The Terror Behind the Mask, page 7
“You want to know something?” Lisa finally said. “It turns out that I’m not so into scary things anymore.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine why,” Jasmine said, sighing.
“It used to be kind of fun to get scared, like when you’re on a roller coaster,” Lisa went on. “But enough is enough. Seriously.”
Jasmine couldn’t have agreed more. “How are we ever going to get to sleep?” she wondered aloud. They lay in silence.
“I know,” Lisa said. “My mom taught me this trick. We’ll count backward from one hundred. By the time we get to zero, we’ll be asleep.”
“Promise?” Jasmine said hopefully.
“Promise,” Lisa said.
And thankfully, she was right. They were both asleep by the time Lisa counted down to fifty. All their screaming that afternoon and night had really tired them out.
CHAPTER 14
Jasmine woke up feeling grateful. She hadn’t had any more nightmares. She didn’t even remember having any dreams. I guess reality was enough of a nightmare last night, she thought. That bug! Jasmine remembered exactly what it looked like, but she wished she didn’t. And she knew she’d never forget the sound that its giant, flapping wings had made. Lisa was still asleep—of course!—but it was time to get up. It was Saturday, but they both had things to do that day. Today was the fund-raiser at the shelter, and Lisa had to go to softball practice. Jasmine lay in bed for a few minutes, her eyes open, preparing for another day. Her eyes rested on the pink mask she’d made, which now hung on her wall. She decided to take it down later that day. She now officially had a bad feeling about masks in general.
In fact, she was convinced that the mask—not the pretty one she’d made, but the mask—had something to do with the buggy horror of last night. She didn’t understand the logic of how the two things were connected. She just knew.
What am I so scared of? Jasmine asked herself. She felt like she needed to approach this whole situation with a little logic. Okay, she thought, what would Dad do? He would “do the research, go to the literature,” as he likes to say. Information is power. He gathers as much information as he can. Usually he starts online.
Jasmine got out of bed, careful to not disturb Lisa. She sat down at her desk and opened her laptop. And as the screen lit up, she closed her eyes and thought of the thing she was most afraid of in the whole world.
She had to be brave and admit the truth to herself. She had to get the information. Only then could she stop being so scared all the time. Only then would her nightmares stop. That was the idea.
The bogeyman.
She typed bogeyman into the search bar. She wasn’t even sure how to spell it. But a page came up first thing, and Jasmine clicked on it to find out more. “A legendary ghostlike monster,” the page said. Jasmine went on to read that bogey was related to the word bug.
Jasmine sat back in her chair as a chill went down her spine. This could not be just a coincidence. She’d done the search because she secretly hoped she’d find out how it was all legend . . . all just make-believe children’s stories . . . but instead she discovered that the events of last night could really be related to her worst fears.
That bug was announcing something. Jasmine just knew it. Predicting something. It was like a messenger.
A messenger from the bogeyman.
Jasmine made it through her day acting as normal as possible. It helped that she was around animals in the shelter, but she was still very uneasy. After the animal shelter fund-raiser was over, she decided to walk to the nearby university’s campus, which was between the shelter and home, and visit the library to see what she could find out about the mask. Information is power, she kept reminding herself. Go to the literature. She’d had some babysitters who went to the university, and she’d also been there with her dad when he was doing research, so she knew her way around a little. She entered the library—it was so big, with high ceilings—and stopped at the front desk.
“Is it okay if I come in and look at books here? I’m not a student. Well, I’m a student, but not at the university, of course,” she explained to the librarian, laughing nervously.
“Of course,” the woman behind the counter said. “You can’t take any books out, though, unless you’re a student or a professor. Can I help you find anything?”
How could Jasmine explain? “Um, do you have an anthropologist section?” she asked. Maybe she could find more information written by anthropologists about the island, the tribe, the mask, the legend—anything was better than not knowing.
“Do you mean anthropology?” the librarian asked kindly.
