Koontz, Dean - The Mask

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THE MASK
DEAN
KOONTZ
This book is dedicated to Willo and Dave Roberts
and to Carol and Don McQuinn who have no faults—
except that they live too far away from us
A dirge for her, the doubly dead, in that she died so young.
—Edgar Allan Poe. “Lenore”
And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Conqueror Worm”
Extreme terror gives us back the gestures of our childhood.
—Chazal
Prologue
LAURA was in the cellar, doing some spring cleaning and hating every minute
of it. She didn’t dislike the work itself; she was by nature an industrious
girl who was happiest when she had chores to do. But she was afraid of the
cellar.
For one thing, the place was gloomy. The four narrow windows, set high in
the walls, were hardly larger than embrasures, and the dust-filmed panes of
glass permitted only weak, chalky light to enter. Even brightened by a pair
of lamps, the big room held on tenaciously to its shadows, unwilling to be
completely disrobed. The flickering amber light from the lamps revealed
damp stone walls and a hulking, coal-fired furnace that was cold and unused
on this fine, warm May afternoon. On a series of long shelves, row upon row
of quart jars reflected splinters of light, but their contents—home-canned
fruit and vegetables that had been stored here for the past nine
months—remained unilluminated. The corners of the morn were all dark, and
the low, open-beamed ceiling was hung with shadows like long banners of
funeral crepe.
The cellar always had a mildly unpleasant odor, too. It was musty, rather
like a limestone cave. In the spring and summer, when the humidity was
high, a mottled gray-green fungus sometimes sprang up in the corners, a
disgusting scablike growth, fringed with hundreds of tiny white spores that
resembled insect eggs; that grotesquery added its own thin but nonetheless
displeasing fragrance to the cellar air.
However, neither the gloom nor the offending odors nor the fungus gave rise
to Laura’s fears; it was the spiders that frightened her. Spiders ruled the
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cellar. Some of them were small, brown, and quick; others were charcoal
gray, a bit bigger than the brown ones, but just as fast-moving as their
smaller cousins. There were even a few blue-black giants as large as
Laura’s thumb.
As she wiped dust and a few cobwebs from the jars of home-canned food,
always alert for the scuttling movement of spiders, Laura grew increasingly
angry with her mother. Mama could have let her clean some of the upstairs
rooms instead of the cellar Aunt Rachael or Mama herself could have cleaned
down here because neither of them worried about spiders. But Mama knew that
Laura was afraid of the cellar, and Mama was in the mood to punish her. It
was a terrible mood, black as thunderclouds. Laura had seen it before. Too
often. It descended over Mama more frequently with every passing year, and
when she was in its thrall, she was a different person from the smiling,
always singing woman that she was at other times. Although Laura loved her
mother, she did not love the short-tempered, mean-spirited woman that her
mother sometimes became. She did not love the hateful woman who had sent
her down into the cellar with the spiders.
Dusting the jars of peaches, pears, tomatoes, beets, beans, and pickled
squash, nervously awaiting the inevitable appearance of a spider, wishing
she were grown up and married and on her own, Laura was startled by a
sudden, sharp sound that pierced the dank basement air. At first it was
like the distant, forlorn wail of an exotic bird, but it quickly became
louder and more urgent. She stopped dusting, looked up at the dark ceiling,
and listened closely to the eerie ululation that came from overhead. After
a moment she realized that it was her Aunt Rachael’s voice and that it was
a cry of alarm.
Upstairs, something fell over with a crash. It sounded like shattering
porcelain. It must have been Mama’s peacock vase, If it was the vase, Mama
would be in an extremely foul mood for the rest of the week.
Laura stepped away from the shelves of canned goods and started toward the
cellar stairs, but she stopped abruptly when she heard Mama scream. It
wasn’t a scream of rage over the loss of the vase; there was a note of
terror in it.
Footsteps thumped across the living room floor, toward the front door of
the house. The screen door opened with the familiar singing of its long
spring, then banged shut. Rachael was outside now, shouting, her words
unintelligible but still conveying her fear.
Laura smelled smoke.
She hurried to the stairs and saw pale tongues of fire at the top. The
smoke wasn’t heavy, but it had an acrid stench.
Heart pounding, Laura climbed to the uppermost step. Waves of heat forced
her to squint, but she could see into the kitchen. The wall of fire wasn’t
solid. There was a narrow route of escape, a corridor of cool safety; the
door to the back porch was at the far end.
