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The first few weeks I spent with John Digman went by fast. He insisted I quit my job while I was in recovery, and offered me a small side gig in the meantime. That doesn’t sound all too bad, but at that point I didn’t even know what he did for a living.

John has a pretty big property, slightly off the grid. It was originally a ranch, but it was repurposed sometime back in the 70’s. It was just down the street from a place called the Hi House, which is sort of legendary to the locals. John lived mainly in a large single-story home with a sprawling cellar and a separate guest house. I got the guest house to myself; four rooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. It was one of the nicest places I’d ever lived in, albeit a bit beaten up.

Excellent wi-fi coverage though.

​

The first time I asked John about what he does for a living, he stone-faced me. He had no idea how to describe it and decided just to show me.

He invited me to his workshop. It is hard to describe the vibe of the place, but it was like watching a Rube Goldberg machine designed by H.R.Giger. Thick black cables hanging from the ceiling, plugged into various haphazardly balanced machines. Red lights blinking in repeating patterns, raw circuit boards collecting dust out in the open. Not a single symbol, or note, or marking. No branding whatsoever.

And it was dark. In fact, I wasn’t allowed to bring anything that shone in there. Some of the materials he worked with was sensitive to light.

He described himself as a “Hardware Test Pilot”.

“You know,” he said. “Sort of like the people who fly experimental aircraft. Except I work with circuits, motherboards, semiconductors… you know, computer hardware.”

“So you just… test things?”

“Well, I mostly test things I make myself. Used to be more of a developer.”

​

He had plenty of posters in the hallway showing some of his previous work. A logo for a dating site called “Come Sail Away”, reviews of early copies of games like “Hatchetman Cove” and “Ch4ngeling”. I couldn’t help but notice the logos repeating in the corners; little blue sunflowers. When I pointed at them, he just sighed.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I used to work for Hatchet. They had a software development branch, that turned into a hardware development branch, and then I had to call it quits.”

“Hatchet?” I said. “They got a finger in everything.”

“You have no idea,” chuckled John. “But yeah, they do. Pretty much everything.”

“You gonna keep me in the dark about it? Like you just dropped that bomb on me about the tunnels under Frog Lake?”

“Look, it’s not that simple,” said John. “There is information that, if spread, can literally kill you. I know things that, if I told you about, it could literally end your life. And I’m not talking men in suits showing up at your doorstep, I’m talking your mind unraveling like a ball of yarn and making you drown yourself in boiling cooking oil.”

Jesus Christ.

​

I want to say our relationship was strained under the weeks I stayed there, but honestly, it was easy to fall into his routine. Got up at eight every morning, he made me breakfast, checked my blood levels. About once every two weeks, he’d run me through a sort of blood plasma machine. It was the strangest thing, I could literally see it filter out black goo, stinking of chemicals. Probably part of whatever bacterial infection hit me earlier.

A few weeks into February, I was helping him in the workshop. Mostly doing ‘conductivity tests’ as he called them, recording transfer speeds between machines based on different cable compositions. He didn’t tell me what the numbers meant, so I just took notes. Was a high number good or bad? I didn’t know. It just felt nice having something to do, and it was an easy way to repay him for helping me out. At that moment, he was the closest thing to a family I had.

​

One day in late February, something that hadn’t happened before, happened.

We got a package.

​

It was a pretty small package. Unmarked, hand-delivered in a magnetic black box. I brought it over to John, who immediately pushed me out of the workshop. Even under his sunglasses (that he still used, even in a dark room) I could see him go wide-eyed. He started swearing profusely as he hurried into the kitchen.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered. “Damn it all to hell.”

I followed him at a distance. He always got a little scary when he was excited. It was as if his eyes got redder, and the silver in his hair got more pronounced. There was a metallic tone to his consonants, like the roof of his mouth turned to metal.

He ripped open the package to reveal a strange white mask. It had an air filter, a black strap, and was made of a thick ceramic material. I had a vague memory of seeing it on the news. John just looked defeated.

“Alright, yeah,” he said. “The word is out. Fuck.”

“Talk to me.”

“It’s… it’s like the thing you saw at your apartment,” he sighed. “There’s a few of them out there.”

