The Mask Maker

Today, I'm sharing my short story, The Mask Maker. It was originally published in the WolfSinger Publications anthology Fall: Fear & Hope.

The theme for this anthology was the season of Fall. This is the first of my stories that I set in the fictional Maine town of Raven's Bend. It is based on the Lewiston/Auburn area of Maine. 

Nearly everyone in the town of Raven’s Bend, Maine knew of the old mask shop. Donovan’s Marvelous Masks was a little shop where faces peeked from windows to look at pedestrians. It stood just off Canal Street overlooking the Androscoggin River. Every day the faces in the window changed, although not many noticed the change in the store front. Every day a different set of faces watched those passing by on their way to work.

Every year, as Halloween approached, the faces slowly disappeared until none remained. Then, they could be seen everywhere in the streets and neighborhood of the small town. Everyone bought their masks from the shop. A tradition started decades ago, carried on generation by generation. Donovan’s faces displayed the mood of their maker. Laughing, leering, secretive looks—every emotion was on display as the townspeople strolled the streets ahead of sunset on Halloween. Donovan made all the masks by hand. He knew his customers like any good merchant, but mostly his customers came around only once a year. Because of this he knew them so much better than any other businesses in town. With more time to think about their needs and wants, he tailored his creations to his customers. When they came into his shop, they never were in a hurry. He let them find the mask created specifically for them, but never guided them. They always found it on their own.

He also did business outside his busiest season. His lesser customers, purveyors of lottery tickets, cheap jewelry, tourist souvenirs, and other assorted bric-a-brac kept the lights on and paid the bills, but he stood impar­tial to that trade. He cared nothing for the cheap wares he offered, it was his masks that called to him. He poured himself into his creations. He only cared when his masks were bought and worn. When he could see the faces he cre­ated wandering the streets and looking back at him.

One exception for Donovan stopped by his shop almost every day at lunch. Paul Delacrux worked down the road at a local bookstore. Each day he walked the two blocks to Donovan’s, past the cigar shop and library, stopping in for pastries from George’s Delicacies. George always held two Boston cream doughnuts for Paul. Donovon’s favorite. They shared the doughnuts as they visited in the shop. Townspeople passed, some entered perusing the available masks. Looking for the one to wear for Halloween. Paul loved watching people pick out their mask. They would run their fingers over the stitches and leather. Somehow the mask spoke to the patrons, calling to them. It never ceased to amaze Paul when they found the one Donovan made specifically for them. They smiled. They laughed. They tried on various masks one by one until they found the one made for them.

As the customers made their purchases, Donovan would ring them out on his cash register. Cash Only, No Cards, emblazoned on a placard on the front of the register. The smile on his face broadened as he took their money, bagged their purchase, and waved them out the door. After they left, always chatting away about their new mask, Donovan pulled out a black leather bound notebook and scribbled in it. Paul asked him about it at least once a week, and every time Donovan answered with a short laugh and a mumbled comment.

Every time except this time.

“Paul,” he said as Leslie Cole left with her two daughters, the bell on the door ringing as the door shut behind them, “my friend, how long have you come here to my shop?”

“It’s been quite a few years now. I used to stop in after school. So maybe ten years. Does that sound about right?”

“Yeah, seems right,” Donovan caressed the cover of his notebook with his left hand, “I’ve been here since the Fifties. You see a lot during that time. One moment…” He paused and stood, holding his hand up to Paul. Easing his way out from behind his counter, he strode over to the door and hung the handwritten “Out to Lunch—back in fifteen” sign on the entrance and locked the door. As he turned back to Paul he continued, “This town has been kind to me in the last forty years. Very kind. Lots of good memories. Have I ever told you about the first mask I made for your mother? The first Halloween I worked here?”

“Only a couple of thousand times, but if you feel a hankering to tell it again, I’ll listen one more time.” Paul took a bite of his doughnut and leaned up against the counter as the older man returned to his stool behind the register.

“If you take that tone with me, I’ll not tell you anything.” Donovan waved his hand and sipped his coffee, never taking his gaze from Paul.

“Oh come on, Donovan,” Paul said through a napkin as he wiped his mouth, “you know I’m only teasing.” Donovan said nothing but continued to stare. Paul coughed and laughed before saying, “Was that when the tradition started? With your masks?”

“You, my boy, know how to coax an old man out of his moods, don’t you?” Donovan laughed and slapped the counter as he continued, “Yes. The town always held the festival. Everyone walked the streets in their outfits. So lovely,” his voice trailed off as he drummed his fingers on the edge of the register. Paul waved at Donovan and he continued, “Yes, so lovely this time of year. The trees with their colors. Much like nature’s fireworks, yes? The people back then on my first Halloween here, much like tonight, were preparing for the town’s revelry. They did not know what my shop would hold until that afternoon. When my doors opened, one by one, the town’s people filtered in and bought my masks.” He sighed. “So long I have been selling these masks to this town. There is so much to tell you. I hope there is enough time.”

