The Haunted Mask II by R. L. Stine Read Free Book Online Page B

against my face, I could barely move my lips.
    I have to get out of this thing, I decided. Chuck will have to wait until Halloween night to be scared out of his skull.
    I raised both hands to my neck and searched for the bottom of the mask. My
neck felt craggy and wrinkled. The skin was dry.
    Where was the bottom of the mask?
    I leaned close to the mirror on my closet door and narrowed my eyes at my
reflection. I stared hard at the neck of the mask.
    Wrinkled skin flecked with ugly brown patches.
    But where was the bottom? Where did the mask end and my neck begin?
    My hands began to tremble as they fumbled up and down my throat. I could feel
my heart begin to race.
    I moved my hands slowly, carefully, up and down my neck.
    Again. And again.
    Finally, I let my hands drop to my side and uttered a weary, frightened sigh.
    There was no mask bottom. No line at all between the mask and my neck.
    The wrinkled, spotted mask skin had become my skin.
    “Nooooo! Nooooo!” I wailed in my old man’s voice. I had to get the thing off
me! There had to be a way!
    I squeezed the cheeks of the mask and tugged with all my might.
    “Ow!” Sharp pain ran down my face.
    I pulled the hair. That sent a wave of pain shooting down my scalp.
Frantically, I grabbed at the mask, slapped at it, pulled it, tore at it.
    I felt each move. Each slap and tug made my skin hurt. Every touch hurt me as
if it were my own skin.
    “The eyeholes!” I croaked.
    I reached for the eyeholes. Maybe I could slip my fingers inside the eyeholes
and lift the mask off.
    My hands fumbled around my eyes. My trembling fingers searched, poking and
rubbing.
    No eyeholes. There were no eyeholes.
    The rutted, scab-covered skin had melted onto me. It had become my skin.
    The ugly, disgusting mask had become my face!
    I looked like a horrifying, spider-infested, decaying old man. And I felt as
old and weird as I looked!
    My throat tightened in terror. I sank against the mirror, pressing my ugly,
craggy forehead against the glass.
    I shut my eyes. What can I do? What can I do? The question repeated like an
unhappy chant in my mind.
    And then I heard the front door slam. And I heard Mom’s voice at the bottom
of the stairway. “Steve—are you home? Steve?”
    What can I do? What can I do? The question repeated and repeated.
    “Steve?” Mom called. “Come down here. I want to show you something.”
    No! I thought, swallowing hard, my dry throat making a sick clicking
sound. No! I can’t come down! I can’t! I don’t want you to see me like this!
    “Oh, never mind!” Mom called. “I’m coming up there!”

 
 
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    I heard her footsteps on the stairs.
    A shock of panic made me lurch toward the door. I nearly fell over. My old
legs were stiff, too stiff to move quickly.
    I hobbled to the door and closed it just as Mom reached the second floor.
Then I leaned against the door, my hand on my throbbing chest, trying to catch
my breath.
    Trying to think. Trying to decide what to say.
    I couldn’t let her see me like this. I couldn’t let her see the mask. She’d
start asking questions. And I couldn’t let her see how the mask had changed me.
    A few seconds later, she knocked gently on the door. “Steve, are you in
there? What are you doing?”
    “Uh… nothing, Mom.”
    “Well, may I come in? I brought you something.”
    “Not right now,” I croaked.
    Please don’t open the door! I begged silently. Please don’t come into
my room!
    “Steve, why do you sound so strange?” Mom demanded. “What’s wrong with your
voice?”
    “Uh…” Think fast, Steve. Think fast.
    “Uh… sore throat, Mom. A really bad sore throat.”
    “Let me take a look at you. Are you sick?” Glancing down, I saw the doorknob
turn.
    “No!” I screamed, pressing my back against the door.
    “You’re not sick?”
    “I mean, yes,” I croaked in my shaky, old-man voice. “I’m not feeling well,
Mom. I’m going to lie down for a while. I’ll come down later,