“So what are they? What’s-“

“Look,” he interrupted. “I can’t explain all of it. Some things don’t happen in the order they’re supposed to. Sometimes the cure shows up before the infection. You get the prize before you buy the ticket. And right now, we’re getting dinner guests before there’s even a restaurant.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It rarely does.”

​

He brought the mask with him as we walked to his car. He double-checked the security cameras, only to notice a few of them were out of working order. Whoever had this delivered did a number on his alarms. John had a bit of a prepper streak, and this wasn’t doing his nerves any favors.

“You heard about the riots up north?” he asked as he got in the driver’s seat.

“Some sort of protest, I think.”

“Yeah, no,” he said, shaking his head. “That ain’t it.”

I got in the car, put on my seat belt, and got the mask handed to me. I looked it over and decided to test it out. As soon as I put it near my face, John slapped it out of my hands.

“I didn’t tell you to do that,” he said. “Why did you do that?”

“I dunno.”

“Don’t put that on. Don’t ever put that on. And if you see me put it on, take it away from me.”

“If it bothers you, just destroy it.”

“Can’t do that,” he sighed. “Then he comes by to get me a replacement.”

“Who’s the ‘he’ in all this?”

​

John took the scenic route back to town. It was still early afternoon, just before lunch, and the February weather got a tight grip on us. I could see my breath, even inside the car. I couldn’t see John's though.

“Did you know Tomskog High School was spot on for the national average?” he said. “Right in the middle. Perfectly normal. 20 years ago, it was the actual middle ground.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So let’s say someone wants to try something out,” he said. “They want to try something that could impact, say, brain development. Minor bone structure tweaks. What better place to test it than the town where everyone is perfectly average?”

“I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

“Your dad graduated in 2000,” John said, taking a slow left turn. “After that, it all went downhill.”

​

We came to a long stretch of road. John rolled a window down, letting his hair flutter in the breeze. I didn’t understand why he wasn’t freezing his ears off.

“Hatchet had sort of a development project,” he continued. “Minor stuff. Nothing like the crazy shit they had back in the 1920’s. We’re talking the equivalent of putting fluoride in the water.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“That’s what the pitch sounded like,” he shrugged. “Anyone would’ve taken them up on it. Especially with the boatloads of bribes that went under the table. But here’s the kicker; it wasn’t minor stuff.”

“Shocking.”

“It was nasty, dark shit,” he laughed. “The kind of shit you drag out of the bottom of Frog Lake. The kind of shit where, if applied to a lab rat, you’d say it was too much. The kind of shit you saw at your apartment.”

“Wait, they tested something? On people?”

“Not officially. And not all of them, there was a control group. Your dad was in one, I think.”

“So what happened?”

“They’re still trying to figure that out,” John nodded. “But let’s just say some of those kids never got to grow up, and we’re no longer the national average.”

​

Following the main road past the detention center, the gas station, the lake, we ended up at a parking lot outside the high school. John just sat in the car for a while, taking a few deep breaths.

“I need you to make sure I don’t fuck it up,” he said. “These masks are dangerous.”

“Way to get political.”

“I’m not fucking around,” he groaned. “If they put one on me I might kill you, you understand? Game over. End of the line.”

“Who’s gonna put one on? Will you please tell me what to expect?”

“Look!” he snapped. “A man has come to town. He hands these out, ‘cause the fucker wants everyone to be just as fucked up as he is. He probably sent these out to… a few dozen people, maybe more.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“We’re gonna have a conversation.”

​

We stepped out of the car. It being an early Saturday morning, there was no one else around. I was halfway across the parking lot before I even realized I’d brought the mask along. John hadn’t told me to, but I still did. There was something about the thought of hiding behind a mask that brought me this intense sense of freedom, and I kinda wanted to try it out. John was vigilant though, and took it from me before I got the chance.

“So how do you know him?” I asked. “The mask guy, I mean.”

“He was in the same class as your dad,” he said. “I graduated in ’99, he in 2000.”

“The class of 2000. Sounds like a sci-fi movie.”

“That was their prom theme.”

​

We walked up to the main doors. Shut and locked. John looked around, making sure no one saw us. He brought out a little finger tool with tiny metal spikes and slid it into the lock. Moments later, the door clicked open.

“Alarms should be off,” he said. “Come on.”

Trophy cases, graduation photos, inspiring posters. Upcoming events, after school clubs… it was all there. This was someone’s world, and we were stomping right into it. We followed a long hall, our footsteps echoing across the stone tiles.