“Donovan, what are you talking about?”

Donovan didn’t respond, but instead slid the notebook over to Paul and motioned for him to open the book. Paul opened it and flipped through a few pages, skimming his fingers over the names of the men, women, and children of the town. Mostly written in black ink, but some in red.

“Do you notice anything?” Donovan leaned further over the counter.

“No,” Paul said and chuckled, “except the red and black. What’s the reason for that?”

“You don’t see. I had hoped you would,” Donovan straightened and stroked his chin. “Look at previous years and tell me what you see.”

Paul nodded and looked back at the sheet marked for two years ago—1992. He saw his name. Written in black. He saw Greg Mantz, a childhood friend. Written in black. Rosa Morris, his brother’s first girlfriend. Written in black. Nancy Delacrux, his mother, died November of ninety-two. Written in red.

Paul paused and dragged his fingers back to his mother’s name. Red. He scanned the page and found Old Man Montgomery who died in March of ninety-three. Red. Again and again he flipped the pages and every name in red died within a year of purchasing the mask from Donovan’s shop.

“Donovan,” he set the notebook down and pushed it away. “What is this? Do you track everyone that has died in town?”

“It is more than that. This notebook is just my record of sales. I track when I’ve sold the mask…”

“This is more than record keeping for sales. What are you doing?”

“My masks are more than just decorations. They are markers. They show death who to take.”

“What?” Paul opened the notebook once more and looked at all the pages going back to the first year listed. Red names peppered within the black. All dead within a year of their purchase. “You kill people? What is this?”

“No. No my boy. There are forces. Natural forces that move the uni­verse. Death. Time. Fate. They are much like gravity. Natural. Inexorable. Unmutable. I am an agent of those forces.”

“What you are saying makes no sense. How do you know who is going to die?” Paul took a step back from the counter and held his hands, palms out, toward Donovan. “How do you know?!” Paul voice echoed through the small shop.

“Paul, my boy,” Donovan gestured to the stool at the counter, “please have a seat.”

“No. Tell me why those names are in red.” Paul walked back to the counter and slammed his hand down hard enough to cause a ding to escape the register. “Tell me why my mom’s name is in red.”

“I am an agent of death.” Donovan paused and raised an eyebrow wait­ing for a response. When Paul offered nothing, Donovan continued, “There are many of us. We are assigned to small groups of the population. I reside here. Each of us has a signature way of marking those ready to pass on. Mine is the masks I make. Those who are to die within a year are marked by my mask for death to take.”

“Donovan, what are you talking about?” Paul backed away from the counter, the notebook dropped to the floor.

“Paul, slow down,” Donovan slipped from around the counter with his hands outstretched before him. “Paul, it’s a little unsettling, but hear me out on this. Sit, please,” he gestured to the chairs near the entrance and nodded his head. Paul backed his way toward the sitting area and sat down on the closest chair, not bothering to remove the magazine laying on it.

“Think of me as a cog in the machine,” Donovan said as he sat across from Paul. “I only know when people are going to die when I start making their mask. Then when they wear the mask, it marks them for the next agent of death to take them. We are all cogs in the machine. We all have roles to play.” He coughed before continuing, “You saw my ledger. You saw the facts. How could I have predicted those deaths?”

“You could’ve written those names in after the fact. You could be play­ing a sick version of a joke.” Paul shook his head and wiped his mouth with his hand. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips and hear it in his ears. He stood and pointed his finger at the older man, “This is sick. I don’t know what game you are playing, but this is sick.” He reached for the door, but Donovan stood and grabbed his wrist.

“Look at last year’s entry. Look at last year.” Donovan pointed to the black notebook open on the floor. “There is one name left from last year that hasn’t died yet. Look and see. See that I am right. I marked her last year and her time is short. Look at it.”

Paul crossed the room and picked up the book. He thumbed the pages until he arrived at last year’s entry. He threw the book down. It struck the floor with a resounding thud. Paul felt the vibrations in his feet.

“Lisa Connelly?” He looked to Donovan and continued, “David and Marie’s daughter? She’s what, eighteen? Senior?” His voice broke, “Why does she have to die? Why is she in your book?”

“I don’t know, Paul. All I know is that Fate has chosen her. When I made her mask last year, I knew it she would die within a year. Her time is almost up. She is the only name still alive written in red ink. Find her and you will discover the truth.”

“God, this is insane. I’m going to go find her and prove you wrong.” Paul kicked the notebook and strode toward the door. “She’s not going to die tonight. You’ll see.”

“I don’t choose. I don’t choose,” he heard Donovan whispering as the entrance door shut behind him.

