Young Writers Society

I've written a few more chapters of this, and I think it's safe to post part one of chapter one. I think the chapters will be quite lengthy, so breaking them up in parts like this will be better.

Enjoy.

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There was a concentrated tension in the air and I wanted to strangle, twist and murder it. It loomed above Mom and I like a hot air balloon, ready to burst any moment. The cup of tea in my hand was growing colder, and it rattled on the china plate it was set upon. Mom seemed to notice it from her place on the other side of the room. Sitting snugly on her sofa, she sipped her cup of tea every once in a while. She was staring into my eyes, but not questioning them.

“How was the ride up here?” she asked. Her voice sounded distant.

“It was fine. Tyler and Andrew fell asleep, so there weren’t many fights,” I answered, clearing my throat. The tension still hung above, threatening me.

“Have they been fighting a lot recently?”

“Oh, you know. They’re brothers. That’s what they do,” I said, amazed at how steady I kept my voice.

Mom set her china teacup down on a coffee table next to her and coughed into her hand. Her eyes avoided mine. She played with her dress for a moment, unfolding and folding the creases, and finally looked up at me. Her gray eyes pierced the tension.

“I noticed Tyler has a large bruise on his left cheek. I suppose that was from their fighting?”

Mom asked, folding her hands neatly in her lap.

I glanced down into my teacup and bit my tongue.

“Mom, John’s been drinking again.”

The tension balloon exploded, and Mom nodded curtly. Her lips puckered like when one would taste something extremely sour.

“One night he came home drunk, and I threatened to leave him. But I couldn’t, Mom. I was so scared. He had never been this wasted in his life, even when he was a drinker. He hit me. He hit me right across the cheek, and then he started hollering and screaming, and the boys were crying, and—”

“Did he hurt Tyler? Is John the one that gave Tyler that bruise?” Mom asked, and I slowly nodded.

“When did he pick up drinking again?”

I breathed in deeply for a moment before answering. “About a week ago. It’s all because he’s getting laid back at work. I’ve been looking for a part time job. I told you about this already, didn’t I? I’m trying to find a job at a daycare, so we will have enough to pay the bills. Anyway, he came home drunk, and hit me. Then he went into the boys’ rooms and was yelling at them. I tried to fight him off, but he was too strong, and he hit me again.”

My voice gave in, and I couldn’t talk anymore. I wiped my nose and sniffed, still staring into my teacup.

“Did you ever call the police? You need to have John locked up before he can hurt you or the boys anymore. Susan, this is important. You cannot let this slide by like you did last time. You must report him to the proper authorities.”

“I—I can’t, Mom. I have to think about the boys…”

“The boys need you to take them far away from him! Don’t you understand that he can seriously hurt you?” Mom’s voice was rising and I felt weak once more, like I did when John struck me.

“Yes, but—” I was interrupted by a scream that was more than a scream. It was coming from the backyard, where the boys were playing. It was most certainly Andrew, my youngest son, screaming. I quickly stood up, and the teacup flew out of my hand and shattered on the floor. I didn’t wait any longer; running out of the living room, I threw open the backyard sliding door and made my way outside to where Nancy, Mom’s golden retriever, was playing with Andrew and Tyler. Fearing that the dog had hurt Andrew, I ran to my son, who was standing near a pine tree. I quickly examined his body, making sure that there were no scratches or bruises or large cuts. There weren’t. His outstretched arm was pointing at Nancy, who was digging. Her snout was underneath the ground.

“What’s wrong, Andrew? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pointed to the dog again and looked into my eyes. I could feel that there was something terribly wrong.

I looked up and spotted Tyler, whose eyes were glued to the dog as well.

“Tyler, what’s wrong?”

“Nancy! Nancy found dead people under the ground!” His voice was hysterical, and he was shivering frantically.

“What?” I asked.