“He’s probably out,” said John. “But we’ll be here when he gets back.”

“And then you’ll have a conversation.”

“That’s right,” he nodded. “That’s all there’s to it.”

​

As we waited, John had me do all kinds of strange tests. I had to go outside every fifteen minute to make sure it wasn’t snowing feathers. I had to make sure the lights weren’t broken. I had to make an audible ‘oop’ noise whenever I entered a new room, like a sonar. I had to check classroom clocks to see if any of them suddenly stopped, or if there was a discrepancy in time. At one point he just freaked out about hearing an old car. It was like working for a skittish chihuahua.

We stayed there all afternoon, just going through his checklist. When he finally seemed calm, we settled down in one of the classrooms. It was dinner time by then, but he hadn’t brought anything for us to eat. Apparently, he forgot, but I had the distinct feeling there was more to it. I rarely, if ever, saw John eat.

At 7pm, he told me to turn off my phone.

“He’s here,” he said. “Listen.”

​

We positioned ourselves by the classroom door. I could hear footsteps, maybe half a dozen. Some were taking deep, audible breaths. One just tried to stifle a laugh. I could make out a few words, taken out of context.

“… so I just went for it. I went for it. I had to. I had to go for it. Went for it…”

“… no time like the present. No time. No time. Had to try it…”

“… I got to them first. They didn’t get me, no, no way, I got them first…”

John held a finger to his lips. We were waiting for something, or someone. Maybe for these people to pass through.

“Remember,” John whispered. “No masks.”

​

As the voices passed us by, John peeked out. The hall looked empty, but we could hear the odd ramblings coming from a side corridor further down.

“They’re going into the cellar,” John whispered. “This is bad.”

“I thought this was just a conversation.”

“Yeah, with him,” sighed John. “Not his goons.”

He turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder.

“I need you to stay behind and keep the path clear, just in case we need to leave.”

“Wait, so I just-“

“You wait! You wait, and you make sure we can run if things go bad.”

​

We followed the hall down to the leftmost wing of the building. At the end was a pair of double doors, reaching into a spiral staircase. I could hear strange noises coming from below. John held up a hand, asking me to stop. I was supposed to keep this path clear and alert him if something happened. Mask in hand, John walked down the stairs.

I stayed up there, listening and watching. Every little noise made me jump, and I patrolled back and forth, rolling my heel to make as little sound as possible. I took mental notes of various hiding spots; a janitor’s closet, a group activity room, and a bathroom. I couldn’t help but wonder what his checklist was all about, but there was no point mulling it over. Snowing feathers? Making random noises? Time discrepancies?

A few minutes passed without a word or a sound. What little I heard came from a wind blowing outside, making the windows shudder.

​

Suddenly, I heard a footstep.

Just one.

​

I looked around but couldn’t see anything. I walked up to the corner leading to the main hall, then I stopped. I could see the edge of a shadow, slowly moving my way. Something just around the corner.

I backed away. I wanted to scream for John to run, but I’d be overwhelmed in seconds. Maybe I could scream and then run, maybe hide? No. Too close.

I heard a painful crack, like splintering wood. Snapping. The shadow grew longer, taller. Unfolding, like a spring twig.

I backed away, trying to hold my breath. I fumbled around with my right hand, feeling the wall for the first door I could reach. As soon as I got hold of a doorknob, I hurried into what turned out to be the janitor’s closet.

​

I locked the door behind me and took a deep breath. I’d bought some time. I put my ear to the door, trying to hear what the person outside was doing.

It was strange. Just one footstep every four seconds or so. A brushing noise, like long hairs scraping against the wall. And suddenly, a footstep slamming down just outside.

I slowly backed away as I heard scratching at the top of the door. Little scrapes, like someone trying to peel the paint off the wall. Then, a series of knocks.

Tap-taptaptap-tap.

I didn’t answer.

Tap-taptaptap-tap.

​

Seconds passed. Maybe minutes, there was no way for my racing heart to tell.

Something started pushing the top corner of the door. With an incredible force, I could see the entire frame starting to bend and break. I ran up to it, trying to push it back. I abandoned all pretense of hiding; this was about winning time. I had to do something!

“John!” I called out. “John, goddamn it, there’s something up here!”

