Death Mask

by Jason Ryan Qualls
(Elkhart, Indiana, USA)

It was his last night in the foreign country. Daniel was walking the streets beneath the deepening twilight. He was beginning to feel desperate. Although he had bought gifts to take back to his wife and son, he hadn't yet found the thing he wanted for himself. It had to be something exotic and mystic.

He felt a chill run through his body. The night was growing cold. He chanced upon a narrow, dark alley that ran off one of the main streets. Daniel knew it was foolish for him to be wandering on his own. But suddenly, he saw a doorway at the end with light spilling out onto the alley. Daniel felt a premonition that this place held the thing he was seeking.

He started down the narrow, cobble stoned street, avoiding the shadows along the sides. He entered the open doorway into a room that flowed with the fires of many small oil lamps. A man with a dark, impassive face and shining eyes stood behind a counter, staring at him.

"The shop is closed," the man said in English in a deep voice.

Daniel's eyes quickly darted around the room. Masks filled the space, hung on walls and sat on the shelves.

"I must close," the man repeated. Daniel could not move from the spot where he stood, gazing at one mask after another. They were what he had been looking for.

"Please," he asked, "I won't take long." Daniel's eyes came to rest on a mask hanging high on the wall near the back of the shop. It was carved of a dark wood, almost black, and had a fringe of real hair, matted and copper-colored, around it.
"That mask. How much is it?"

"Not for sale," the man muttered. "An evil mask, not for tourists."

"No, you don't understand," Daniel protested. "I'm a writer. I came to be influenced by evil, to write a book on Satanism.

The man shook his head firmly from side to side. "The mask was created by evil for evil. No one with a good heart can put it on. Or else . . . ." "Stay," the shop keeper told Daniel. "I'll be right back." And with that statement, the man went into the back of the shop.

Daniel did not take his eyes off the mask. It seemed to summon him. He drew closer and closer and soon stood just underneath it.

He reached up and took the mask in his hands. Daniel lifted it off the wall. He brought it down and looked at the strange face carved into the wood. The mask willed him to take it. Daniel pulled out a large roll of local currency from his wallet and put the money on the counter. Then he ran back through the doorway into the dark alley and the black night.

When Daniel got back home. His family noticed that he seemed remote. Daniel went through the motions of unpacking and giving out the gifts he had brought back. Finally he pulled the mask out.

"Weird," his son said when he saw the mask. His son picked it up and stared at the face. The mouth was twisted in a mocking smile. The hollow eyes seemed to hide an evil secret. The face was carved with scars. He began to lift the mask to his face.

"No!" Daniel shouted, remembering the shopkeeper's words. He grabbed the mask from his son's hands. His son asked what was wrong. "The mask is special," Daniel quickly explained. "No one can put it on." Daniel looked down at the mask. His hands were trembling as he held it.

"Do you really believe that?" his son asked him.

But Daniel didn't answer. Instead, he went to his study. That night, Daniel hung the mask on a wall of his study. It was the wall behind which his computer desk sat overlooking a dark forest. The study had a blood red ceiling and black painted walls with a graveyard background scene. There were also gruesome pictures all around. They seemed to send him thoughts and ideas that inspired his writing.

Daniel was happy to get back to work on his diary of horror stories. He sat down at his desk and began writing a new tale of terror. Two hours later he pushed his chair away from the desk. He had finished one of the stories. Daniel was sure it was the best writing he had ever done. But suddenly his head had begun to pound with a headache. He turned around. The mask was watching him, its hollow eyes staring into his face. Daniel felt that they could see through him and read his thoughts.

He got up and stepped closer to it. The pounding grew louder and louder. He had the sudden urge to take the mask off the wall. It seemed to be telling him to put it on his face. . . . Daniel ran from the room. He hurried past a mirror in the living room and caught a glance of his face. It was contorted with fear.

The next day Daniel sat down to work at his stories early in the morning. Everyone else in the house was still asleep. He began a new horror story. After awhile, his pen suddenly stopped moving across the paper. The pounding in his head had started again. The pen dropped from his hand to the floor. Daniel whirled around to face the mask. The weird, matted hair around it seemed to move and then stop. The hollow eyes stared at him. Daniel was drawn to it. The strange mouth was smiling, telling him to touch it. Daniel reached up and pulled the mask off the wall. It was warm in his hands. He lifted the mask up to his eyes and saw the darkness inside.

Then he covered his face with it. The pounding was unbearable now. Daniel's heart pounded just as hard.

"Daniel!" a voice called.

He turned to the door. It was his wife. "Daniel! Take off that mask!" she ordered him.

Slowly, he pulled the mask away from his face. His wife screamed and backed away from him. He stepped toward her, but she ran. He followed her into the living room, glancing at the mirror as he passed by. A ghastly face stared back at him.

The skin on his face was rotted brown and pulling off in areas, and ringed with deep scars. His hair was hanging by threads of thin scalp. His lips were twisted in a wicked smile. His eyes were melted into deep, black sockets. Daniel looked down to the mask in his hands. Staring back at him was a face, the face of the man he had once been.

But now. . . . he wore his Death Mask.