She lifted her long skirt and pulled it tight across her hips and thighs,
bunching it in both hands to prevent it from trailing in the flames. She
moved gingerly onto the fire-ringed landing, which creaked under her, but
before she reached the open door, the kitchen exploded in yellow-blue
flames that quickly turned orange. From wall to wall, floor to ceiling, the
room was an inferno; there was no longer a path through the blaze. Crazily,
the fire-choked doorway brought to Laura’s mind the image of a glittering
eye in a jack-o’-lantern.
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In the kitchen, windows exploded, and the fire eddied in the sudden change
of drafts, pushing through the cellar door, lashing at Laura. Startled, she
stumbled backwards, off the landing. She fell. Turning, she grabbed at the
railing, missed it, and stumbled down the short flight, cracking her head
against the stone floor at the bottom.
She held on to consciousness as if it were a raft and she a drowning
swimmer. When she was certain she wouldn’t faint, she got to her feet. Pain
coruscated across the top of her head. She raised one hand to her brow and
found a trickle of blood, a small abrasion. She was dizzy and confused.
During the minute or less that she had been incapacitated, fire had spread
across the entire landing at the head of the stairs. It was moving down
onto the first step.
She couldn’t keep her eyes focused. The rising
stairs and the descending fire repeatedly blurred together in an orange
haze.
Ghosts of smoke drifted down the stairwell. They reached out with long,
insubstantial arms, as if to embrace Laura.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Help!”
No one answered.
“Somebody help me! I’m in the cellar!”
Silence.
“Aunt Rachael! Mama! For God’s sake, somebody help me!”
The only response was the steadily increasing roar of the fire.
Laura had never felt so alone before. In spite of the tides of heat washing
over her, she felt cold inside. She shivered.
Although her head throbbed worse than ever, and although the abrasion above
her right eye continued to weep blood, at least she was having less trouble
keeping her eyes focused. The problem was that she didn’t like what she
saw.
She stood statue-still, transfixed by the deadly spectacle of the flames.
Fire crawled lizardlike down the steps, one by one, and it slithered up the
rail posts, then crept down the rail with a crisp, chuckling sound.
The smoke reached the bottom of the steps and enfolded her. She coughed,
and the coughing aggravated the pain in her head, making her dizzy again.
She put one hand against the wall to steady herself.
Everything was happening too fast. The house was going up like a pile of
well-seasoned tinder.
I’m going to die here.
That thought jolted her out of her trance. She wasn’t ready to die. She was
far too young. There
was so much of life ahead of her, so many wonderful things to do, things
she had long dreamed about doing. It wasn’t fair. She refused to die.
She gagged on the smoke. Turning away from the burning stairs, she put a
hand over her nose and mouth, but that didn’t help much.
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She saw flames at the far end of the cellar, and for an instant she thought
she was already encircled and that all hope of rescue was gone. She cried
out in despair, but then she realized the blaze hadn’t found its way into
the other end of the room after all. The two points of fire that she was
seeing were only the twin oil lamps that had provided her with light. The
flames in the lamps were harmless, safely ensconced in tall glass chimneys.
She coughed violently again, and the pain in her head settled down behind
her eyes. She found it difficult to concentrate. Her thoughts were like
droplets of quicksilver, sliding over one another and changing shape so
often and so fast that she couldn’t make sense of some of them.
She prayed silently and fervently.
Directly overhead, the ceiling groaned and appeared to shift. For a few
seconds she held her breath, clenched her teeth, and stood with her hands
fisted at her sides, waiting to be buried in rubble. But then she saw that
the ceiling wasn’t going to collapse— not yet.
Trembling, whimpering softly, she scurried to the nearest of the four
high-set windows, It was rectangular, approximately eight inches from sill
to top and eighteen inches from sash to sash, much too small to provide her
with a means of escape. The other three windows were identical to the
first; there was no use even taking a closer look at them.
The air was becoming less breathable by the second. Laura’s sinuses ached
and burned. Her mouth was filled with the revulsive, bitter taste of the
smoke.
For too long she stood beneath the window, staring up in frustration and
confusion at the meager, milky light that came through the dirty pane and
through the haze of smoke that pressed tightly against the glass. She had
the feeling she was overlooking an obvious and convenient escape hatch; in
fact she was sure of it. There was a way out, and it had nothing to do with
the windows, but she couldn’t get her mind off the windows; she was fixated
on them, just as she had been fixated on the sight of the advancing flames
a couple of minutes ago. The pain in her head and behind her eyes throbbed
more powerfully than ever, and with each agonizing pulsation, her thoughts
became more muddled.
