Page 23 of Beneath the Dirt

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. As I do, a mask catches my eye, summoning a surge of déjà vu too strong to ignore.

With eyes forced open, I look at the display in front of me. Two masks, stacked one on top of the other, stare back at me. The shelf pegs that stick out around it are all empty, only adding to the eeriness of the decaying skeleton mask hanging, just waiting for me to grab it.

It’s hideous and nothing I would ever think to pick up. Not that I would come here on my own to browse. Halloween hasnever been my thing. It’s never been allowed. Dad forbade it, saying it’s a cursed day for cursed souls, and because of that I’ve never given costumes or masks or anything of the sort much thought. Not until now that is. No thanks to Araceli, and now I feel drawn to —compelled even— to pick up the atrocious mask, not because I want to, because Ihaveto.

An onslaught of thoughts roam through my subconscious, all pleading with me to ignore the pull I have to the mask in front of me. I ignore each one, lifting my hand towards it instead. Slowly, I creep my calloused palm forward, and the rush of familiarity increases the closer my hand gets to the mask, reaching a crescendo until my fingers brush against the rough plaster. The cement-like texture reminds me of what the tombstones that litter the graveyard between our house and the church feel like, rough and unwelcoming.

As I take it off the display peg, a molten, tangible heat spreads on my skin. It’s so hot that I shake my hand, wanting to toss the mask to the ground, but it becomes relentless in my grip, like it’s glued to my palm. No matter how much I try to get rid of it, it won’t budge. It’s like it doesn’t want to let go of me.

Lost in a forced trance, I continue to assess every detail of the grotesque mask in my possession, suddenly realizing why it looks so familiar. I’ve seen something like this. Just last night… in Araceli’s creepy notebook. An inferno lodges itself in my veins as I run my hand over its features. It has the most realistic painted lines reminiscent of decay, rot mars beneath the nose, and all around the exposed jagged, equally rotting teeth. The two eye holes are black, bottomless pits. It’s a damn near perfect replica of the mask worn by the Grim Reaper depicted in the illustration. The picture she said looked peaceful, but what’s staring back at me is anything but peaceful. It’s chaotic. Ominous. Sinful. I hate it and want it all at once.

I go to put it down, but my other hand somehow gets the grand idea to reach for the other mask that was behind it. Thisone is equally as grotesque as the first. Yet, an odd sense of relief fills me when I see that the second mask is identical to this one.

One for Araceli and me to wear together so we can match.

I lift the masks in my hand to show her. “What about these?”

“Ooh, let me see,” she beams, skipping over. “They’re awful,” she says in a monotone voice I’m not able to read, and an unexpected jolt of disappointment erupts within me. “They’re perfect!” she squeals. “I can’t believe I’ve never seen these here.” She moves closer, cupping her hand near her mouth, shielding it, as if she’s about to tell me a secret, “I love this place, but after a while, seeing the same masks and decor year after year gets old real quick. These are everything,” she boasts, still taking in the masks.

“Lucky us.” I shrug.

“I’d say so. I wonder what the name is.” She eagerly looks at me, urging me to check the tag.

“Ferryman?” I question.

“Hmm, I don’t recognize it.”

“Me either,” I shrug.

She takes both from my hand as she walks past the mask wall to a small end cap of wigs. Picking a split-dyed one, with one side matching her natural black hair and the other a brighter version of my blonde, she tries it on, looking at herself in the mirror.

“Look, hermano, it’s me and you. The saint,” she points to the blonde side, “and the sinner,” she points to the onyx side.

I don’t want to be the saint. I want to be the sinner. Your sinner.

Visions of Araceli grinding on my leg in the bathroom last night cause a rush of blood to jolt my cock to life. I clear my throat, trying to snap my body and mind out of this involuntary fantasy yet once again.

“Whatever,” I downplay the effect she has on me, opening my palm, “give it to me so I can pay.”

She takes the masks and holds them tight to her chest. “None of that chivalrous shit with me. It’s a fucking damned miracle I convinced you to come out with me tonight, this is on me.”

“Araceli,” I urge her, trying to snatch the masks from her, but she only grips them tighter.

She steps towards me. “Harlan,” she teases, bobbing her head.

Conceding defeat, I drop my arm. “You’re not going to change your mind, are you?”

“Nope,” she says with a grin, walking off to the registers.

I illuminate the lock screen on my phone to check the time while I wait for her to pay. We only have three hours before Holy Harvest ends, so we have two hours at the haunt before we have to leave to make it home before Dad freaks out on both of us.

About to toss my phone back in my pocket, it vibrates twice. Two long distinct buzzes, but there’s no text. I swipe to my messages, and there’s nothing new. As I swipe out of the conversation log, three dots appear by Tori’s name.

Fuck.

Tori: How’s the harvest?

Me: Don’t know.

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