House of Masks

I don’t remember beating him. Stabbing him. That’s what I keep telling them. The detective. The doctor. The woman with the clipboard and thick glasses who looks at me like I’m dead to her. I keep repeating it, hoping it’ll eventually mean something: “I don’t remember. I swear.”

But they nod like they’ve heard it a thousand times. Like memory is a luxury reserved for the innocent.

Seven stab wounds. Blood on my clothes. My voice screaming through the neighbors’ walls. “He’s trying to steal my home,” I apparently said. But he wasn’t. He is the legal owner. That’s what the detective said while tossing a photo in front of me. A man, his face swollen, eyes pleading.

They released me on house arrest and put me under psychiatric observation due to a lack of sufficient physical evidence. I was lucky, they said. I should be grateful.

They drop me off at the house later. My house, they said. I don’t remember buying it. I can't recall living here. But then, my memory can’t seem to be trusted.

“You’re the one,” I hear as I lock the door behind me.

I shake my head and think how badly I need some sleep. I go right upstairs, almost tripping on the top step. I stumble into bed, exhaling in relief as sleep finally takes me.

When I wake, I feel as though I’d only slept for seconds. Groaning, I rub my eyes and open them. I blink and struggle to adjust to the bleak weight of darkness. I sit up and squint as shapes appear before me. I look around and realize I’m on the floor.

I stand and come face-to-face with a stark, white mask hanging from the ceiling. The mouth struggles to open behind layers of duct tape while its black eyes bore into mine. A name is scrawled across its forehead in blood red, but the letters don’t come into focus.

My vision blurs as a voice slips into the stale air - or does it reverberate in my mind? “You’re the killer.”

I cover my ears and close my eyes before screaming back at it, “I don’t remember!” I snap my eyes back open as I feel that familiar falling sensation. Seconds later, I wake up again, lying in bed this time.

I rub my pulsating temples and try to shake off the nightmare. Standing, I sigh and open the curtains, hoping a little sunlight will help. I stare out the window, eyes heavy, disappointed by the gloomy darkness of cloud cover.

I walk over to the door and gasp as my fingers close around the ice cold door knob. A shiver runs down my spine as the door creaks open. A bare bulb flickers above the narrow hallway, casting dim light on a tall, dark shape against the wall. I approach and pull on the thick blanket to reveal a dirty, broken mirror.

I bend to stare at my reflection and immediately jump back. It’s grinning. I blink hard, the grin disappears. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, taking in the scent of cigarette smoke and mildew. I still need more sleep.

“You’re the killer we need,” the now familiar voice whispers as I retreat from the mirror. I whip my head back around to see myself grinning once more. I stumble and throw the blanket back over top as I stifle a scream.

“I told you I can’t remember anything!” I shout into the dank air, hands shaking. I run into the living room and slam the door shut, a cloud of dust exploding around me.

Sighing, I take stock of the room and wonder just how long I was in that interrogation room. The place is a mess; clothes are everywhere, and dust has settled on every surface. I flip open the lid of a storage bench in the corner, happy to find some dust-free blankets. I take the top one and wander over to the bookshelf, planning to escape into fiction for a while before tackling a clean-up.

Sitting at the edge of the middle shelf is a rectangular photograph in a dusty frame. I wipe it with my sleeve to see myself, seated on a large tree stump, smiling serenely at the camera. I smile sadly at the image, hoping my memory of this sunny day will soon return. I flip the frame over to see a peeling sticker with faded writing: 1995, Grandma’s Cottage.

Confusion sets in like a dark cloud - that would mean this was 30 years ago, but I look as I do now in the photo. The aroma of fresh apple pie surrounds me as the image of young children running around a private beachfront flashes in my mind. Shaking my head again, I replace the image and chalk it up to the amnesia I’ve clearly suffered.

I sit down and crack open my chosen book, only for a small brass key to fall into my lap.

“What the…” I pick the key up and turn it over a few times. It’s heavy, rusted, and warm in my hands. Surely, it opens nothing in this modern-day home? I’m still staring at the key when the whispering voice speaks again, “We need you”

I toss the key across the room and stand up, “Who’s there?!” I demand. “What do you want from me?” I ask, louder this time.

“Use the mirror…” The voice trails off, quiet this time, as though speaking from inside my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut and put my hands over my face, willing my memories, any memories, to resurface. None do.

“FINE!” I shout, opening my eyes and storming back into the hallway. I rip the blanket off the mirror and swallow hard as I see not only my reflection grinning back at me, but several others, grinning just as big. I whip around, but see no one. I look back, and they’ve moved closer.

