More gravel and splintered boards lay everywhere on the roof. Air vents thrust up their squat rusty squares. I stepped carefully around them. One bad board and I was in serious trouble. I prowled among the skylights. Those that weren’t boarded over were too dirty to see through.
The sound of voices froze me. I crouched behind a large vent. The sound grew, the thin whisper of several voices. I peered over the chill metal’s edge. There was no one up there but me. I glanced down. A feint streak of light showed between the blades of the enormous ceiling fan inside the vent. The voices rose. They were coming from inside.
Their whisper grew to a babble. They talked over each other, all at once. I couldn’t make sense out of their increasing clamor. Beneath the voices I could hear something else, a sound like a guitar badly out of tune. It had a coughing, chugging quality more like someone pounding on a calliope rotten with age. I strained to recognize it over the babble.
Laughter. Cold, ugly, laughter.
I crept on stiff, cramped legs to the stairway and inched down each step, fighting the panicky urge to hurry. Every step took me closer to the door. I prayed it stayed closed. I did not want to meet whatever made that horrible sound.
Crossing the gravel was an agony of slowness. At last silent concrete led me to the comfort of my car. I slid behind the wheel, dropping my backpack on the seat beside me. For a moment all I did was sit there. I switched on the car heater and fired up the engine. Calm, warm, away from the weird scene happening in that warehouse, I started to think again.
Now I knew where she went after holding court at the mall. I knew she was afraid of something, to judge from her reaction to the album. She was strong, could be crazy, might even be mute. She might live in that warehouse, along with whatever made that godawful noise. I shivered again, thinking of it.
Sense nudged me again and told me this was likely nothing more than a group of aspiring actors rehearsing together. The paper had run a few articles on the movement among the homeless who created collections of stories and art based on their experiences. The warehouse could also be a drug hangout, a shooting gallery where she met more of her bizarre crowd. Or the voices could be just another obnoxious type of punk music.
My curiosity would not be bought off. The weird makeup was becoming almost a side issue now. More than ever, I wanted to know more, to know her name and hear her speak. Most of all, I wanted inside that warehouse with a pack full of film and my camera. There was a story here, and a good story always meant good photos.
There was only one thing to do.
The next night I waited until eight p.m. to be sure no after hours business might keep anyone in the neighborhood. The mall would close at nine. The bus would drop her off around ten. I had until ten-thirty at most. This could be the only chance I’d get. If she heard me last night, she might panic and run for another hideout.
I parked my car in the same lot. The only lit windows were three blocks back. The door off the stairway was jammed shut. The lock was so badly rusted a key couldn’t turn in it. I twitched at every shadow, scanning the landing for some clue about what to do next. The landing was clear but for a two-by-two split down the middle. I picked it up. It fit through a large crack in the door. I pulled upward, felt it bang against a crossbar. I gave it a hard jerk upward. Something hit the floor inside. The door opened.
The dust was thick as shag carpeting. Smashed crates and smaller debris had been pushed against the walls. The flashlight’s beam showed me a path worn through the dust. It led me back to a far corner.
A rickety cane chair sat by two small crates piled to form a table. A smudge of blue glittered against the splintered wood. Next to it was a waxy blob of hard red. Makeup. None of her clothes were visible, hung up or piled nearby. Seeing their total blackness would have been a trick anyway. No mattress or even a pile of blankets showed whether or not she lived here.
Broken glass sparkled on one wall when I turned. I walked carefully toward it, stepping over small piles of wood and plaster, and found the windows. No wonder it was darker than the inside of a cave. The windows weren’t just clouded over with age and dirt. They had been painted over in thick black paint from the inside. Even by day, no light would penetrate here. Uneasiness made me step back too quickly. My foot came down on another pile of rubble. I slipped, flinging out my empty hand. It closed on a fistful of old cloth.