I’m going to die here.
A frightening vision flashed through her mind. She saw herself afire, her
dark hair turned blond by the flames that consumed it and standing straight
up on her head as if it were not hair but the wick of a candle. In the
vision, she saw her face melting like wax, bubbling and steaming and
liquefying, the features flowing together until her face no longer
resembled that of a human being, until it was the hideously twisted
countenance of a leering demon with empty eye sockets.
No!
She shook her head, dispelling the vision.
She was dizzy and getting dizzier. She needed a draught of clean air to
rinse out her polluted lungs, but with each breath she drew more smoke than
she had drawn last time. Her chest ached.
Nearby, a rhythmic pounding began; the noise was
even louder than her heartbeat, which drummed thunderously in her ears.
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She turned in a circle, gagging and. coughing, searching for the source of
the hammering sound, striving to regain control of herself, struggling hard
to think.
The hammering stopped.
‘‘Laura . .
Above the incessant roar of the tire, she heard someone calling her name.
“Laura. .
“I’m down here.. . in the cellar!” she shouted. But the shout came out as
nothing more than a whispered croak. Her throat was constricted and already
raw from the harsh smoke and the fiercely hot air.
The effort required to stay on her feet became too great for her. She sank
to her knees on the stone floor, slumped against the wall, and slid down
until she was lying on her side.
“Laura..." . .
The pounding began again. A fist beating on a door.
Laura discovered that the air at floor level was cleaner than that which
she had been breathing. She gasped frantically, grateful for this reprieve
from suffocation.
For a few seconds the throbbing pain behind her eyes abated, and her
thoughts cleared, and she remembered the outside entrance to the cellar, a
pair of doors slant-set against the north wall of the house. They were
locked from the inside, so that no one could get in to rescue her, in the
panic and confusion she had forgotten about those doors. But now, if she
kept her wits about her, she would be able to save herself.
“Laura!” It was Aunt Rachael’s voice.
Laura crawled to the northwest corner of the room, where the doors sloped
down at the top of a short flight of steps. She kept her head low,
breathing the tainted but adequate air near the floor. The edges of the
mortared stones tore her dress and scraped skin off her knees.
To her left, the entire stairwell was burning now, and flames were
spreading across the wooden ceiling. Refracted and diffused by the smoky
air, the firelight glowed on all sides of Laura, creating the illusion that
she was crawling through a narrow tunnel of flames. At the rate the blaze
was spreading, the illusion would soon be fact.
Her eyes were swollen and watery, and she wiped at them as she inched
toward escape. She couldn’t see very much. She used Aunt Rachael’s voice as
a beacon and otherwise relied on instinct.
“Laura!” The voice was near. Right above her.
She felt along the wall until she located the setback in the stone. She
moved into that recess, onto the first step, lifted her head, but could see
nothing: the darkness here was seamless.
“Laura, answer me. Baby, are you in there?“
Rachael was hysterical, screaming so loudly and pounding on the outside
doors with such persistence that she wouldn’t have heard a response even if
Laura had been capable of making one.
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Where was Mama? Why wasn’t Mama pounding on the door, too? Didn’t Mama
care?
Crouching in that cramped, hot, lightless space, Laura reached up and put
her hand against one of the two slant-set doors above her bead. The sturdy
barrier quivered and rattled under the impact of Rachael’s
small fists. Laura groped blindly for the latch. She put her hand over the
warm metal fixture—and squarely over something else, too. Something strange
and unexpected. Something that squirmed and was alive. Small but alive. She
jerked convulsively and pulled her hand away. But the thing she touched had
shifted its grip from the latch to her flesh, and it came away from the
door when she withdrew her hand. It skittered out of her palm and over her
thumb and across the back of her hand and along her wrist and under the
sleeve of her dress before she could brush it away.
A spider.
She couldn’t see it, but she knew what it was. A spider. One of the really
big ones, as large as her thumb, a plump black body that glistened like a
fat drop of oil, inky black and ugly. For a moment she froze, unable even
to draw a breath.
She felt the spider moving up her arm, and its bold advance snapped her
into action. She slapped at it through the sleeve of her dress, but she
missed. The spider bit her above the crook of her arm, and she winced at
the tiny nip of pain, and the disgusting creature scurried into her armpit.