My reflection slowly lifts its hand and points behind me. I turn, slowly this time, and notice a narrow wooden door with a rusted keyhole. I look back at the mirror; all the figures are nodding. Hands shaking and knees like jelly, I bend to pick up the discarded key. I slip it into the keyhole and turn. The door swings open, groaning loud and long.

I take a slow breath in and step over the threshold into the darkness. The door closes behind me, and I’m back in the living room. But now it’s clean, tidy, and sunlight shimmers through the wide open curtains. I jump as I hear someone humming. Footsteps approach, and I frantically look around for somewhere to hide. I run out of time as a young man appears through the archway that leads to the kitchen.

He tips his head to the side as he looks right at me. I breathe in sharply and prepare to form an explanation, but he shrugs and retreats to the couch.

“He cannot stay. You know what must be done.” The voice bores into my mind this time, loud and commanding.

“What-” I start to say, but stop quickly, fearing the man might finally hear me. He doesn’t react. I feel a weight in my hand. I look down and see a large knife in my fist, the sharp blade glinting in the sunlight that streams from the window.

“I can’t!” I shout, now confident that the stranger can’t hear me.

“You must preserve the souls. Their pleas will reach the living. Silence their voices.”

My feet move before I know what’s happening. Jerky, forward movements like I’m attached to a string. Each step is more fluid. My mind switches from confusion to compulsion. An unfamiliar violence wells up in me, a chilling echo of ancient fury that now feels terrifyingly like my own.

Before I know it, I’m standing before the man, who has spilled his tea and stiffened as he glances around, eyes wide. Goosebumps rise on his arms. Cold air surrounds us as I reach forward and plunge the knife into his throat. My chest loosens as his blood spills across the pristine couch cushions. The sun outside slinks behind a cloud as the room darkens.

“Well done, my son.” The voice whispers into the air, the words barely audible.

I let the knife fall to the ground and retreat through the decrepit wooden door. I’m back in the dank, dark hallway. This time, I'm surrounded by dirty white masks hanging from the ceiling, much like the ones in my earlier nightmare. I watch them swing gently as if pushed by a breeze. Each one has a name scrawled lazily in deep, red blood.

Warily, I look into the mirror and see not my reflection but a crowd of people surrounding the lifeless body of the stranger I just killed. They look up and smile at me in unison. A young woman ties a dirty rag around the man’s mouth before they drag him into the darkness.

I turn back around to see a clean white mask added to the collection. I stare as a name slowly appears on its slick white surface: Kenneth.

I look to the mirror once more, and an older man looks back at me, nodding in approval. A feeling of familiarity washes over me as a memory sparks in the back of my mind:

The man from the mirror puts a small fishing rod in my hands. I look up and he’s showing me how to reel in a fish. I’m on a fishing trip with my father.

Another man laughs behind us. “Son,” he says, addressing my father, “You forgot to attach the bait.”

“He’s too young for that, Dad. He has to get used to the rod first.”

Silence looms for a moment as we all stare at the water.

“Have you heard back from the lawyer about the deed?” My father asks quietly.

“They said they can't trace it. Since there’s no trail, and we have the paperwork, they said the house is ours. There’s an old ledger in the basement, but none of the names are in their system.”

“Kinda spooky, don’t you think?” My father asks, looking wistfully at the sunset.

“Considering how badly the war wrecked our finances, perhaps we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” My grandfather responds resolutely.

The man in the mirror is my father. Slowly, the names on the dirty masks come into focus; the names of my mother, my grandfather, our whole line. Newer masks bear names I don’t recognize, but each one deepens the guilt churning in my gut. I swear I can hear their screams coming from all corners of the house.

The figure in the mirror retreats into the darkness as faint, faraway laughter overpowers the desperate shouts of agony.

As quickly as my memory returns, my vision fades as I slump to the floor.

***

I have no memory of stabbing him. That’s what I keep telling the detective, the doctor, and the officers. I keep saying the words, wishing they’d mean something to someone: “I can't remember it. I swear.” But the more I repeat myself, the more I wonder if I even believe it.

After hours of relentless questioning, they send me home. “We can’t keep him with so little evidence,” I overhear the captain say with a roll of his eyes. “But the judge granted the order for a psychological evaluation. We’ll keep him on constant watch.”

With heavy feet and tired eyes, I exit the cruiser and stumble through the door of a home they say is mine, but I have no memory of buying. I hope sleep will help.

I sigh as I close the door behind me, the lock clicking gently.

“You’re the one,” I hear as I ascend the steps to find my bedroom. I shake my head and ignore the delirium, sure that the 24 hours I’ve spent awake are simply messing with me.