A large curtain hung down beside me, so huge I couldn’t see the top or the other side. It rippled, disturbed by my frantic grab. The returning air billowed with dust and the stink of rotting fruit, sweet and awful. I fumbled around until I found a cord dangling beside the curtain and pulled down on it. Rusty screeching ripped the silent gloom. I jumped, heart pounding, and nearly fell again. I steadied myself against the windows and gulped the dusty air. Just some old curtain hooks. Nothing dangerous. The sweet stench was stronger, making me cough.
Row upon row of pale oval shapes reached up into the darkness cloaking the rafters. I ran the beam of the flashlight over them. Faces glared at me from eyeless holes. I sprang back. When they stayed still, I reached out to brush one with my fingertips. It felt a little like clay, more like wax. That face bore the frozen snarl of a Kabuki demon, with red eye holes and a black slash of a mouth. A mask! The breath whooshed out of me and I grinned a little at my silliness. I touched it again, guessing it to be some hybrid of papier-mâché.
I touched more of the masks, some down by my knees, others so high I had to stretch on tiptoe. Some were dried and cracking like autumn leaves, others smooth and pliant. A faint nausea stirred in me when I touched them. I wrote it off to that sweetish reek.
One mask wore the Betty Boop kiss. I dug out the album, flipping through and glancing up at the masks I could see. Here and there were the elements of her parade of faces. So this was where she got her inspiration! It must have taken her years to collect so many. Why keep them here, at risk from damp and decay? I had one answer, but a dozen new questions.
The whispering began. I shut it out. My imagination was overworked from raw nerves. I raised the beam to see the upper rows of masks.
Their lips were moving.
Fascination conquered my jolt of fear. I played the light over the faces, watching their expressions change with the things they said. Keeping my eyes on them, I set down my backpack and the album, then pulled out my camera and flash attachment. Both were worth gold right now. I had visions of a Time article on this lost hoard of ancient art. I needed better light, but I didn’t dare risk missing this by hunting for a switch. I ached for a camcorder to catch both the masks’ sound and movement. Time probably had somebody on call who would know what weird language the masks spoke.
I could see no electronic rig, no power cables. The on/off switch must be hooked up to the cord I pulled. The flash was ready and the focus all set when I heard another noise behind me. The sound of stiletto heels.
Nightmare fear clamped my muscles. I spun around, too slowly. The plank she swung caught me across the side of the head. The last thing I heard was that awful calliope laugh.
Pain pulsed through every inch of my skull, threatening to split it wide open. I tried to get up. Nothing moved. I strained, feeling blood pound as dizziness spun me around. I went limp and let the vertigo pass. Something tight pinned my wrist. I tried lifting the other. Same thing. My ankles, too. I was tied to something hard and flat. A strap bound my forehead and another clamped my mouth. The smell of old seatbelt made me want to gag.
Two desk lamps blazed down into my eyes. They were angled down from behind my head, letting me see past my feet. More lights were on, illuminating the wall of masks. My eyes went wide despite the painful light. Hundreds of masks reached up to the rusted girders in the ceiling. Every higher row held masks cruder than those below, less stylized and far older. On them the quasipapier-mache was brown and cracked, making their designs impossible to see.
Then I spotted her.
She sat at the makeshift table and stared at me, crushing out
yet another cigarette. She smiled. It was a slow stretch of muscle, empty of any human warmth. Those dead eyes stayed cold. I shut my eyes against the sight of it. Thank God I never got that on film.
“I’m so glad you woke up.” Her voice was full of odd clicks and slidings, like marbles gargled in oil. She fired up another cigarette. “You were very brave, coming here. There are those who fear to walk in my shadow.”
Behind her the masks chanted, a low rumble of old thunder. The album sat next to her on the table. She picked it up. One by one, she pulled out each photo and tore it to pieces. Then she yanked the film from my camera.
“You wanted these.” Bits of photo sprinkled through her fingers to the dusty floor. “And even those.” She tilted her head at the chanting masks. She drew on the cigarette. Its red glow shone in her eyes. “You came to steal! Thieves die quick deaths for lesser prizes. But you ... It has been so long since I have spoken.” She smiled again, running one fingertip over her painted cheek. “Did you touch them? They feel like leather, or rice paper, or old wax. Do you know the worth of what you sought to steal? Of course not. But you will learn. Oh, yes.” She turned to the table and snapped on the lights of a small portable makeup mirror.
