The Book of Masks (Abridged)

A New Life

YOU STARE DOWN AT THE MASK. It is a brilliant blue color, and the dim light of the basement glints off it. Maybe it's a trick of the light, but you think you can see a dim image floating inside it.

A movement catches your eye: the other Will Prescott has started to fidget. "I still don't get what's going on," you tell Caleb. "What is ... he?"

"I told you, it's a golem. A thing, a slave." He sighs as you just stare dumbly back. "Okay, it's complicated, and I'll give you the short version. The book? It has these recipes in it for making things. A recipe for masks, like what you're holding." You almost drop the mask as you flinch from it. "There's also a recipe for a mud-man thing. So I made up a mud-man. Well, a couple, actually," he says, and for a brief moment sounds discomfited. "Anyway, if you put one of these masks on a person, it copies them. Like taking an impression."

"Like you did with me," you blurt out, and cold tingles skitter up and down your spine.

"Yeah," he says with terrifying cheerfulness. "Then if you put that mask onto the mud-man, it turns into a duplicate of the person. Body, brain, everything. That guy?" He points to your double. "He remembers everything you did up until last Saturday. And he can act just like you too." He blinks at what must be the horrified expression on your face. "And I told you not to worry. He can't hurt you. He's your slave."

"Because he's my double?"

"Well, it's more complicated than that. But in this case, yeah. How about you tell him to go home? It's getting close to dinner, and you don't wanna get in trouble."

You lick your very dry lips. "Go home," you croak at the other you.

He shrugs. "Whatever you say, boss." You draw away from him, but not so far you can't hear him mutter, as he passes, "Fuckin' weird, man. Stay safe." You gulp.

"Okay," says Caleb. "Now that he's gone, how about you try that thing on." He gestures at the mask you are still loosely clutching.

"Why? What is it?"

"It's someone else," he grins. "There can't be two Will Prescotts running around, right? I mean," he laughs, "one is bad enough. You can be this guy while he's being you."

He points at the mask, and you look down at it. Yes, there's definitely a face in there. You turn the mask over, and jump a little. The name CAMERON CRAIG HUBER seems to float over the inner surface. You look up sharply at Caleb.

He grins. "Yeah, can you believe it? Put it on, and you'll turn into him."

"Why would I--?" you squeak, then stop. Oh ... There would definitely be advantages to being him. "But won't I be his slave?" you ask.

"Not in this case," Caleb says. "You'd still be yourself, way down on the inside. But you could act just like him. Have all his memories, his talents, all that. You could go home as him and totally fool his parents. Go to school and totally fool everyone there. Including--" He waggles his eyebrows.

Your knees give way and you fall to the floor. And since you're already down there ...

* * * * *

It's like an ocean pouring over you and into, and you can feel every ripple and every eddy and every bubble. Fragments of memories coalesce around you, little kaleidoscopic windows into days and years long past. They slosh and combine and slide and then reconfigure into ... Whoa, so that's what a four-dimensional image is like. Something that stretches through time.

You open your eyes. Caleb is smiling down at you. "What's your name, dude?"

Two different names instantly flash into your mind, and you briefly hesitate over them, before coming down firmly on the one that seems more intuitively right. "Will Prescott."

"Awesome. From the way you were looking at me, for a moment I thought you wouldn't remember the right one. What's your other name?"

"Cameron Huber," you reply without hesitation. A loose grin spreads over your face. And then, just as suddenly, you sit up. "Where the fuck is Mitchell?"

"Yeah," drawls Caleb, "I had to use him to get Cameron out here. He wouldn've come if I'd asked him.

You blink, but the question remains; it just acquires a different meaning. "Where's Mitchell?"

Now Caleb looks a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, um, that," he mumbles. "Let's just say Sean Mitchell isn't himself anymore. Just like Will Prescott isn't himself anymore." He nudges you playfully with his foot. "Just like Cameron isn't himself anymore."

"So what did you do with him? Last thing I remember-- he remembers-- a thing. Sean was pushing a thing onto his face." You frown. "How can I pretend to be Cameron while he's still around? He is around, isn't he?"

