The Mask of the Maneater

Warning: contains themes of body horror.

“We don’t want you in town, Mr. Watson,” the waitress said.

Gar jumped, more at the prefix than the hostility in the tone of the woman scowling at him from across the aging diner’s bar.

“What?” Gar asked. “How do you know who I am?”

“Because you can tell. You have the look,” she said.

“The look?” Gar asked.

“We can tell,” she said.

Gar blinked.

“Blood finds its level. We remember what your family did,” she said.

“If you don’t want to serve me, you can just say so. I’m only here to clean out my grandfather’s cabin, satisfy his will, and sell the place,” Gar said.

“His will?” a masculine voice said from behind.

“Yeah. Said I have to visit at least once before I sell the place, see a mask he left to me,” Gar said.

“There, Samantha, see? Nothing untoward. Boy didn’t pick his family,” the man said.

Gar’s jaw rolled at the comment.

“He has the look, Jessie,” she said.

She slapped a plate of greasy food in front of Gar before sulking away.

“Name’s Jessie, see. Don’t mind her. She was more bothered than most by what came out about your grandfather,” Jessie said.

The weather-beaten man ambled his way over to Gar. His sunburnt face and dungarees spoke to a life of labor in the rugged landscape around them, while his limp spoke to his age.

“Gar. Think she’d poison the food?” Gar asked.

“No, no. Samantha’s decent folk, just riled is all,” Jessie said.

Gar smiled thinly.

“Seems so. Why do you care?” Gar asked.

“We don’t get a lot of news in town. What happened with your grandfather, with your family, forgive me, but word gets around. I wanted to do something about the situation I knew was coming, that you couldn’t. Knew you couldn’t see the storm coming from the town folk here, see,” Jessie said.

“You knew I was coming into town?” Gar asked.

“Our lawyer, the town’s only lawyer, that is, Mr. Potts? He let me know confidentially about that unusual stipulation in the will, see, so I’ve been checking in on when the train arrives in the afternoons. Little late today. Apologies,” Jessie said.

“And I thought small towns were supposed to act Christian,” Gar said.

Jessie laughed.

“Not this one. Your line saw to that. But like I said, you got nothing to do with it, coming from all the way where you do,” Jessie said.

Gar nodded.

“Suppose so. Well, thank you, friend,” Gar said.

“We should get going now if you want to get there in good time,” Jessie said.

“There’s no other way up there?” Gar asked.

“Horse, I suppose. But from the rail station? No,” Jessie said. “Ain’t no cab service out here in these parts.”

Gar smiled wanly, and once the plate was empty, the pair walked outside to the street. The pick-up truck Jessie drove was nearly as old and rusting as the rest of the town, which hadn’t seen an uptick in industry since the first world war. The outbreak of the second hadn’t seemed to affect the fortunes of the small smelting town, although Gar supposed that the war effort had less use for silver than it did iron or steel. Jessie had guided them up the mountain, past long minutes of imposing pine before he attempted to yell over the rattling of the vehicle.

“So, what brings you up all this way?” Jessie asked.

“Well, my grandfather passed,” Gar said.

“Sure, sure, but he’s buried already. Sheriff had Jeff dig a hole for him out back. Jeff’s the deputy, see,” Jessie said.

“Is that common out here? To get buried in your backyard?” Gar asked.

Jessie winced.

“Backyard is a city word,” he said.

“I saw the church on my way into town. There is a proper cemetery here,” Gar said.

“No reason to get fiery with me, see. It would have been difficult for us to put him there, and the county next door didn’t want him either,” Jessie said.

“How charitable.”

“It’s kind of you, looking out for your kin. But this ain’t no place for that. It’s about getting by, up here. Remember that.”

Gar let the rattling of the steel frame answer.

“I guess I’m asking, why isn’t your Da the one out here? Seems more natural that way, see,” Jessie said.

“He’s dead,” Gar said.

“Oh. Sorry for your loss.”

“You don’t have to be.”

“Why? He not treat you right?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Just seems like a coldblooded thing to say.”

“Well, he’s dead. You got your answer.”

Jessie shifted in his seat.

“So, why’s this mask so important? I mean, why do you have to see it before you can sell the cabin?” Jessie asked.

“I don’t know. It’s from Africa. Supposed to worth something, unlike everything else up there. If everyone knows about my family, apparently, then I wouldn’t be surprised if it was gone by the time we got there,” Gar said.

“You ever hear of the Tsavo Maneaters?” Jessie asked.

Gar blinked at the change of topic.

“No?”

“Two Lions that preyed on human flesh down in British Africa, see, but they weren’t no normal lions. Didn’t have manes. They came at night, and knew how to trick grown men. Lion hunting men. Our kind still dropped like flies,” Jessie said.

“Well, glad there aren’t any lions here,” Gar said.

“No mane. Never saw a drawing, but can you imagine? No mane on a lion,” Jessie said.

