The Book of Masks (Abridged)

Change of Address

IT MUST BE A PISS-POOR SECURITY SYSTEM if people can just walk around it, you reflect. Of course, you'd have to be crazy to want to prowl around this house in the dark after seeing the library. But then, if you broke in after dark, you wouldn't see the library, would you?

But maybe it was Blackwell you heard. Maybe he was trying to get into your room. You toss onto your other side. The guy is creepy as hell, no matter how much he seems to be trying to work with you and mentor you. Maybe you should show him that you're not one to be fucked with.

You slip out of bed and noiselessly sidle over to the door.

You'll give Blackwell this much credit: the locks and hinges in this spooky old place are well oiled, so you make no noise as you pull the door open and look out. Both ends of the hallway vanish into gloomy shadows.

Carefully you tread your way to the top of the stairs and look down, but it is a pit of blackness. You reach for the light switch, then catch yourself. No need to alert anyone who is downstairs.

But you remember hearing a door close. It might have been Blackwell's door, and that reminds you that it might have been Blackwell. You return down the hall, past your room to his. His door is closed fast, but of course there's no way to tell if it has been opened or not. But there are other bedrooms on the floor.

Before you can investigate them you hear the ceiling creak. Upstairs? Oh, yes, the narrow workrooms. Probably it is just Blackwell, and you have the sudden urge to spy on him. You trot down to the narrow staircase that leads upstairs. As you put your foot on the first stair you fancy you hear something heavy hitting the floor in the hallway behind you. But that's absurd; the noise must have come from above.

You tiptoe to the top, but there are no lights burning at either the head of the stairs or from under the door to the work room. You put your ear to the door and listen. Absolute silence. Your heart in your throat, you slowly twist the door knob and press the door open.

Gah! A shadow looms in the corner!

The spasm in your chest makes you jump, and you narrowly stifle a cry. Your eyes bulge but the shadow doesn't move; and as your eyes become accustomed to the darkness you see it really is only a shadow cast by the failing moon shining through the yew tree. Relief washes over you as you step into the room and close the door behind you.

The Libra is on the work bench, and you open it. In the moonlight the faces on the title page are sepulchral, and you can't stare at them too long without being overcome by the nauseating feeling that they are dead: corpses and skeletons shifting not through faces but cycles of decay. You quickly turn the page.

The next page should be blank, but to your astonishment you find that it appears to be covered with a fine, silvery runic writing. You bend down close to it, blinking and staring, not sure if it is an optical illusion. As you bend closer, you hear a rustling sound, as of pages turning ... or of voices whispering.

"Jesus," you mutter. You wonder if Blackwell knows. Surely he must; it's an old storytelling trope, even: pages whose ink is invisible except under moonlight.

And as you peer at words they suddenly blaze forth, like milky fire. You blink; did you do something? No, you didn't do anything except breathe on them. Did that cause a change?

Then out of the corner of your eye you notice that the shadows around you have deepened into utter, cthulhian blackness.

You spin around. The door to the workroom has opened. Or has it vanished? Either way, you are staring into an inky darkness. It is not completely dark, though; looming in the middle is a single orb, glowing with a crepuscular light. It seems malignant; it seems to roll about; it seems to suddenly contract and brighten; and then you realize it has seen you.

Because it is an eye. A single, enormous, blind-but-all-seeing eyeball.

You press back against the workbench. The thing in the doorway exhales hungrily. Long, narrow black things—Oh my God, they're fingers!—clutch the edge of the doorway. One hand. Two hands. Three hands ... Five ...

Eight hands.

The room shudders. The doorway shifts. The thing gasps.

And then it is inside the room with you.

You throw your arms over your face and fall backwards.

And fall backwards.

And fall ...

And fall ...

* * * * *

The thing is gone. Somehow, for some reason, you feel certain it never even reached you. The world is no longer dark, but it isn't light, either. It is blank.

Then the forms appear, emerging at first indistinctly and then with great, cutting crispness from the fog of nonexistence that surrounds you. They are designs of great intricacy and complexity, bending and turning and folding in great wheels. Some of them are merely bent into wheels, but others— Ow! You can't look at them, it hurts too much to actually see something that has more than five dimensions.

They are sigils, joined together into a vast, interlocking clockwork thing rushing and turning all about you. You reach out to touch one, but it eludes you.

And then either you are getting very big or they are getting very small, because they seem to tighten all around you. But they also seem to fade, so that soon they again disappear into nothingness.

And you feel yourself disappearing into nothingness also.

* * * * *

You wake with a groan. Goddamn this fucker, you murmur to yourself. This is the third time he's pissed you off. Unless he starts coming across with something good real soon, you're gonna fuck him over. Or get Grandmother to fuck him over. Won't be anything left of him but a dry, crusty place on the asphalt once she gets through with him.

You open your eyes and sit up, and are shocked to see that you are naked.

Alright, now it doesn't matter if he does come across with the goods. You are gonna beat him until his brains run out his ears.

You look up with a glower and ...

What the fuck? That's you standing there. Standing there with a fucking stupid expression on your face, looking a little green, but that is definitely you staring back at yourself. But how come the other you is the one who gets to be dressed?

Then you feel a little click in your head.

That isn't you, and those weren't your thoughts.

Slowly you get to your feet and stare at the stranger. He has lank black hair that sticks to his pale forehead and drapes loosely behind his ears to the top of his collar. His eyes are narrow and dark and gleam with suspicion. He has a long face dominated by a strong nose, strong cheekbones, and strong chin. He wears heavy, dirty work jeans, a dark denim shirt, and boots. You can tell by the way they settle over his frame that he is very strong.

His name is William Shabbleman. You know that because you've got his mind and memories inside yours, and you recognize him and everything about him. Over his shoulder, at an angle, you catch sight of yourself in the bedroom mirror, and confirm what you already grimly knew.

That you are also his physical twin.

His jaw tightens and he clenches his fist. You know why, too, because you feel your own fists clench in sympathy. He wants to beat the shit out of this imposter—you.

"And what do you think, William?" a voice rumbles behind you. You turn: Of course, it's Blackwell. Who is he addressing, Shabbleman or you? Does he even know that it is really you, William Prescott? "A perfect duplicate," Blackwell continues.

"Yeah, I guess," Shabbleman mutters. His voice is deep but insolent. "What's it for?"

"To take your place," Blackwell says. "You told me you couldn't stay here, that you had to return home. Well, now that problem is solved. You will remain here as my pupil, and the golem here" —he indicates you— "will return in your stead."

"You mean it can act like me, too?" Shabbleman asks.

Blackwell makes a wry face. "Where it counts. I think we'll find that it is altogether more pliable than you are. It will do as it is told. Won't you, William?"

You realize Blackwell is addressing you.