"Sort of," Caleb says. "It's complicated." Again with that word. Caleb is not being very helpful at explaining things. "He's, uh, he's pretending to be you. Will Prescott, I mean."

"Pretending to be--?! How the fuck--?!" The penny drops: Cameron is at your house, looking and acting like you. "He'll destroy my life!"

"No he won't. He doesn't even know he's you. You see--" Caleb perches on a nearby table. "I put some extra special stuff in that mask of you. Now, if you put that mask of you on a person, it puts them to sleep. They disappear under the fake face. He's at your house now, eating dinner, but he's just a-- Well, he's not even a zombie. He's a sleepwalker, I guess. And he'll stay asleep as long as that mask is on him."

"But what happens when we take the mask off? When I go back to being myself?"

Caleb's look is pitying. "There's a big mirror over in the corner. Go look at yourself, and think about Anne Starkey, and tell me why you'd ever go back to being yourself."

* * * * *

Yeah, maybe you won't go back to being yourself, not after you get a good look in the mirror. "You got one of these guys for yourself?" you ask Caleb as you pull on Cameron's--your--shirt and pants. "Or are you--" you jerk your chin at him.

"I got Sean," he says. "After you go, I'll switch back into him, and see you at school tomorrow. And after we let a few more people join our club, maybe we can start switching and sharing. I wouldn't mind having a go at Anne sometime."

"More people?" you frown.

"Like Keith," he says. "And Carson and James and Paul?" he adds. "Maybe Jenny? Yumi? We show them these masks, like I showed them to you, and let them switch with other people. Like, put them in for ... Oh, I dunno. Whoever they want to be." You stare, dumbfounded. "That's the main reason I let you take the book and show them, so they wouldn't be totally gobsmacked when you tell them about this. I think it'd be fun to have a little club," he says softly.

You're thoughtful as you pull on shoes. A club might be kind of fun at that.

"I'll let you approach them," Caleb says. "But in a day or two. You should have some fun first. Then you can switch back to yourself, just long enough to bring one of them in. Maybe James first. He seems pretty level-headed. Oh, and one more thing--"

You are struck by the flinty expression that has settled in his eyes. "You wouldn't come in as a partner with me, even after I offered you two chances. It's too late for a partnership now. Remember, I'm in charge of this little conspiracy." He holds up the book. "You can't do anything without me."

* * * * *

Caleb remains behind as you saunter back out with a rolling gait in your stride. Cameron is a big guy--as befits the captain/quarterback of the Westside football team. Your new body feels strange--very large, like a big, ill-fitting suit--when you're thinking about it, but it feels natural when you forget about it.

You crawl into your car--a tight fit behind the wheel--with a grunt; the enclosed space again leaves you feeling like you're an outsized guy. You adjust the mirror and regard your face. Kindly hazel eyes twinkle from deeply under a strong brow; you have a tight smile that doesn't show many teeth. Thick whiskers run down your cheek and under your chin and jaw line, to spill down your throat and merge seamlessly with the mat of hair on your chest; they also merge through short side burns with the close-cropped auburn hair that clings tightly to your scalp. You scratch a hairy calf, and feel yourself stiffen as you think about Anne. Yeah, Anne ...

You pull out your cell phone and call her. "Hey, how's my little bassoonist," you tease in a low voice when she answers.

"Flautist," she corrects you. It's a little game that they play: Cameron has had her playing everything from the sousaphone to the piccolo.

"They're all just different words for mouth organ," you tease. If she were here, she'd jab you hard. "I can get with you now."

"You finish with Sean?"

"The jerk didn't even show up. You can bring your flute, and I'll bring mine."

"I'm at home," she sighs.

"So ten minutes from now don't be at home."

"You could come by here."

You growl hungrily. "Can't you leave the house for a study session?"

"It sounds like I'll get more studying done here."

"Oh, that sounds like a challenge. You really wanna see how little studying you'll get done if I stop by?"

"If we do a study session tomorrow, I know you'll get more of what you're interested in," she giggles.