Paul looked around at the people filing into the streets. The Harvest Festival almost in full swing. Masks of Donovan’s creation stared back at him. Some laughing. Some crying. Monsters. Demons. All stared at him as he pushed deeper into the crowd. His heart beat harder as the weaved his way between the oncoming throng of people. He had to find Lisa. He had to prove Donovan wrong.

Paul continued to move through the crowd, making his way toward the memorial garden near the falls. The teens would be there trying to sneak cig­arettes and beer before joining the rest of the town on Main Street. Paul knew they would be there, because that is where he was when he was a teen. The hideouts never change. The crowd thinned as he neared the riverbank. The lamps sprung to life, illuminating the river walk path as the sun dipped lower beneath the horizon. Paul heard the laughter and shouts of teens in revelry ahead of him and started to jog. He kept up his brisk pace until he came upon a cluster of twenty teens, all masked, standing in small clusters of three to four people.

They all looked up as he entered the park, eyes wide and panting for breath. Everyone froze. Paralyzed at the adult in their midst. Unsure if they needed to explain themselves or flee the scene. Paul held his hand up and sucked in a deep breath.

“Lisa,” he called. “Lisa Connelly? Are you here?” Twenty masks, black eyes and fixed expressions, all fixed upon Paul remained silent. No one spoke. No one moved. “Lisa, it’s an emergency. Please speak up. It’s Mr. Delacrux. I’m a friend of your parents.” Across the fountain at the center of the park, a slender girl slowly raised her hand and slid her mask up. “Lisa, thank God.” Paul broke into a jog again toward Lisa.

She removed her mask and opened her mouth to speak, but a panicked expression overtook her face. She grasped at her throat and fell to the ground writhing and gasping for breath. Paul slid to his knees beside her and looked up at the surrounding teens, shouting at them to call nine-one-one. Lisa stopped thrashing on the ground and she felt limp against Paul’s leg. He lifted Lisa’s neck and tilted her head back causing her mouth to open. Paul saw no visible obstruction so he held his ear over her mouth. He drowned out the terrified voices of her friends and focused on listening to any sign of life from her body.

“She’s not breathing,” he muttered to himself, then to the nearest teen, “Did someone call nine-one-one?” The boy nodded but remained silent.

Paul felt her throat, but no flutter of a heartbeat met his fingertips. With one last check to ensure emergency was called Paul started chest compres­sions on the girl’s small frame. Counting off each compression he swallowed hard as he felt her breastbone snap and her ribs crunch at the tenth com­pression. At thirty, he stopped and lifted her head and blew two quick breaths, watching her chest rise and fall with each. He checked her pulse and breathing, and when he found no response he started the cycle over again. Compressions, breaths, check. Paul lost count of how many cycles of CPR he completed. He felt tired and weary when a paramedic pulled him away. The voice muffled in his ears, but he just shook his head.

He watched as the paramedics took over on Lisa. He felt hot tears spill­ing down his face as they applied the pads for the defib­rillator. When the machine cycled on and shocked, her body jumped, as did Paul. Each successive shock brought a jolt to him as he watched the responders try in vain to restore life to the teen. Paul stood and walked numbly out of the garden. He did not heed the calls and inquiries from those watching. Instead, he left the garden and ran back toward the town center.

Back through the throng of people. Back through the celebration. Back to the little shop on Main Street with the owner waiting patiently for Paul to return.

He burst through the door, but Donovan was not in the main room of the shop. Paul saw a light on in the back and walked down the hall to the store room in the back of the shop. He crossed the room listening to the muffled music wafting from the cracked door at the other end of the room. He whispered to Donovan and pushed the door open. As his eyes adjusted to the fuzzy light in the room he saw Donovan hunched over his workbench busy with a new mask. The record player in the corner scratched out a soft opera. The tones washed over Paul and he swayed on his feet as he watched Donovan working leather onto the frame. He reached his hand out and touched the older man on the shoulder. Donovan paused and looked back at Paul. He stood and placed both hands on Paul’s shoulders and led him from the room to the front of the store.

“She’s dead. It was her time,” Donovan said. He reached under the counter and produced two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He poured a little into each glass and slid one to Paul. As Paul gulped it down, Donovan con­tinued, “You witnessed her passing. I’ll mark it in my book.”

“What happened?” Paul pressed his hand over his eyes and pressed his index finger and thumb to his temples. “How did you know?”

“Long story, my boy,” Donovan said as he marked in his ledger. “Before I moved here, I was desolate. No chance at life. One day I was approached by a man. He told me his role in the cosmic gears of the uni­verse. He was an agent of death. He marked those for death to take. I had many of the same questions you have now.” Donovan coughed and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief before saying, “He proved to me, just as I’ve proved to you, the truth. That he could see those who needed to be marked so other agents could take them. He was dying. He needed to find a replacement. He revealed all to me and offered to give me his station.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Paul shouted as spit flew from his mouth. He spread his hands on the counter and stared at his feet.