It bit her there, too, and suddenly she felt as though she was living
through her worst nightmare, for she feared spiders more than she feared
anything else on earth—certainly more than she feared fire, for in her
desperate attempt to kill the spider, she had forgotten all about the
burning house that was dissolving into ruin above her— and she flailed in
panic, lost her balance, rolled backwards off the steps, into the main room
of the cellar, cracking one hip on the stone floor. The spider tickled its
way along the inside of her bodice until it was
between her breasts. She screamed but could make no sound whatsoever. She
put a hand to her bosom and pressed hard, and even through the fabric she
could feel the spider squirming angrily against the palm of her hand, and
she could feel its frenzied struggle even more directly on her bare breast,
to which it was pressed, but she persisted until at last she crushed it,
and she gagged again, but this time not merely because of the smoke.
For several seconds after killing the spider, she lay on the floor in a
tight fetal position, shuddering violently and uncontrollably. The
repulsive, wet mass of the smashed spider slid very slowly down the curve
of her breast. She wanted to reach inside her bodice and pluck the foul wad
from herself, but she hesitated because, irrationally, she was afraid it
would somehow come to life again and sting her fingers.
She tasted blood. She had bitten her lip.
Mama...
Mama had done this to her. Mama had sent her down here, knowing there were
spiders. Why was Mama always so quick to deal out punishment, so eager to
assign penance?
Overhead, a beam creaked, sagged. The kitchen floor cracked open. She felt
as though she were staring up into Hell. Sparks showered down. Her dress
caught fire, and she scorched her hands putting it out.
Mama did this to me.
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Because her palms and fingers were blistered and peeling, she couldn’t
crawl on her hands and knees any longer, so she got to her feet, although
standing up required more strength and determination than she had thought
she possessed. She swayed, dizzy and weak.
Mama sent me down here.
Laura could see only pulsing, all-encompassing orange luminescence, through
which amorphous smoke ghosts glided and whirled. She shuffled toward the
short flight of steps that led to the outside cellar doors, but after she
had gone only two yards, she realized she was headed in the wrong
direction. She turned back the way she had come—or back the way she thought
she had come—but after a few steps she bumped into the furnace, which was
nowhere near the outside doors. She was completely disoriented.
Mama did this to me.
Laura squeezed her ruined hands into raw, bloody fists. In a rage she
pounded on the furnace, and with each blow she fervently wished that she
were beating her mother.
The upper reaches of the burning house twisted and rumbled. In the
distance, beyond an eternity of smoke, Aunt Rachael’s voice echoed
hauntingly: “Laura... Laura. . .“
Why wasn’t Mama out there helping Rachael break down the cellar doors?
Where in God’s name was she? Throwing coal and lamp oil on the fire?
Wheezing, gasping, Laura pushed away from the furnace and tried to follow
Rachael’s voice to safety.
A beam tore loose of its moorings, slammed into her back, and catapulted
her into the shelves of home canned food. Jars fell, shattered. Laura went
down in a rain of glass. She could smell pickles, peaches.
Before she could determine if any bones were broken, before she could even
lift her face out of the spilled food, another beam crashed down, pinning
her legs.
There was so much pain that her mind simply blanked it out altogether. She
was not even sixteen years old, and there was only so much she could bear.
She sealed the pain in a dark corner of her mind; instead of succumbing to
it, she twisted and thrashed hysterically, raged at her fate, and cursed
her mother.
Her hatred for her mother wasn’t rational, but it was so passionately felt
that it took the place of the pain she could not allow herself to feel.
Hate flooded through her, filled her with so much demonic energy that she
was nearly able to toss the heavy beam off her legs.
Damn you to Hell, Mama.
The top floor of the house caved in upon the ground floor with a sound like
cannons blasting.
Damn you, Mama! Damn you!
The first two floors of flaming rubble broke through the already weakened
cellar ceiling.
Mama—
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PART ONE
Something Wicked This Way
Comes...
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
Open, locks,
whoever knocks!
—Shakespeare, Macbeth
1
ACROSS the somber gray clouds, lightning followed a jagged course like
cracks in a china plate. In the unsheltered courtyard outside Alfred
O’Brian’s office, the parked cars glimmered briefly with hard-edged
reflections of the storm light. The wind gusted, whipping the trees. Rain
beat with sudden fury against the three tall office windows, then streamed
down the glass, blurring the view beyond.
O’Brian sat with his back to the windows. While thunder reverberated
through the low sky and seemed to hammer on the roof of the building, he
read the application that Paul and Carol Tracy had just submitted to him.
He’s such a neat little man, Carol thought as she watched O’Brian. When he
sits very still like that, you’d almost think he was a mannequin.
