The sound of voices froze me. I crouched behind a large vent. The sound grew, the thin whisper of several voices. I peered over the chill metal’s edge. There was no one up there but me. I glanced down. A feint streak of light showed between the blades of the enormous ceiling fan inside the vent. The voices rose. They were coming from inside.
Their whisper grew to a babble. They talked over each other, all at once. I couldn’t make sense out of their increasing clamor. Beneath the voices I could hear something else, a sound like a guitar badly out of tune. It had a coughing, chugging quality more like someone pounding on a calliope rotten with age. I strained to recognize it over the babble.
Laughter. Cold, ugly, laughter.
I crept on stiff, cramped legs to the stairway and inched down each step, fighting the panicky urge to hurry. Every step took me closer to the door. I prayed it stayed closed. I did not want to meet whatever made that horrible sound.
Crossing the gravel was an agony of slowness. At last silent concrete led me to the comfort of my car. I slid behind the wheel, dropping my backpack on the seat beside me. For a moment all I did was sit there. I switched on the car heater and fired up the engine. Calm, warm, away from the weird scene happening in that warehouse, I started to think again.
Now I knew where she went after holding court at the mall. I knew she was afraid of something, to judge from her reaction to the album. She was strong, could be crazy, might even be mute. She might live in that warehouse, along with whatever made that godawful noise. I shivered again, thinking of it.
Sense nudged me again and told me this was likely nothing more than a group of aspiring actors rehearsing together. The paper had run a few articles on the movement among the homeless who created collections of stories and art based on their experiences. The warehouse could also be a drug hangout, a shooting gallery where she met more of her bizarre crowd. Or the voices could be just another obnoxious type of punk music.
My curiosity would not be bought off. The weird makeup was becoming almost a side issue now. More than ever, I wanted to know more, to know her name and hear her speak. Most of all, I wanted inside that warehouse with a pack full of film and my camera. There was a story here, and a good story always meant good photos.
There was only one thing to do.
The next night I waited until eight p.m. to be sure no after hours business might keep anyone in the neighborhood. The mall would close at nine. The bus would drop her off around ten. I had until ten-thirty at most. This could be the only chance I’d get. If she heard me last night, she might panic and run for another hideout.
I parked my car in the same lot. The only lit windows were three blocks back. The door off the stairway was jammed shut. The lock was so badly rusted a key couldn’t turn in it. I twitched at every shadow, scanning the landing for some clue about what to do next. The landing was clear but for a two-by-two split down the middle. I picked it up. It fit through a large crack in the door. I pulled upward, felt it bang against a crossbar. I gave it a hard jerk upward. Something hit the floor inside. The door opened.
The dust was thick as shag carpeting. Smashed crates and smaller debris had been pushed against the walls. The flashlight’s beam showed me a path worn through the dust. It led me back to a far corner.
A rickety cane chair sat by two small crates piled to form a table. A smudge of blue glittered against the splintered wood. Next to it was a waxy blob of hard red. Makeup. None of her clothes were visible, hung up or piled nearby. Seeing their total blackness would have been a trick anyway. No mattress or even a pile of blankets showed whether or not she lived here.
Broken glass sparkled on one wall when I turned. I walked carefully toward it, stepping over small piles of wood and plaster, and found the windows. No wonder it was darker than the inside of a cave. The windows weren’t just clouded over with age and dirt. They had been painted over in thick black paint from the inside. Even by day, no light would penetrate here. Uneasiness made me step back too quickly. My foot came down on another pile of rubble. I slipped, flinging out my empty hand. It closed on a fistful of old cloth.
A large curtain hung down beside me, so huge I couldn’t see the top or the other side. It rippled, disturbed by my frantic grab. The returning air billowed with dust and the stink of rotting fruit, sweet and awful. I fumbled around until I found a cord dangling beside the curtain and pulled down on it. Rusty screeching ripped the silent gloom. I jumped, heart pounding, and nearly fell again. I steadied myself against the windows and gulped the dusty air. Just some old curtain hooks. Nothing dangerous. The sweet stench was stronger, making me cough.
Row upon row of pale oval shapes reached up into the darkness cloaking the rafters. I ran the beam of the flashlight over them. Faces glared at me from eyeless holes. I sprang back. When they stayed still, I reached out to brush one with my fingertips. It felt a little like clay, more like wax. That face bore the frozen snarl of a Kabuki demon, with red eye holes and a black slash of a mouth. A mask! The breath whooshed out of me and I grinned a little at my silliness. I touched it again, guessing it to be some hybrid of papier-mâché.
I touched more of the masks, some down by my knees, others so high I had to stretch on tiptoe. Some were dried and cracking like autumn leaves, others smooth and pliant. A faint nausea stirred in me when I touched them. I wrote it off to that sweetish reek.
One mask wore the Betty Boop kiss. I dug out the album, flipping through and glancing up at the masks I could see. Here and there were the elements of her parade of faces. So this was where she got her inspiration! It must have taken her years to collect so many. Why keep them here, at risk from damp and decay? I had one answer, but a dozen new questions.
The whispering began. I shut it out. My imagination was overworked from raw nerves. I raised the beam to see the upper rows of masks.
Their lips were moving.
Fascination conquered my jolt of fear. I played the light over the faces, watching their expressions change with the things they said. Keeping my eyes on them, I set down my backpack and the album, then pulled out my camera and flash attachment. Both were worth gold right now. I had visions of a Time article on this lost hoard of ancient art. I needed better light, but I didn’t dare risk missing this by hunting for a switch. I ached for a camcorder to catch both the masks’ sound and movement. Time probably had somebody on call who would know what weird language the masks spoke.
I could see no electronic rig, no power cables. The on/off switch must be hooked up to the cord I pulled. The flash was ready and the focus all set when I heard another noise behind me. The sound of stiletto heels.
Nightmare fear clamped my muscles. I spun around, too slowly. The plank she swung caught me across the side of the head. The last thing I heard was that awful calliope laugh.
Pain pulsed through every inch of my skull, threatening to split it wide open. I tried to get up. Nothing moved. I strained, feeling blood pound as dizziness spun me around. I went limp and let the vertigo pass. Something tight pinned my wrist. I tried lifting the other. Same thing. My ankles, too. I was tied to something hard and flat. A strap bound my forehead and another clamped my mouth. The smell of old seatbelt made me want to gag.
Two desk lamps blazed down into my eyes. They were angled down from behind my head, letting me see past my feet. More lights were on, illuminating the wall of masks. My eyes went wide despite the painful light. Hundreds of masks reached up to the rusted girders in the ceiling. Every higher row held masks cruder than those below, less stylized and far older. On them the quasipapier-mache was brown and cracked, making their designs impossible to see.