” I moaned.

“But I drove two miles out of my way to buy them for you,” Mom said.

“Later. I’m really not feeling well.” I was telling the truth. My temples
throbbed. My whole body ached. I felt so weak, I could barely stand up.

“I’ll call you for dinner,” Mom said. I listened to her make her way back
down the stairs. Then I hobbled over to the bed and slumped my old man’s body
down onto the edge.

“Now what?” I asked myself. I pressed my hands against my scabby cheeks. “How
do I get out of this thing?”

I shut my tired, burning eyes and tried to think. After a few minutes, Carly
Beth’s face floated into my mind.

“Yes!” I croaked. “Carly Beth is the one person in the world who can help
me.”

Carly Beth wore a mask from the same store last Halloween. Maybe the same
thing happened to her. Maybe her mask stuck to her face and changed her.

She got her mask off. She will know how I can get my mask off too.

The phone stood across the room beside the computer on my desk. Normally, I’d
be over there in three seconds. But it took me three minutes of grunting and
straining to get my old body to stand up. Then it took another five minutes to
drag myself across the room.

By the time I dropped into my desk chair, I was exhausted. It took all of my
strength to raise my hand and punch in Carly Beth’s number on the phone.

I can’t go on like this, I told myself. She’s got to help me. She’s
got
to know how to get this mask off.

After the third ring, Carly Beth’s father answered. “Hello?”

“Hi… uh… could I speak to Carly Beth?” I choked out.

A silence. Then: “Who is this?” Mr. Caldwell sounded confused.

“It’s me,” I answered. “Is Carly Beth there?”

“Is this one of her teachers?” he demanded.

“No. It’s Steve. I—”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t hear you very well. Can you speak up? Why did you
wish to speak to my daughter? Perhaps I can help you?”

“No… I—”

I heard Mr. Caldwell speak softly to someone else at his house. “It’s an old
man, asking for Carly Beth. I can barely hear him. He won’t say who he is.”

He came back on the phone. “Are you one of her teachers, sir? Where do you
know my daughter from?”

“She’s my friend,” I croaked.

I heard him turn again to someone else in the room, probably Carly Beth’s
mom. He muffled the phone with his hand, but I heard what he said: “I think it’s
a nut. Some kind of crank call.”

He returned to me. “Sorry, sir. My daughter can’t come to the phone.” He hung
up.

I sat there listening to the buzz in my spider-filled ear.

Now what? I asked myself.

Now what?

I must have fallen asleep in the desk chair. I don’t know how long I slept.

I was awakened by Dad pounding on my bedroom door. “Steve—dinnertime!” he
called in.

I sat up with a start. My back ached from sleeping sitting up. I rubbed my
wrinkled neck, trying to rub away the stiffness.

“Steve—are you coming down to dinner?” Dad asked.

“I—I’m not very hungry,” I croaked. “I’m going to take a nap, Dad. I think
I’m getting sick.”

“Hey, don’t get sick the night before Halloween,” he replied. “You don’t want
to miss out on trick-or-treating.”

“I—I’ll be okay,” I stammered in my hoarse voice. “If I get a good night’s
sleep, I’ll be fine.”