“Um, yeah,” Jasmine said, feeling a little sheepish.
“The anthropology collection is on the third floor, way in the back,” the librarian said. She seemed impressed a girl Jasmine’s age would be interested in anthropology, even if she didn’t really know the word.
Well, I was never interested in anthropology before, because I’d never even heard of it, but now it may be a matter of life or death, Jasmine thought. “Thank you,” she said politely.
Once she got into the anthropology room and threw her backpack down on a chair, Jasmine used all the research skills she’d learned in school. And between the computer and all the old books and papers, she found out plenty. More than she’d wanted to know, actually.
She found an old dusty book called Masks of the World: An Anthropological Perspective. Each chapter had been written by a different professor about a different culture. As she opened the front cover to the table of contents, the name of the island her dad had visited jumped out at her. She turned right to that chapter. The information seemed to flood her eyes faster than she could read it. It was practically jumping off the page, through her eyeballs and into her brain. She had to close her eyes every once in a while because the experience of reading it was so intense.
“ ‘Members of the tribe believe that the mask protects the house it is displayed in,’ ” she first read. “ ‘If the owner of the mask senses evil approaching his or her home, he or she can put on the mask and ward off the evil. The mask repels the bad spirit, and prevents any harm from coming to him or her.’ ”
I already knew that part, Jasmine thought. Dad told me.
But Jasmine read on: “ ‘However, tribal legend states that if the mask-maker becomes angry when making the mask or he believes that evil spirits have been aroused before a mask is finished, the power of the mask may shift and change.’ ”
Jasmine took a deep breath.
And then: “ ‘In that instance, the mask is then believed to take on a sinister quality. It is believed that its magic can become so strong that it attracts forces of evil.’ ”
Jasmine had to look up the word sinister. It meant “threatening evil.” There were lots of synonyms. They were all words that Jasmine didn’t like, such as menacing, threatening, frightening, dark, and black.
Yeah, sinister. Like the bogeyman, Jasmine thought.
And then this: “ ‘There have been several vague reports about “unfortunate” things happening to people who hang the mask after its powers have turned, but nothing that can be substantiated. Further study of this aspect of the masks and their makers is needed.’ ”
Jasmine flashed back to the conversation she had heard her dad have with Dr. Wilson, the anthropologist: . . . he didn’t seem afraid. He was angry. Said that I summoned some evil. . . . It was so intense. It was as if it had jumped out of his body and was bouncing all around the carving studio.
And just like the pieces of the broken mask had been expertly put back together, Jasmine figured out the whole thing. It all made perfect sense now.
The mask may have originally been meant for protection, but there was no telling what its real powers were now. Because the mask-maker had become angry when making the mask! His anger had jumped out of his body, as her father had described. It had bounced around the carving studio. And it had entered the mask. The anger had entered the mask, and its power had changed from protection to the very opposite.
Jasmine closed the book. She felt like her stomach was melting. Because she now knew something her father and Nana did not. She knew that it was entirely possible that she—and her dad and Nana—were doomed.
The mask is a magnet, Jasmine kept thinking. A horrible magnet of doom. A magnet for the bogeyman!
Jasmine slammed the book shut and walked quickly out of the library, ignoring the nice librarian, who called out: “Did you find what you were looking for, dear?”
Yes, Jasmine thought. Yes, I sure did. And I wish I hadn’t. She pushed the heavy library door open and ran out into the bright afternoon sun. She had to squint so that she could even see. She couldn’t get out of that library fast enough, far away from that book.
There’s no one who understands this crazy problem, she thought. Dad’s in Siberia. Who can I turn to for help?
And then she remembered. Dr. Wilson. The anthropologist. He probably taught at this university. Her dad always went to him with his questions. He could give her advice on what to do, how to protect herself. If there was any advice to give, that was.