My neck ached from straining forward against the straps. I kept straining, anxious to see what she took out of a small case. She raised her hand. Metal flashed. She drew the metal across her forehead at her hairline, then down along the edge of her cheek and jaw. She tilted her head to do the other side of her face. She wiped the metal on her skirt and laid it aside, then stood up and walked over to me, bending close. The harsh light showed a thin bloody line edging her face. I cringed back against the plank.
She leaned closer, forcing me to see only her, then grinned, baring teeth stained by tobacco and worse. Her breath stank like a wind off a sewer. She put finger and thumb to both temples and tugged downward. Muscles and veins stretched and throbbed as her skin peeled away. Bile flooded my throat, gagging me. My muscles cramped with the need to get away from her.
She freed the straps and forced my head sideways. I coughed, spitting over the side of the plank.
“Keep breathing! We can’t have you dying now.”
“Look,” I gasped. “You’ve had your fun. I’m sorry if I trespassed. Just let me out of here. You can keep your secrets. Just let me go!”
“You lie, little thief. You see your fortune made by using me, telling your world all about me. Do you think you are the first?” She dangled the flayed skin in front of my face. I jerked my head aside, bile gushing into my mouth. “I think I will allow you the answers you seek. You know art. You recognize the skills I possess even in these poor times.”
She went back to the table and bent to lift something out from under it. It was a thin plastic mask, a mockery of a human face, the kind on sale for a few dollars at Halloween. She arranged the flayed skin over it, then lifted a spray can from under the table. She shook it, then sprayed the skin. She turned to grin at me. I flinched, eyes slamming shut.
“Fixative,” she said. “When I first began, there were no such marvels. My works would just rot away. Such a waste.”
Her works? My mind clawed its way back from the horrid implication. Row upon row of them, not the source of her inspiration, but the evidence of it? She carried the rigid skin to the wall, hanging it among the lower masks. The higher ones decayed, and that rotting smell ... I shoved away the frightening answers. This was no kinky punker. She was insane!
“I see you begin to understand. They are all mine, all parts of me. My only solace.”
“What about the kids at the mall?” Maybe I could talk my way out of this. The paper had run an article on a woman who escaped rape and probably death by getting her attacker to talk out his violence.
“My little friends? Poor substitutes for past glories.” She picked up her chair and sat next to me, close to the lights. I had to watch her, had to be alert for her next move, but I shrank from every glimpse of those dead eyes bulging out of the raw meat on her skull. Why wasn’t she bleeding?
“Once there were temples in my honor. Priestesses to offer sacrifice, priests only too glad to maim themselves in my honor. An army of assassins making daily offerings, bringing me new worshipers.” She sighed, exhaling the stench of old blood. “The altars were never dry. The fires, the chanting, the screams ... I miss it.
“This is what I am reduced to. Imitating the games of children with no real bloodlust. I wanted to go to England. To rip the pulsing heart from their smug queen, to take vengeance for my servants slaughtered to the gods of their morality ... Yet here I sit, chatting with a frightened thief. I cannot even raise a proper pyre in this modern barn. The whole place would go up. I cannot risk my faces. They are my only believers now.” She sighed again. I held my breath, turning away.
“Look at me.”
I fought until I thought my neck muscles would snap. Yet my eyes opened and my head turned. Instead of raw flesh, I stared at scabbing which grew as I watched.
“A little longer and you will see a fresh canvas for my paints. Do you know me yet? Have you guessed that I cannot do these things and be human?” She threw her head back and laughed. The sweat froze on my body. Of course. That hideous laughter was hers.
She stared down at me, a slow grin cracking the scabs. She ran her fingertips across my forehead and down my cheek.