“That’s what a lioness looks like,” Gar said.

“Maybe you just wouldn’t get it,” Jessie said.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Gar asked.

“Because you don’t.”

Gar huffed and turned to the window.

“How much further?”

“Just about here.”

The cabin was a squat building, changed over the centuries by countless renovations from a simple log cabin to a more sprawling mishmash of architectural styles. Dim light filtered through the thick vegetation that hemmed in the structure on all sides, casting long shadows on the splintering wood of the house. Gar noted the smell of recently disturbed loam among the clean mountain air. Ignoring the implications of the scent, Gar took long strides toward the open door facing the long driveway they had parked on.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Gar moved through the house, aimlessly searching while Jessie made a bee line for the kitchen. Leaving him to whatever task held his attention, Gar began opening doors in search of the mask. After several obvious dead ends, upon opening the door to the study, Gar found something undeniable. Among a mess of half-read books and unfinished notes lay a wooden display box holding a frightful visage turned towards any who dared to enter the room.

The mask was a hideous thing to behold. Its coal black exterior had a lacquer on the surface that gave every intricately carved well and cranny on the thing a twisting orange glow from the reflected light of the fireplace. The overall impression of the carvings left one thinking of a predatory animal, yet it had no eyes and no mouth, and two monstrous curling horns rose above what passed for its face. The angular orifices on the front could have been the pitted nostrils of a viper were it not for their excessive number, but there was something altogether too alien in the arrangement to compare it to a mere serpent. Gar could not help but think it was rather impossible for it to have come from Africa.

In a flash, unbidden thoughts came to Gar’s mind. Ugly, familiar images appeared, the distortions of the shaving mirror attacking unexpectedly to roil Gar’s stomach at the sight of the growing protrusions emerging from her skin. A distended skeleton, heavy with unfeeling flesh and hardened by unwanted strength, tried to swim through the malaise, only for Gar to fall to the floor, and then through it. Spinning through space, Gar saw a solid form appear, feminine and impossible and wearing her face, her real face, beckoning her on with a sad smile.

Gar gasped as the flickering light of the room returned as she fell to the solid floor with a heavy impact as the vision faded. Springing to her feet and slamming the door, Gar’s breath came in burning gasps as she threw open the door to the kitchen, startling Jessie.

“We have to leave. Jessie, we have to go, now,” Gar said.

“Can’t. If you wanted to leave, you shouldn’t have come here,” Jessie said.

“What?”

“I mean, the suns gone down, see,” Jessie said. “Never make it down there without headlights.”

“Your truck doesn’t have headlights?” Gar asked.

“Not none that work,” Jessie said.

Gar repressed a scream.

“You alright?” Jessie asked.

“No. Grief- just grief. Being here, where he was, it’s making me crazy,” Gar said.

Jessie nodded before clapping Gar on the shoulder, ignoring the reflexive twitch that resulted as he spoke.

“We just get some rest, then. Decaf coffee for your nerves?”

“No. Thank you, Jessie. I think I’ll just head to bed.”

It was a small mercy that the home had two bedrooms. Gar picked the smaller of the two and tried to settle into the small cot it provided. The task proved impossible, leading Gar to seek out a familiar remedy to insomnia. The room Gar was in had none of the obvious supply of books to be found in the office. Curious, Gar searched the desk in the room and instead of finding stacks of notes in neat script, found dozens of carved wooden figures but without the corresponding tools to make them. Shuddering at the thought of returning to the study, Gar continued to look until she found a hidden latch at the back of the bottom desk drawer. Pulling it in mindless curiosity revealed a secret compartment containing a journal labelled in large, scrawling letters: The Final Journal of Ezra Garfield Watson.

Blinking in surprise, Gar opened the book. In near illegible writing, Ezra begged forgiveness of whoever was reading his notebook, before telling of a heinous crime he had committed to doom his line. Further deciphering of the malformed letters revealed no specifics on the act, but veered in thought to send a warning of a ritual of transformation. Just as Gar began to read about what changes could occur and how they could be linked to the inner sin Ezra carried, something white flashed by the window.

Gar started for the way out of the house, throwing away the evil book as she went. It had to be the townspeople planting things in his grandfather’s house to paint him as a lunatic, Gar thought. It had to be their way to rationalize his affair. Despite the neat explanation, something gnawed at her psyche even as she rushed towards the moonlight night.

Dashing outside of the house, Gar saw that Jessie’s truck was gone. Around the corner of the house, long white horns moved along with a disturbance through the underbrush. Without thinking, Gar ran after the form, crashing though the bush to reveal a game trail that led around the perimeter of the house. Sprinting along the paths soon revealed an opening in the foliage just wide enough for Gar to trip on a knotted root and fall through to the back yard, almost directly onto Ezra’s grave.

