It all happened so fast, I couldn’t stop it.
It started one day while I was working at home. My son came up to me and told me to make him a mask. I was busy, but he started crying, and ever since his mom and my wife died five months ago, I promised myself I would make sure he never cried again. So I took him in my arms and carried him to the living room. The table was buried under unopened letters, but I pushed aside the mess. At that time, I had a lot of work to do, and I often forgot about the chores. The mask came out sloppy, quite uneven at the edges, and chaotically put together. My son was thankfully satisfied with it.
Ever since he had gotten his mask, I didn’t see him cry anymore. He insisted on wearing it at all times, even to the bath and to school. It made him look happy, even though the expression on his face was hard to read through the layers of paper. That gave me peace of mind, which I used to learn how to cook and look for a side job. I never said anything about the mask, and nobody seemed to mind. After all, kids sometimes go through weird phases.
Some time passed and, on a Wednesday, or Thursday, when I had already finished work for the day, he came back home. Or, rather, someone came back home.
Bartek Dzięgiel, Frantic Planet
He was taller, had dark hair, and was definitely older. He wore my son’s mask on his face and refused to take it off. The voice was unrecognizable, but the words were just like my boy’s. At first, I was paralyzed. When I picked up the phone, I wanted to call for help. But then I heard a knock at the door. It was our neighbor, a sweet old lady who baked and shared some cookies from time to time. She recognized my son and called his name. He answered enthusiastically, as if it was really him, as if everything was alright. I followed her to the hallway and tried to ask her as subtly as I could if she noticed anything different about my son. She looked at me as if I wasn’t feeling well, which made me give up. I went back inside but ran straight to my room and locked the door behind me.
And then life just went on. At the beginning, it was difficult. When I woke up the second day, it sent a chill down my spine to see this teenager waiting for me in place of my seven-year- old child. The previous night, I called my mother asking her to come over. She was there in the morning, making him breakfast, and begrudgingly lecturing me how I needed to “pull myself together.” I couldn’t understand. Was it a prank, or was I really going mad? It was not possible for me not to notice my son changing so much!
If it stopped there, things would’ve been so much easier. But soon, he started coming back as different people wearing the same mask. There was no pattern to his transformations. Once he came home as a young girl, another time as an old man. Sometimes he was short, sometimes tall. He could come home as anyone but never younger than seven years old. The mask stayed the same. It is a hard thing for me to confess, but I think slowly I got used to that. Sure, it was jarring at first. But when nobody around you noticed, and everything else except his appearance seemed to be exactly the same as before… You start to wonder what would be more terrifying: you losing your mind or him actually being different, and nobody but you seeing it. I worked two jobs at that time, so I didn’t have the time to worry about it. Whenever he came back, I just ordered some pizza for us and went to my room with a few pieces. I got used to living with a stranger in my house until one day he came back as someone I knew very well.
I opened the doors and there stood my wife, more real and alive than in any of my memories. It was too much. I couldn’t ignore this anymore. I screamed at him, or her. I yelled that I wanted him gone, that I couldn’t take it anymore. The next morning, I woke up late and hungover. Forgive me for drinking, but seeing one’s dead wife walking and talking is too much of a shock. I knew my son would be up by now, probably hungry and waiting for me. But the house was empty. After some fiddling, I finally managed to open the door to his room. Everything was in place, completely untouched, and thoroughly organized. The only trace left of him was a familiar mask lying on his bed.
IM and AI, A Boy in a Mask