He was exceedingly well groomed. His carefully combed hair looked as if it
had received the attention of a good barber less than an hour ago. His
mustache was so expertly trimmed that the halves of it appeared to be
perfectly symmetrical. He was wearing a gray suit with trouser creases as
tight and straight as blades, and his black shoes gleamed. His fingernails
were manicured, and his pink, well-scrubbed hands looked sterile.
When Carol had been introduced to O’Brian less than a week ago, she had
thought he was prim, even prissy, and she had been prepared to dislike him.
She was quickly won over by his smile, by his gracious manner, and by his
sincere desire to help her and Paul.
She glanced at Paul, who was sitting in the chair next to hers, his own
tensions betrayed by the angular position of his lean, usually graceful
body. He was watching O’Brian intently, but when he sensed that Carol was
looking at him, he turned and smiled. His smile was even nicer than
O’Brian’s, and as usual, Carol’s spirits were lifted by the sight of it. He
was neither handsome nor ugly, this man she loved; you might even say he
was plain, yet his face was enormously appealing because the pleasing, open
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composition of it contained ample evidence of his gentleness and
sensitivity. His hazel eyes were capable of conveying amazingly subtle
degrees and mixtures of emotions. Six years ago, at a university symposium
entitled “Abnormal Psychology and Modem American Fiction,” where Carol had
met Paul, the first thing that had drawn her to him had been those warm,
expressive eyes, and in the intervening years they had never ceased to
intrigue her. Now he winked, and with that wink he seemed to be saying:
Don’t worry;
O’Brian is on our side; the application will be accepted; everything will
turn out all right; I love you.
She winked back at him and pretended to be confident, even though she was
sure he could see through her brave front.
She wished that she could be certain of winning Mr. O’Brian’s approval. She
knew she ought to be overflowing with confidence, for there really was no
reason why O’Brian would reject them. They were healthy and young. Paul was
thirty-five, and she was thirty-one, and those were excellent ages at which
to set out upon the adventure they were contemplating. Both of them were
successful in their work. They were financially solvent, even prosperous.
They were respected in their community. Their marriage was happy and
trouble-free, stronger now than at any time in the four years since their
wedding. In short, their qualifications for adopting a child were pretty
much impeccable, but she worried nonetheless.
She loved children, and she was looking forward to raising one or two of
her own. During the past fourteen years—in which she had earned three
degrees at three universities and had established herself in her
profession—she had postponed many simple pleasures and had skipped others
altogether. Getting an education and launching her career had always come
first. She had missed too many good parties and had foregone an
unremembered number of vacations and getaway weekends. Adopting a child was
one pleasure she did not want to postpone any longer.
She had a strong psychological need—almost a physical need—to be a mother,
to guide and shape children, to give them love and understanding. She was
intelligent enough and sufficiently self-aware to
realize that this deep-seated need arose, at least in part, from her
inability to conceive a child of her own flesh and blood.
The thing we want most, she thought, is always the thing we cannot have.
She was to blame for her sterility, which was the result of an unforgivable
act of stupidity committed a long time ago; and of course her culpability
made her condition harder to bear than it would have been if nature—rather
than her own foolishness—had cursed her with a barren womb. She had been a
severely troubled child, for she had been raised by violent, alcoholic
parents who had frequently beaten her and who had dealt out large doses of
psychological torture. By the time she was fifteen, she was a hellion,
engaged in an angry rebellion against her parents and against the world at
large. She hated everyone in those days, especially herself. In the
blackest hours of her confused and tormented adolescence, she had gotten
pregnant. Frightened, panicky, with no one to turn to, she tried to conceal
her condition by wearing girdles, by binding herself with elastic cloth and
tape, and by eating as lightly as possible to keep her weight down.
Eventually, however, complications arose because of her attempts to hide
her pregnancy, and she nearly died. The baby was born prematurely, but it
was healthy. She had put it up for adoption and hadn’t given it much
thought for a couple of years, though these days she often wondered about
the child and wished she could have kept it somehow. At the time, the fact
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摘要：

file:///F|/rah/Dean%20R.%20Koontz/Koontz,%20Dean%20-%20Mask,%20The.txtTHEMASKDEANKOONTZThisbookisdedicatedtoWilloandDaveRobertsandtoCarolandDonMcQuinnwhohavenofaults—exceptthattheylivetoofarawayfromusAdirgeforher,thedoublydead,inthatshediedsoyoung.—EdgarAllanPoe.“Lenore”AndmuchofMadness,andmoreofSin...

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