The grave dirt had been disturbed by something other than Gar’s clumsiness. A horrible, impossible thought came to Gar’s mind. Reaching for the rusty shovel carelessly discarded next to the head stone, Gar drove the point of the shovel into the ground with conviction. With the strength of the possessed, Gar heaved each shovelful of dirt well clear of the grave. Sweat poured down skin pale with the wretched possibility beneath the cold mountain earth.

Finally, the spade point of the shovel hit something solid. Swinging the heavy shovel overhead like an executioner’s axe, Gar smashed into the dirty pine with abandon. Throwing away the shovel and pulling aside the rotting boards with bare hands, Gar released the charnel stench of the coffin’s contents, and pulling the boards away revealed the rictus grin of her grandfather on a mishappen body. Gar screamed at the missing skin of the face, the bulbous protrusions at base of the skull, and the mottled, miscolored skin of his pulpous midsection.

There was the whistling of an object flying through the air before everything went black.

The sound of chanting woke Gar to a world of disorienting pain. Jessie, Samantha, and a third man wearing a horned white mask stood in a semicircle around where Gar was tied securely to a kitchen chair. They were dressed in white robes and an unearthly chant came from the backs of their throats, intoned in a language Gar couldn’t understand even as the sounds came with an unremembered familiarity. A brazier sitting in the middle of their circle illuminated the scene, and hanging off of the gleaming bronze metal was the black mask of her grandfather.

“What do you people want?” Gar asked.

The figure in white strode across the room, grasping the black mask and turning it in his hands as he closed the distance between himself and Gar. The inside of the mask grew closer to Gar’s face as the man moved to force it on. The images returned even through the chanting.

“What do you people want from me!” Gar screamed.

The mask fit Gar’s face so closely as to become a second skin. Heat prickled, then burned as sensation connected and flesh melted into a lacquered ebony that was more than mere wood. The shape morphed to caress the fitted bone of Gar’s face despite the convulsive thrashing of Gar’s body, and a distorted multi-voiced shriek broke the stillness of the air. The horrible sound of bone splintering and cracking came, starting at the head and moving down the body as skin rippled over changing flesh and sinew. The chanting never ceased during the metamorphosis.

 A new form slowly took shape under the thin black robes Gar was dressed in. Fat redistributed to give Gar an hourglass shape even as the skull morphed at the jaw to expand outward and fuse the growing ear holes to fleshy cavities. Gar could hear the shapes of the room in a grainy image in their mind, an impressionist painting in shades of grey that illustrated teeth erupting from mottled skin to bite new mouths into the palms of her hands. However, Gar could no longer see a further paling of flesh or the changing of red blood to black ichor plainly visible under the skin. Sobs broke from the figure and tears poured from sightless eyes under the terrible black mask.

The chanting ceased, and the man in the white mask spoke.

“Your great-grandfather was the first to wear the mask for us, supplying your family with the comfortable lies of childhood. Your grandfather accepted the burden for his time, and he would be commended in this town if not for his folly. Hard times make hard men, but soft times make soft men, and he lacked the hardness to properly pass the mask on. Your father rejected him, and hard times followed. You are the hard man,” he said.

Gar let out a barking laugh.

“You think I jest. That this town does not have the reach to publicize your grandfather’s affairs with men? That the unveiling petty sex could undermine our work here? That you cannot become the next in line for this legacy? You already have,” he said.

Gar shifted in her bonds.

“Can you feel it? Becoming one with it. Baptizing yourself, inside and out, letting your weak humanity fall away to embrace true revelation?” he asked.

Gar shook her head.

“You wonder how you will be help to us, in this true form. We will go to the place of power, as the planets align, and you will access the riches there. You are the other mask, the stranger to my leader, and together we two sides of a coin that will restore order,” he said.

Gar twisted in her bonds, trying vainly to catch the corner of the mask with her shoulder.

“This cannot be undone. The mask is a part of you now. We are brothers. We are one with the masks. We see beyond this pale imitation to the way things are, and in seeing beyond it- can mold this illusion to whatever charming lie we see fit. We hold power, true power in our hands, if only we can stoop low enough to grasp it- and make the pleasant lie real to us. For it will be real in the only sense that matters. It will be real to our belief,” he said.

The creature let out a baleful sound.

“Yes. You understand. Good. Madness cannot take us for looking upon you, for the devil does not fear his demons. Follow, and share of the power you never could have touched in your sad little life before you learned the truth of your blood,” he said.

Gar snarled, and the truth of her blood sprang forth with a crack as ribs erupted from under the skin to cut the ropes holding her with bone sharpened to a knife edge. The weapons extended to their full length on tendrils of pale flesh, whipping through the air with a fatal efficiency. Screams, not of rapturous exultation but of terror, echoed in the night before falling away to gurgling cries.

The cabin stood silent in the woods.

A woman’s form fled into the gnarled pines of the mountain, a halo of moonlight and long wings of violent appendages spreading from her back. The only sound was a distorted, animal weeping muffled by a chitinous mask.