Jasmine looked at the big campus map near the entrance to the library and found the anthropology department. It was really close. She took a deep breath and walked toward it. There it was, perfectly easy to find. As she opened the door, she felt resourceful and brave. Look at me, chasing down information.
She looked at the directory on the wall of which professors were in which offices. There it was: James Wilson, 202. Jasmine ran up one flight of stairs and saw a door with a little nameplate that said JAMES WILSON, PHD, PROFESSOR OF ANTHROPOLOGY. Wow. That was easy. Jasmine took another deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” a man called out.
Jasmine opened the door slowly. Now she felt like her usual shy self, no longer so brave and resourceful. She poked her head into the doorway just a tiny bit, suddenly aware that she was interrupting this man at work.
“Um, hello . . . ,” Jasmine began. Then she had no idea what to say next.
“Hello there,” Dr. Wilson said, pushing his chair away from his computer and swiveling to turn toward Jasmine. “How can I help you?”
“Um, my name is Jasmine Porter,” Jasmine said.
“Marty Porter’s daughter?” Dr. Wilson asked. He seemed really friendly. Jasmine was relieved he already knew who she was.
“Yes.” She gave a little smile. “I heard you talking on the phone to him the other day. About the mask.”
“Ah, yes,” Dr. Wilson said, nodding in recognition. “We discussed the tribe he visited and the mask they gave him. I remember he was feeling badly about the mask-maker being angry with him. So what brings you here?”
“Well . . . ,” Jasmine stalled, aware of how crazy this whole thing was going to sound. “I’m having some—I don’t know—problems. With the mask. And my dad’s in Siberia. So I thought I would come to you for advice on what to do.”
Dr. Wilson smiled kindly. “Of course, Jasmine,” he said. “Anything. I’ve known your dad for a long time. Whatever I can do to help.”
“Well, the mask has freaked me out since the first time I saw it,” Jasmine said. “And now I feel like something else is happening. Something big and weird. I’m getting a really bad feeling about it. I don’t know why, or what it is.”
“What happened?”
Jasmine shivered with the memory. “Last night—”
But Dr. Wilson interrupted her. “Jasmine, have you seen any kind of bug lately? One you’ve never seen before?” he asked. He seemed worried about what her answer would be. He seemed like he didn’t even want to ask.
Jasmine gulped. “Yes,” she said. “This strange huge bug flew into our living room. I’d never seen a bug that looked like this. It reminded me somehow of the mask. It was the same color. That’s one of the reasons I’m so freaked out.”
Then Dr. Wilson stopped smiling. He didn’t take his eyes off Jasmine.
“What happened to the bug?” he asked slowly, in a low voice.
“Um, I don’t know,” Jasmine said. “What do you mean?”
“Did you kill the bug, Jasmine?” Dr. Wilson looked very concerned.
Jasmine remembered her grandmother’s speech about doing the humane thing and not killing it. She was suddenly glad that they put it outside, even though she wished it weren’t still out there. She thought Dr. Wilson would be impressed by their kind choice.
“No,” Jasmine reported proudly. “We did the humane thing and put it outside.”
Dr. Wilson was silent. He stared at Jasmine.
When he spoke, his voice was heavy and serious. “I see,” he said. Then he looked away, out the window. There was a long silence.
“So what do you think I should do? What’s up with this mask?” Jasmine finally asked. She was shocked by Dr. Wilson’s expression. He looked like someone had just told him that an asteroid was headed straight for Earth. At the same time, he seemed to be deep in thought. It was an odd combination.
“When does your dad come home?” he asked.
“Um, in a few weeks,” Jasmine answered.
“Can you reach him?”
“No, there’s no e-mail where he is. My nana’s home, though.” Jasmine didn’t want Dr. Wilson to think her dad had left her home all by herself.
But suddenly he snapped back into being friendly, nice, and casual. “Well, best not to worry,” he said. “After all, it’s only a story.”
“What’s only a story?” Jasmine asked.