“There’s people’s heads! Mom, Mom, Mom, th-there’s d-d-dead p-people under the ground!” It took a moment for me to register what he was telling me. I glanced over at Nancy before slowly making my way to her cautiously. The large canine was huffing and puffing; her tongue was wagging excitedly. She paused for a moment, and dug her head into the ground again. When she pulled back up, I screamed.

In her jaws was clenched a face of a man. It wasn’t a severed head; more of the skin of a man’s face. Its eyeholes were wide and unseeing. The lips were placed together solemnly (as if threaded together by a needle), the bottom lip covering the lower portion of the upper lip slightly. The skin was cut right below the hairline, so there wasn’t any hair attached to it. The neck was sliced about halfway up in a jagged line.

“What’s wrong?” Mom cried from the porch. She was still inside of the house, her eyes wide with fright. When she caught a glimpse of the skin, her jaw dropped slightly, and the blood drained from her face.

“He’s back,” she gasped.

I acted upon motherly instincts; grabbing my two children, I led them away from Nancy, who still had the face between her jaws. She looked uncertain as to what she should do. Her large, droopy eyes begged me to take the face from her, but I wouldn’t dare touch the revolting thing.

Tyler was screaming something incoherent, and Andrew wasn’t able to speak at all. I turned their faces away from the thing and led them inside. Mom was sitting on a wooden chair, staring at Nancy, who had dropped the mask and was licking it. Her slimy tongue slithered in and out of the eyeholes, up through the nostrils and attempted to break the seam that connected the lips together.

“Come inside,” I ushered the children and led them into the front room, where I set them both on the sofa and kneeled in front of them.

“Tell me what happened,” I urged. They seemed as if they couldn’t speak for a while, but then Tyler broke the silence, his shivers still chilling him.

“N-Nancy was t-t-trying t-to dig in t-the ground, and she s-started b-b-barking. Then I w-went over to her and—” He took a deep breath, collecting himself. “I saw d-dead people! Mom, there was dead people! Mommy, there was dead people in Grandma’s backyard!”

His voice quickly turned into a horrible shriek, and tears began swimming down his face, tugging at his cheeks.

Andrew remained silent, pulling at his fingers.

“I’m going to go out back, okay? I want you to stay right here. You understand me? Stay right here. Do not move,” I ordered as I stood. Tyler nodded, his lower lip trembling. I took once last look at my two children and walked out of the living room and into the kitchen, to where Mom was sitting in the wooden chair, watching dumbstruck as Nancy dug into the ground again. There were two more faces besides the original one she pulled out next to it, laying on the grass. The dog continued to bring the faces out of the ground.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I asked her, but she didn’t reply. Instead, she stared at the dog. Her lips were forming inaudible words.

“Mom, should I call the police?”

“No.”

“Then tell me what’s going on!”

She turned to look at me, and I could see that her eyes were wet with tears. Her face was devoid of any color that might have been there before. Her gray hair seemed paler than before.

“It’s the Mask Maker.”

“Who? Who’s that, Mom?”

“I…” she paused for a moment, recollecting her thoughts. “I haven’t thought about the Mask Maker for over thirty years…”

“Who’s the Mask Maker?”

“He’s the one that put those masks in the backyard. Although, when he did so, I can’t imagine…”

My jaw dropped slightly. “You mean those… things that Nancy is pulling up from the ground are masks?”

Mom looked into my eyes and nodded. “Oh, yes. He was a quite skilled mask maker.”

I sighed and placed my hand on my forehead. “And for a moment there, I thought those were real faces.”

“Oh, they are. Oh, yes, they are. He was a quite skilled Mask Maker,” she repeated.

My eyes opened wider. “You mean to tell me that those are real faces?”

“The Mask Maker wore the faces of his victims, much like the style of Ed Gein.” My mother closed her eyes for a moment, and then uttered a quick sigh. She leaned back in her chair, and completely fell out of it, crashing onto the floor with a loud thump. My heart raced as I jumped up to get her. I placed my arm under her head.

She was unconscious.