Yellow Mama E zine

LOOK AT ME

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by Roy Dorman

 

         Edward Brassington decided maybe he’d wear his Rob Lowe mask this evening.

         It had been a while since he’d used it, and he was pretty sure people would’ve forgotten which mask that particular witness quoted in the newspapers had said he’d worn.

         The public’s memory of things that didn’t directly affect them was notoriously short.

Because Edward’s face was one that often caused people to recoil in fear or disgust, he’d purchased a number of masks over the years to hide behind.

        Masks of Pee Wee Herman, Roy Rogers, Rob Lowe, for example. Faces that people might wonder at, but not run screaming from. And those faces were also of people who’ve been forgotten by most folks.

        Except maybe Rob Lowe. Some of his movies were still on television.

        Edward worked as a machinist by day and didn’t need to wear a mask while at work.

        When he felt the urge—the rage—he was a second-story man at night.

        If you haven’t read a lot of crime novels set in the 40s and 50s, you might not know what a second-story man is.

        If you have read some, you should know that Edward isn’t in it for the money.  He’s not a burglar. 

        His face had been disfigured in a car accident as a teenager, and he’s taking his anger out on the “normal” people who shun him.                                                   

***

        “The Chief says gettin’ this guy has moved to the top of the list,” said Detective Anthony Knolls. “Only active homicide investigations are to take precedence.”

        In addition to the half-dozen or so people who’ve reported someone in a mask in their apartments after midnight during the last year, two older women were recently found dead in their hallways from heart attacks.

        There was no way yet to tie those two deaths to “The Masked One,” as he was being called in the press, but it was being looked at.

        The Masked One’s “modus operandi” is to enter an apartment from the fire escape through a living room window and make enough noise there to draw the resident, or residents, from their bedrooms.

         He then steps out from behind whatever hiding place was available in the room and grabs the person.

        If he’d grabbed those two old ladies and they’d died of fright, he could be tried for murder.

Others had been scared out of their wits, but hadn’t been harmed.

***

        Edward found a window that hadn’t been locked and slowly opened it. He crawled in and checked the place out. In the hallway just outside the entrance to the living room, there was a coat rack with a woman’s long wool coat hanging on it. That would do fine.

        He took a hardcover book from a book shelf, dropped it onto the floor, and listened.

Nothing.

        He took a glass ashtray and bounced it off the coffee table a couple of times.

        That did it.

       “Who’s there?” came a voice from another room.                                                  

       Finally, he loudly cleared his throat.

       “Who’s out there?” that voice called, a little louder this time.

        Edward retreated to his spot behind the coat rack to wait. When whoever lived here came out, he would grab them, make them look at his masked face, and then remove the mask for the ultimate scare.

        He watched as a young woman walked into the living room.

       “Who’s here?” she asked again, this time a little sadness in her voice. “Please tell me.”

        Edward silently left his hiding place and stood behind her, savoring the moment.

        As though sensing him, she turned to face him.

       “Look at me,” Edward said, taking her by the shoulders.

       “I am,” she said very calmly.

       “No, stupid, look at my face.”

       Jenny Cooke had been looking at Edward’s chest. She didn’t know if he was five feet tall or six feet tall. She didn’t know where Edward’s face was.

       Edward tore off his mask. “Look at me!” he yelled at Jenny, his fingers digging into her shoulders. “Look at me, damn you!”

       Jenny had a small Sig Sauer in the pocket of her bathrobe. She put her hand into that pocket, and without even taking the Sig out, shot Edward three times in the chest.

       Edward fell to the floor. “Look at me,” he said, through a mouth full of blood.

       Jenny didn’t look at Edward. She went over to a small end table by the couch and found her phone.

       “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

       “I’m Jenny Cooke at 2576 Evergreen, Apartment 4C. I just shot a man. He might be dead. I hope he’s dead, because I’m blind, and the son of a bitch scared me.”

 

THE END

 

        Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for over 70 years. At the prompting of an old high school friend, himself a retired English teacher, Roy is now a voracious writer. He has had flash fiction and poetry published in 10 X 10, Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, One Sentence Poems, Yellow Mama, Drunk Monkeys, Literally Stories, Dark Dossier, The Rye Whiskey Review, Near To The Knuckle, Theme of Absence, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, The Yard, and a number of other online and print journals. Unweaving a Tangled Web, published by Hekate Publishing, is his first novel.

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      Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She's an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.