“What?” Dr. Wilson asked, as if he had no idea what the topic of the conversation had been. As if he had lost track.
“You said, ‘It’s only a story.’ What’s only a story?”
Dr. Wilson exhaled and carefully folded his hands on his lap. “Nothing,” he said a little too brightly. “Never mind. It’s nothing at all. I think your imagination is just running away with you.”
Another long silence. All Jasmine knew was that she wanted to leave his office immediately. “Okay, thanks, Dr. Wilson,” she said quickly. She had to get away from him and that book she’d read in the library. She had to get far away from that horrible information—and from Dr. Wilson’s concerned expression.
Jasmine walked down the steps and into the bright light again.
The main thing was, she reminded herself, that the mask was out of the house.
CHAPTER 15
Jasmine managed to eat dinner with Nana without acting like she was freaking out. Once she was in bed, Jasmine did everything she could to not think about what she’d read at the library, the bizarre conversation she’d had with Dr. Wilson, and the look on his face. She counted back from one hundred, like Lisa had taught her. And it worked, thankfully.
But then Jasmine woke up.
She hadn’t had a nightmare, as far as she could remember, but she could hear thunder booming overhead. The clock on her night table said 4:25 a.m. Jasmine was getting used to this time of morning. Too used to it. Every roll and rumble of thunder went right through her, as if it were sending vibrations right into her bones.
But wait. Was it thunder? As Jasmine woke up, she began to wonder. It sounded more like drumbeats than thunder.
Jasmine listened harder. No, that sound wasn’t drumbeats either. It was hoofbeats, like there was an angry bull just outside her window. Like thunder, but on the ground.
Wake yourself up! Wake yourself up! This is another one of your nightmares! Jasmine said to herself.
But it wasn’t; it just wasn’t. Jasmine knew. This time, her terror was real.
What if something was coming to get her? Not the bug tonight, but the real bogeyman. The hoofbeats sounded louder and louder, and soon the whole house shook. There’s only one thing I can do to protect myself, she thought. I need to wear the mask, like dad and the book said. Who knows if the mask has turned evil or not—all I know is that wearing it is my only hope of defending myself.
Jasmine knew it would be no use to run into Nana’s room for protection. She had to put on that mask, as terrifying an idea as it was.
Jasmine didn’t even stop to put shoes on. She ran out the back door in her pajamas, thinking only about the mask’s possible power to save her. It was so dark outside. The ground under her bare feet was cold and muddy. Pouring rain soaked her almost immediately, and as she made her way up the tree house ladder, she nearly slipped and fell all the way back down to the ground.
But finally she made it to the top. The wooden door was right in front of her face. She reached out her wet hand to open it. . . .
But it was already slowly opening from the inside.
CHAPTER 16
And when the door opened, Jasmine saw him clearly for the first time. The bogeyman. And he was more terrifying than Jasmine ever could have imagined.
He had the shape of a person, but was scaly as a snake and red as blood. Even in the dark, the red scales practically glowed.
And he was wearing the mask. Even if Jasmine wanted to wear it for protection, it was his now. There was nowhere left for Jasmine to hide.
He just stood there. Jasmine could see his bright yellow eyes through the holes in the mask. They shone like flashlights. They were round and bulging, like the bug’s from the night before.
Jasmine fell backward off the ladder and landed on the hard wet grass with a thud, but then she got right up to run away.
But the bogeyman jumped down the ladder in one swift move before Jasmine could get anywhere. He crouched low to the ground.
And then Jasmine felt it. A cold wet grip around her left ankle. A slimy grip, like something between a hand and a claw. And then the bogeyman began to pull, hard.
Jasmine dropped her weight and planted her feet in the mud as if she could hold on to it and keep from being dragged away. But the bogeyman was trying to make her fall down. No matter how hard she tried, Jasmine couldn’t keep her footing. She lost her balance and fell back into the mud. And the bogeyman’s grip around her ankle got even tighter.
