Fiends

matter, he could stay home.

    And miss the midnight showing of The Cabinet of Dr Cahgari? He’d already seen the film six or seven times. A shame not to watch it again, though. He could always drive his car.

    No. I’ll walk. I’ll take my usual route. If I see her, I’ll apologize. And that will be the end of it.

***

    After supper that night, he sat in his recliner and watched The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, then I Spit on Your Grave. For minutes at a time, he was able to forget about the masked woman. When the movies were over, he took a shower. He shaved. He combed his hair and splashed some Chaps on his cheeks. Instead of wearing his favorite outfit for the midnight show - old blue jeans and his Bates Motel T-shirt - he put on a good pair of Dockers and a plaid sports shirt.

    In the bedroom mirror, he shook his head at himself.

    What the hell am I doing? You’d think I really did have a date.

    Hey, maybe she won’t recognize me dressed up like this. She couldn’t have gotten a very good look at my face.

***

    At a quarter past eleven, he left his apartment. He gave his parked car a long look as he walked by it.

    So much easier if I just drive.

    He couldn’t.

    He had to make an attempt to find her.

    Tense and shaky, he walked to the Palace. He usually bought nachos and a Pepsi at the refreshment counter. But tonight he had no appetite. He took his seat. He glanced about at the familiar crowd, fearing that she might’ve come to watch the movie. Then the lights dimmed. He rubbed his sweaty hands on the legs of his trousers, and faced the screen.

    The Cabinet of Dr Caligari began.

    He stared at it. But in his mind, he saw the masked woman. Saw himself approaching her. What if she’s bonkers? What if she’s dangerous? What if she lifts the mask to show me her face and it’s horrible? Worse than anything ever created by Tom Savini or Stan Winston? Worse than the ugliest fantasies of Clive Barker?

    He tried to calm himself.

    Maybe she won’t show up.

    He had never run into her before. Last Saturday night could have been a fluke. She might’ve been out on a special errand, or something.

    Maybe I’ll never see her again.

    As much as he dreaded the encounter, however, he found himself troubled by the idea of never seeing her again. It was more than a need to set matters right. He’d known that all along, he supposed.

    She frightened him, but he longed to learn her secrets.

    All the mysteries of the night, so eerie and tantalizing, seemed banal compared to the woman in the mask. She was the ultimate mystery.

    Mad or sane? What lurks beneath the mask? What possesses her to walk the empty streets? Does she have a tortured soul? What stories might she tell of children shrieking at the sight of her, of heartless abuse, of solitary years locked away from daylight? How does it feel to be shunned?

    He could learn the answers.

    Tonight.

    The lights came up.

    Allan walked into the night. By the time he’d walked a block, he was alone.

    His mouth was dry. His heart thudded. His legs trembled.

    He gave no thought to the windows above the street, barely glanced through the accordion gates of the closed shops, paid no attention to passing cars, looked into dark entryways and the gaps between buildings and the alleys for no reason other than to search for her. As he hurried along, he noticed a few derelicts. He saw them, felt neither fear nor disgust, and turned his eyes away to look for the masked woman.

    Finally, he came to the block where he’d encountered her. The sidewalk stretched ahead of him, deserted. He slowed his pace. He gazed at the corner.

    Where are you?

    Maybe I’m early. No. If anything, Cabinet was five or six minutes longer than Nosferatu. Maybe I’m too late, then.

    But if she’d come this way, we should’ve run into each other already.

    Maybe she stayed home tonight. Or chose a different route.

    He stopped. It was just about here that he’d been halted by the sight of her. She’d appeared from the right, walked to the corner and turned her back to him as if intending to cross the street. It was here that he’d been standing when she turned around.

    He waited.

    Dribbles of sweat slid down his sides.

    I ought to just keep walking. If she doesn’t show, she doesn’t show.

    He checked his wristwatch. One twenty-eight.

    Give her five minutes.

    When he looked up from his watch, she was already past the corner and striding toward him.

    He gasped and staggered backward.

    Cool it! he told himself. This is it. You wanted to see her, here she is.

    The silver fabric shrouding her face shimmered and swayed as she walked. Her hair gleamed in the streetlights. Instead of shorts and a blouse like last week, she wore a dress. It looked purple and shiny. It hung from her shoulders by narrow straps, draped the swells of her breasts, tapered down to a sash at her waist, flared out at her hips and drifted against her striding thighs. It was very short. Her legs looked long and sleek. She wore sandals, not shoes and socks.

    Allan’s heart thundered.

    She’s gorgeous! Except for that damn mask. What horrors did it conceal?

    She must be mad. No sane woman would walk these streets at such an hour - and not in a dress like that!

    Don’t just stand here, gaping at her.

    He started walking toward her.

    Her sandals made soft clapping sounds on the concrete. Her skirt briefly took on the shape of each thigh that swept against it. The ends of the sash swung by her side. The silken fabric clinging to her breasts trembled and jiggled.

    Maybe she is a whore, after all.

    If so, she might wear the mask merely to conceal her identity. Or to make her look enigmatic. Her face might not be ghastly, after all.

    Now, only a few strides separated Allan from the woman.

    In the darkness behind the mask’s eye slots, he could see nothing except mere specks of reflected light. A vague hint of lips showed through the slot at her mouth.

    I’ve got to say something. Apologize. At least.

    He was walking straight toward her, so he angled to his right. Her head turned.

    He managed a smile.

    They passed each other.

    He breathed in her perfume. A scent so strange and delicious it forced him to sigh, to look back at her.

    She halted as if she felt his gaze.

    ‘Excuse me?’ he said. Damn, but he sounded like a scared kid! She turned around.

    ‘Do you remember me?’ he asked.

    ‘Oh, yes.’ Her voice was low, breathy. In spite of the narrow gap at her mouth, it stirred the mask like a