“Why, little thief, you have given me an idea.” She went to the table. The metal flashed in her hand again. She carried it back and sat down. “You tried to capture me in your little box. You want more than my faces—you want my soul. When my word was law, such arrogance would have you dragged bodily to the temple. My priestesses would lash you to the altar and rip the skin from your body, hacking off that dangling bit of flesh you men are so proud of. Then your chest would be split and your beating heart flung on the fires to appease me!”
The masks roared their chant, filling the warehouse with the echoes of their fury. She smiled on them, then raised a hand. They quieted, their chant the pulse of an enormous heart.
“I am tired of living like a beast, alone and unworshiped. You chose to invade what little peace I had. I could simply kill you, little thief.” She stroked my hair. My skin crawled from her touch. “And yet,” she crooned, “you have brought me a gift. I see now I do not have to be alone with only my own faces. Those stupid children will delight in the lesser of my rites. When the time comes, they will join my present worshipers. How am I to reward you, when all you deserve is agonizing death?”
I screamed. I kept screaming until my throat was raw. There would be no talking her into untying me. It had to be near morning. Somebody had to hear me!
“My editor knows I’m here. I told my girlfriend where I’d be. Let me go now and I won’t even call the police! If you don’t—”
“Silence!”
My voice died in my throat. Even the masks shut up. She glared down at me, looming taller and more ferocious than the body she wore. My soul begged to run from the unholy rage flaming in her dead eyes.
“Know what all who meet me know, little thief: I am the Destroyer! All that is created comes into my hands. You are mine now, as surely as the skin I wear. For you, there is ... no ... hope!” She dragged the seatbelt back over my mouth and lashed it tight. She stood back as I thrashed and kicked against the bonds. No belt gave even a fraction of an inch.
“Why such fury, little thief? My gift to you is one many have died to obtain.” She held up the glittering metal. She sliced across my forehead with the scalpel. I screamed, arching up against the merciless straps. The pain was hot and sharp. She cut downward through my cheek. Red wetness dripped into my eyes. Blackness smothered me.
Dirty yellow light. No more straps, no feeling at all. Chanting all around me, from me, through me. Over and over, words whose meanings I don’t know. I can’t stop chanting.
Below me, she crouches over the body still tied to the plank. She lifts her head from her feasting and smiles with her b
loody mouth.
“Too long since blood has sated me! You have your reward, little thief!”
I am first among her new worshipers, in a new row on the wall.
AND SOME ARE MISSING by Joel Lane
The first time, it was someone I didn’t know. Inevitably. I’d gone out to use the phone box, around eleven on a Tuesday night. This was a month after I’d moved into the flat in Moseley. I phoned Alan, but I don’t remember what I said; I was very drunk. Coming back, I saw two men on the edge of the car park in front of the tower block I lived in. It looked like a drunk was being mugged. There was one man on the ground: gray-haired, shabby, unconscious. And another man crouching over him: pale, red-mouthed, very tense. As I came closer, he seemed to be scratching at the drunk’s face. His hand was like a freeze-dried spider. I could see the knuckles were red from effort. With his other hand, he was tugging at the man’s jacket.
Too far gone to be scared, I walked toward them and shouted, “What are you going?” The attacker looked up at me. His eyes were empty, like an official behind a glass screen. I clenched my fist. “Fucking get off him. Go on ...” He smiled as if he knew something I didn’t. Then he got up and calmly stalked away into the darkness behind the garages. The man on the ground looked about fifty; from his clothes and stubble, he could have been a vagrant. There were deep cuts on his face, slowly filling up with mirrors of blood. He was sweating heavily.
I ran back to the phone and called an ambulance. Then I went back to the injured man and dabbed uselessly at his face with my sleeve. Now the shock was wearing off, I needed to go to sleep. I looked at my wristwatch; it was past midnight. There was no blood on my sleeve. I looked again at the drunk’s face. It was pale with sweat and blurred by a grayish stubble. But there were no wounds. Jesus, I thought, I’ve started to hallucinate. It’s strictly Diet Coke from now on. Leaving him for the ambulance, I struggled into the building. Living on the top floor meant I didn’t have to keep count. The next thing I knew, my alarm clock was ringing. I didn’t remember setting it, let alone going to bed.
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