There were derelicts abroad. Some slept in entryways, or on bus-stop benches. Some, curled in shadows, glared at him as he hurried by. Others shambled along the sidewalks or down the streets, clutching secret prizes. Or trudged behind rattling supermarket carts piled high with bizarre shapes. Allan found no magic, no excitement, in contemplating such wrecks. They scared him, disgusted him. They hardly seemed human at all.
They were the worst thing about walking home after the midnight movies.
Whenever possible, he crossed the street or even backtracked to avoid confronting one. But sometimes he was caught by surprise and had no choice but to endure the stench, the maniacal jibbering, the whiny plea for money.
With such mad, vile creatures lurking in the night, it was little wonder that Allan rarely encountered normal people during his treks home from the movies.
Most of those he saw were in the midst of rushing to or from their parked cars. Occasionally, he spotted someone walking a dog. Once in a great while, a pair of joggers. Never a jogger out by himself, always with a companion. Sometimes a lone man hurrying along. Almost never a woman.
No woman in her right mind, he thought, would wander about the city alone at this hour.
When the woman came into sight as he walked home after Nosferatu, he thought she must be mad - or wildly reckless. Even though she was a block away, he could see she was no derelict. Her stride was too steady as she approached the corner. Her hair, silvery in the streetlight, looked trim and well groomed. She wore a pale blouse, shorts that reached almost to her knees, white socks and dark shoes.
Certainly not a derelict.
A prostitute? Allan had never encountered any prostitutes in this neighborhood. And wouldn’t a streetwalker be dressed in something exotic or scanty?
This woman looked more like a co-ed who’d wandered too far from campus. Or like one of the young teachers at the high school where he taught - Shelly Gates or Maureen O’Toole, for instance. Or like some of the women he liked to watch when he made his weekly trips to the supermarket. Casually dressed, trim and neat and clean.
Allan realized that he had stopped walking.
How strange to see someone like her roaming about at this hour!
She had come to a halt at the street corner, her head turned away. She seemed to be checking for traffic, preparing to cross the intersection.
But then she turned around.
She had no face. Allan’s heart slammed.
What’s wrong with her!
She walked briskly toward him.
No face!
He glanced at the street, tempted to race across and escape. But when he looked at the stranger again, she was closer. Close enough for him to see the shimmer of fabric that draped her face. Silver, glossy. It hung from her forehead, slotted with holes for her eyes and mouth, and fluttered below her chin.
A mask!
Allan heard himself moan. Chills chased up his back. His scalp prickled.
He leaped off the sidewalk and sprinted for the other side of the street.
What if she comes after me?
He sprang over the curb, dodged a parking meter, and looked back.
She had stopped. Her head was turned his way.
She’s watching me. Oh God, she’s watching me. But at least she’s staying put.
Allan swung his eyes to the sidewalk and hurried for the corner. He didn’t want to see her again, but in his mind she was crossing the street, pursuing him. He had to look again.
Checking over his shoulder, he saw her still standing motionless, still watching him.
At the corner, he rushed to the left. A few strides, and the wall of a Wells Fargo bank sheltered him from the stranger’s view. He slowed and caught his breath.
Safe.
‘Christ,’ he muttered.
He’d walked the night streets countless times, seen his share of weird derelicts, watched hundreds of horror films, read scores of fright books.
But he’d never been spooked like this.
Spooked? Scared nearly widess.
By a piece of silver cloth no bigger than a hanky.
As he walked along, he began to feel ashamed of himself. What a coward, running like that. The woman had looked perfectly normal except for the mask. And the mask itself had been nothing hideous. A simple square of fabric. Possibly silk. Nothing to inspire panic.
She’s gotta be a nut case, going around like that.
Nothing wrong with running away from a lunatic.
But what if she’s sane? What if she only wears the mask because her face is disfigured? She walks at night when there’s almost nobody around to see her, and wears her mask just in case. In case someone like me comes along. So her face won’t gross me out.
And I ran away as if she were a monster.
What an awful life she must live. And I came along and made it worse.
Good going.
Allan considered turning around, going back and searching for her. But he didn’t have the nerve.
He couldn’t get the woman out of his mind. He thought about her constantly: that night as he lay in bed; Sunday as he corrected papers, labored on his vampire novel, read and watched television; all week long. At school, every slender, blonde student in his classes reminded him of her. So did two of the teachers, Shelly and Maureen, even though Maureen was a redhead. They all forced him to remember the woman in the mask, and his shame.
The more he thought of her, the more certain he grew that she wasn’t crazy. She was a sensitive young woman cursed with a hideous face. She led a solitary, lonely life, willing to venture from her home only in the dead of night, and then with her face concealed.
He could imagine the anguish she must’ve felt when he fled from her.
If only he had held his ground. Smiled as she approached. Said, ‘Good evening.’ It was too late for that, however. The most he would ever be able to do was apologize for adding to her misery.
To do that, he would need to find her again.
But he’d spotted her some time after 1 a.m. That’s when he would need to go looking. If he tried it on a school night, he’d be wasted the next day. He had to wait for the weekend.
At last, Friday arrived. Allan awoke feeling nervous and excited. Tonight, he would go out searching for her.
What would he say if he found her? How would she react? She might hate him for running away. How could you do that, you bastard! I’m a human being, not a freak!
Or she might indeed, after all, turn out to be utterly mad.
‘Is something bothering you?’ Shelly asked him during lunch. ‘Me? No.’
‘Are you sure? You’ve been acting strange all week.’
‘I have?’
Shelly glanced at Maureen. ‘You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?’ Maureen, who rarely spoke, studied her sandwich and shook her head. ‘He seems fine to me.’
‘It might help to talk about it,’ Shelly told him. ‘You aren’t sick, are you?’
‘I feel fine.’
‘If it’s too personal…’
‘Leave him alone,’ Maureen said. ‘He doesn’t want to talk about it.’