The pressure increased. I pressed back all I could, trying to keep the door shut. My feet were slipping on the floor, and my sweaty hands got no grip.

“John!” I screamed. “Please!”

I heard a part of the door give way, and the metal bent inwards. I could see something moving, as the pressure subsided. It was backing away. Giving up.

​

Seconds later, a long arm reached into the hole in the door, holding another white mask. Slightly different from the one John got. An elaborate, smiling white mask. An impossibly long arm reached all the way from the top of the door to my hands, delivering it straight to me with an unceremonious thud. The arm retreated. Those long footsteps kept walking, following the double doors to the cellar below.

I just stood there, trying to understand. The mask itself was beautifully crafted, possibly hand made. Little details like wrinkles under the eyes, dimples on the cheeks. I considered trying it out for a while. It was just a mask, what could possibly be the danger?

The best part of it was how perfectly it hid the face. It wasn’t just a fun party mask; it could hide every identifiable facial trait. There was even a piece of felt over the eyes and ears. With it, I could be truly anonymous. I could rob someone. I could steal a car on an open street. I could beat someone to death with a bat, and no one would know it was me. The thought made me laugh.

Then I forced myself to drop the mask.

Those thoughts weren’t mine.

What the fuck.

​

I slowly opened the door. There was no one outside. There were a few scratch-marks on the wall, but that was it. Whatever it was, however, was tall. And strong; those doors were reinforced with sheet metal on both the inside and the outside.

I hurried down the stairs. I could hear something. Was it too late? Hadn’t he heard me?

​

The cellar was pitch black, and I had to feel my way forward. There was a noise coming from further down the hall. The closer I got, the more words I could make out.

“… just move on. There’s nothing left for you here. You think she …”

It was John. He was talking to someone.

“… no! She wouldn’t! So why do you keep …”

There was a sudden cough, and then nothing.

​

I tried to keep quiet, as a weak light turned on down the hall. A flashlight, perhaps. I stopped moving, trying to see what it was.

Yeah, probably a flashlight.

​

“Hi there!”

​

I turned around to see a young woman in one of those white masks. Less than three feet away.

If I hadn’t stepped back, she would’ve stabbed me in the stomach. Instead the point of her knife just scratched my bellybutton. I screamed at her to stop, but she didn’t listen. Disoriented by the dark, I lost my footing. I picked a hall and started running. She followed suit, and I could hear others doing the same.

It was oppressively dark. I bumped into the concrete walls and felt pipes brush against the top of my head. At one point my toe stubbed against a doorstep, almost sending me reeling to the floor. I kept my balance by a hair.

Then I hit a wall. End of the line.

I turned around.

​

There was at least nine people. The young woman with the knife. A man with a baseball bat. An older woman with what looked like a fire poker. All of them and more wearing these white masks, like an audience of frozen smiles. And in the back, John. He’d put on a mask as well.

A flashlight lit me up, like an actor taking a bow.

And in the far back, I could see something large moving with a white mask of its’ own. Something with incredibly long arms and legs.

​

“You here to meet the Handsome Man?” the young woman asked. “You’re not wearing your mask.”

“I don’t have a-“

Wait.

I was still holding it.

​

I looked at them as they crept closer. Circling me like sharks, trying to find an opening. I had no memory of bringing that mask with me. In fact, I was sure I’d left it in that room. I’d dropped it. I must’ve subconsciously brought it along.

“John… please,” I said. “I tried to-“

No response. He just hung his head, bobbing back and forth like the others. He was out of it. He wasn’t registering my words.

“John?”

​

The young woman stepped up; knife raised. In a last-ditch effort, I raised the mask to my face. The moment I did, she stopped.

The mask fit so snuggly. It was like wearing a second skin.

Instead of a knife to the stomach, I got a kiss on the cheek. People shaking my hand, patting me on the back. A warm welcome.

I belonged there. It was a beautiful friendship. I had no idea who they were, and it didn’t matter; we were all the same, and we could do whatever we wanted. I could imagine myself running down the street with hapless abandon, smashing cars along the way. Dancing naked around a tire fire. Cutting someone open and using their blood as war paint.

But it wasn’t my thoughts. It wasn’t what I wanted. But also, it was.

“Why… why are we-“

It was so comfortable. I could get lost in it.

And for a moment, I did.