“It didn’t to me either,” Donovan poured more whiskey into their glass­es and continued, “I balked at the idea, but it made sense. As he died, I heard the call. I felt the pull to come here. This is my area. I mark those here, just as there are those that mark others in their area.”

“How do you know? How did you know my mom was supposed to die?”

“Paul,” Donovan patted him on the shoulder, “I just do. I am guided by fate. You can’t fight fate, my boy. No. You can’t fight it.” He coughed again. “When it is someone’s time to go you have to let them go.” He doubled over with a coughing fit and fell to his knees. Paul knelt beside him. Donovan’s mouth moved wordlessly before he managed to say, “I’ve called nine-one-one. Their response time tonight will be about seven more minutes. That’ll give us enough time to wrap up.” He pulled himself up using the counter and Paul’s arm.

“Time for what?”

“You’ll see. Come. We are almost done.” Gathering his feet, Donovan walked back to the back room where he made the masks. Paul followed, each footfall heavier than the one before. When they entered the room Donovan turned and pulled a key on a chain from beneath his shirt. “Paul, my boy, I’m almost done. I saw it a year ago. I didn’t put my name in the ledger. You can do that,” he handed his book to Paul, “It’s yours now.” He paused and looked around before continuing, “In fact, all of this is. I’ve left it to you.”

“What? Why?” Paul clutched the notebook tight in his hands.

“Because I will soon fall dead before you. I will soon have a heart attack and it will be too late for me by the time the paramedics arrive. I saw my death a year ago. I am marked, and now I am ready to move on and pass this on to you. Just as that stranger passed it on to me so many years ago.”

“This…This is crazy,” Paul thrust the notebook back to the older man, but Donovan just pushed it back into Paul’s arms.

“Crazy? Yes, but true. You will take my place in the grand cosmic machine, but first I must show you my tools.” He turned and slid a painting out of the way to reveal a large ancient safe set in the wall above his work­bench. Donovan slid a gold key into the lock, and Paul heard the tumblers clink. Donovan turned the key reverently. At a loud clunk from deep within the metal door, Donovan swung the door open and revealed rows upon rows of vials and glass flask of herbs, liquids, and powders.

“What is this?” Paul leaned in trying to read the labels written in Donovan’s handwriting.

“These are my tools. When I see someone is marked for death within the year from Halloween to Halloween, I sometimes have to use these to keep the balance. If they haven’t died by the time tonight comes around, I have to help the machine. Like that poor girl tonight.”

“You, you kill them?”

“They are dead anyway, Paul. I am an agent of fate.” Donovan closed the safe door and faced Paul. “They have been marked. I have to make sure the cosmic machine keeps moving.” He leaned against his bench and placed his hand over his chest.

“Did you kill my mom?” Paul took a step closer to Donovan and grabbed the front of his shirt. “Did you?” He shook the older man and threw to the right against a wall.

“Paul,” Donovan said then slid down to sit on the floor, still clutching his chest. “I had to improvise. I used the same powder I’ve given myself. My heart will fail soon. When they arrive, you will tell them I had a heart attack and you found me. Everything I have is left to you. You will carry on my purpose.”

“You killed all those people.” Paul paced the short room and continued, “You’ve been killing for who knows how many years. How have you gotten away with it all this time?” He stopped and knelt beside Donovan. “How have you not been caught?”

“I am protected because of my status. I am an agent…”

“Stop that,” Paul slapped him. “Stop spewing your insane belief about fate and death. Just stop.”

“Carry on for me, my boy,” Donovan closed his eyes and squeezed his hand on his shirt.

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me?” Paul shook Donovan. The older man did not respond. His head lolled to the side and when Paul released him, Donovan slid to the floor. “You can’t do this. You can’t.” Paul clenched his fist at his side and gritted his teeth. He heard sirens approaching as he stood and walked over to the workbench. He slid the painting back over the safe and sat at the chair.

The sirens were closer now. The flickering lights from the ambulance flashed dimly on the wall before Paul. He picked up the mask on the table and found his hands working on their own. As the paramedics burst into the room, he remained focused on the half-formed mask and began to sew a red piece of leather onto the curve of the cheek. The paramedics spoke to him, but he heard their voices as though muffled through water. Only the opera music broke through. It guided him as he pieced together the mask oblivious to the efforts behind him to save Donovan. He pulled the unfinished mask off the mold and placed it over his face. As he stared out of the eyeholes he breathed deep of the smell of the leather. He removed it and placed it back on the mold.

“It’s not done yet. I’ll get it right,” he whispered to himself, “Eventually. Eventually, I’ll get it right.”

Thanks for reading. Be sure to comment down below or on whatever social media you found this on to let me know your thoughts.

-Anthony

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