​

There was just that one thing; the smell. It had the same smell as that awful black goo I’d gotten sick with the other month. That strange chemical smell that John kept filtering out of my blood. It was faint, but the entire mask was lined with it. That little smell was the last thread, connecting me to the real world. The one thing not allowing me to let go just yet.

I was standing in the middle of their pack, embraced, and welcomed. I had to try something. I focused as best I could, and I could feel a final thought of my own come through.

Knock John's mask off. Whatever it takes.

​

As I gave up, this violent urge took over. Complete, unhindered freedom. But I brought that thought of knocking his mask off with me, and it burst through my system. I fell on top of John, and started to beat his face, over and over. He had no way to prepare himself, as the others cheered me on. After the third hit, a corner of his mask broke open.

The moment it did, I saw something return to him. A semblance of recognition.

He head-butted me back; smashing his forehead onto my nose.

A crack in my mask, and I felt that smell again. My mind fumbling in the dark, and I got a hold of that thread. A lifeline, pulling me back.

​

We kept beating each other, over and over. Back and forth, until both our masks just fell off. The cheering crowd stopped, having realized we were no longer part of them. We’d moved away from them over the course of the fight, and all of a sudden we were just standing there looking at one another. John turned to the large being in the back.

“She… she’s dead,” John panted. “You know she is. There’s… there’s nothing left.”

An impossibly long arm reached out of the dark, scooping up our shattered masks from the floor.

“He won’t bring her back. That’s… he can’t wish for that. It doesn’t work. She’s gone.”

​

For a moment, we just stood there, in the dark. Counting our breaths, ready to sprint at the drop of a hat. Waiting for a race to start.

“Just go home,” John said. “You don’t need this.”

There was a deep groaning noise, slowly rising in volume. The people with the masks mirrored it, turning from a murmur into a violent scream. A desperate wailing. I could see them tremble with rage as they turned to us, weapons at the ready.

We ran.

​

They stumbled over each other, trying to get to us first. The young woman was pushed out of the way, and she responded by pulling someone down. The man with the baseball bat just dropped his weapon and burst into a sprint. In the far back, I saw the shape of something tall, flickering from the glow of the flashlight. An insect-like frame, a gray hoodie, long black limbs covered in thick hairs. A face like the white mask, only living, breathing, and moving. An exaggerated parody of a dramatic theatre face, with crying eyes and the corners of a mouth bent all the way down.

Down the hall, up the stairs. I got up and through the double doors just as John slammed them shut and locked them with his finger tool.

“Get the window!” he screamed. “Get the fucking window!”

I wrapped my arm in my coat, smashing the closest window. It was a bit of a drop, but we got out. I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast in my life.

Across a football field, through a forest, up a hill.

We got away.

​

After about half an hour in complete silence, we took the long way back to the car. As we got back in our seats, John brushed some glass out of his hair. He put the keys in the ignition and just breathed.

“What… what did they-“ I started saying.

“They surprised me.”

“Yeah, but that… what the hell was that?”

“I think he forgot he can’t use your wish,” said John. “To bring someone back.”

“Sounds like someone important.”

“The first woman to ever call him handsome.”

​

I nodded as he started the car and backed us out of the parking lot. As he turned right down the main road, he took a deep breath.

“I owe you one,” he said. “I think I got through to him, but… you know. It was rough.”

“So we did it?”

“I think so, yeah,” he sighed. “So thank you.”

We took another right turn and stopped by some red lights. John drummed on the dashboard, trying to get the adrenaline out of his system. I was stomping my feet for the same reason.

“The Yearwalk works, you know,” said John. “You get something at the end of all this. Kind of a wish. And those who know about it, they want it. That’s why they’re coming for you.”

“What do you mean ‘kind of a wish’?”

“I mean it’s not a fucking fairy tale, alright?” John snapped. “I mean I didn’t… I didn’t know it’d be this bad.”

“You seem to know a lot more than you let on.”

“You’ve stumbled ass-first into this,” John said. “And there’ll be a lot more things coming your way. I’ll try to keep you alive, but that thing we met tonight? The Handsome Man? That’s probably the nicest one.”

​

John looked up at the red lights. They hadn’t turned green yet. He checked his watch and compared it to the clock on the car stereo. There was about a one-minute discrepancy.

“That might be bad,” he said. “That might be really bad.”