by Ronald Malfi
Mr. Trueheart did not have a dog.
Warren opened the gate, went up the walk, climbed the bowing porch steps, and knocked on Mr. Trueheart’s front door. There were birds’ nests bristling in the carriage lights on either side of the door and spiders’ webs waterfalling like drapery from the eaves.
Mr. Trueheart’s leaden footfalls on the other side of the door: thunk, thunk, thunk. This was followed by a single knock against the interior side of the door. Warren rapped two successive knocks against the door, waited five seconds—he counted them aloud under his breath—then knocked a final time.
The door wrenched open several inches. It was gloomy inside, and Mr. Trueheart’s colorless, narrow face seemed to materialize out of the darkness and peer down at him. Something akin to a smile cracked the usually stoic veneer of Mr. Trueheart’s face.
“Very good,” Mr. Trueheart said, his voice a ruptured baritone that reminded Warren of the brass instruments in the music room of his elementary school. “You’ve done your face.”
Warren nodded.
“Did you speak with anyone after leaving your house?”
Warren shook his head.
“What did you mother say?”
“She was drinking again,” Warren said. This, he felt, was explanation enough.
Mr. Trueheart nodded, then stepped back so that Warren could pass through the narrow crack in the doorway. Once inside, Mr. Trueheart closed the door, bolted it, chained it, kept the palm of one hand against it for several seconds as though he were testing the temperature of the wood. Warren stood beside him and waited in silence. He was used to the routine.
Mr. Trueheart was seventy-one years old. Warren first met him over a year ago, when the members of his Cub Scout troop were tasked with assisting the elderly. Some boys went shopping for the elderly neighbors, others would read to them on the weekends. Warren had spent the first few visits helping Mr. Trueheart nail boards up over his windows and fill empty milk cartons with powdered dish detergent. Warren hadn’t wanted to join the Cubs—it had been his mother’s idea, a chance, she’d said, for him to make some friends—but he quickly took a liking to Mr. Trueheart.
Mr. Trueheart had a lot of wisdom to impart.
He saw things as they really were.
* * *
My name is not really Trueheart, says Mr. Trueheart during one of Warren’s visits. You can call me that, but it’s not my real name.
Warren asks him why he uses a fake name.
It’s so I stay out of sight, responds Mr. Trueheart. I keep hidden. They’re always out there watching. Searching. It’s necessary to be careful, Warren. And it’ll serve you well to learn that quickly. I don’t suppose anyone ever let you in on the big secret, have they?
Warren shakes his head.
We must speak cautiously about these things, says Mr. Trueheart, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. I will tell you, but this is the secret, the biggest one you’ll ever keep. Is that something you can do?
Warren nods.
Good, says Mr. Trueheart.
So Mr. Trueheart teaches and Warren learns.
In the end, Warren has made a friend after all.
* * *
Mr. Trueheart’s house was unkempt and smelled funny, like the Campbell’s tomato soup his mother sometimes made Warren eat. Tonight was no different, with the exception of something else borne on the air—a strangely pungent, medicinal smell. It made the air difficult to breathe.
Mr. Trueheart led him down the hall, past stacks of books on the floor, on chairs, piled on the stairs that went to the second floor. There were mounds of dirty laundry scattered about like strange alien pods that had grown up from the carpeting. Warren followed Mr. Trueheart down the hall and into the sunken den at the far end of the house—what Mr. Trueheart often called “the foxhole.” There were windows that looked out onto a wooded backyard, a loveseat facing an ancient TV that still had rabbit ears, and a large wooden rocking chair outfitted in a beaded cushion. On this night, the furniture had been shoved against the walls to make room for the object that sat in the center of the floor.
“Is that it?” Warren asked.
“Yes. Would you like a closer look?”
“Is it safe?”
“For now,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I haven’t activated it yet.”
Warren stepped down into the foxhole and walked cautiously over to the item in the center of the floor. It wasn’t big—that was the point, really—and it hardly looked dangerous. It was mostly a tin coffee can, the words MAXWELL HOUSE clearly legible (although upside down) on the side, fixed to a thin square of wood. Colored wires spooled out on either side of it; some were soldered to the outside of the can while others disappeared beneath it, wedged between the can and the wooden board. A hole had been drilled through the top of the can—which was the bottom of the can—and what looked like a frosted Christmas tree light poked up.
Warren stared down at the thing for several seconds.
After a while, Mr. Trueheart said, “Would you like a Hawaiian Punch?”
* * *
They drank two glasses of Hawaiian Punch each, in the cramped kitchen where the sink overflowed with unwashed dishes and reams of unread newspapers blanketed the counter tops.
“Your face is very good,” Mr. Trueheart said after sucking down the last of his juice. They were seated together at the kitchen table, which was actually a card table with wobbly legs. “That white paint has kept you safe.”
Warren nodded.
“When you become your own negative, it makes you harder for them to see.”
“Some boys from school saw me on the way over here tonight.”
“What did they look like?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t look at them.”
A smile stretched across the lower half of Mr. Trueheart’s face. “Very good, Warren. You’ve really been paying attention.”
“Of course. I don’t want to get caught.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I hope that’s something we can avoid altogether.”
Warren looked at his own empty glass. The sugary drink had upset his stomach. Or maybe he was just nervous.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Trueheart. “What’s on your mind, Warren?”
Warren looked up at him. “I want to see them,” he said. “See them the way you see them.”
Mr. Trueheart’s smile widened. “And tonight, dear boy, is that night. But first, we must be sure you understand what it is you need to do.”
Warren nodded.
Mr. Trueheart rose from the table, went over to a cluttered breakfront, and rifled around through unruly stacks of paper. There were photographs among the papers, photographs that Warren had looked at several times before. They were of Mr. Trueheart and some other men, all of them in their twenties or so, in khaki military garb holding guns. From the background, it appeared they were in the desert. Whenever Warren would ask Mr. Trueheart where those pictures had been taken, he would always receive a different answer. “France,” Mr. Trueheart sometimes said. “Africa,” he’d offer. “Budapest,” he said on a few occasions. And once, Mr. Trueheart (whose name was not actually Trueheart, not at all) said, “Mars, Warren. Those photos were taken on Mars.”
Mr. Trueheart returned to the table with a large sheet of paper rolled up into a cone. He unrolled it and splayed it out across the table, then set their empty drinking glasses on two corners so that it wouldn’t roll up.
Glued to the paper were a multitude of photographs, each one taken by Warren over a period of three months. Some of the photos showed Windell Street from various locations. Others showed Kennedy Park—the baseball diamond, the swings and seesaws, the wooded treeline that brooked the park and Windell Street. Other photos were of the streets and houses that surrounded the park.
“Tell me,” Mr. Trueheart said. “What have you learned, Warren.”
Warren leaned over the table, scrutinized the photos, then pointed to the one depicting the base
ball diamond at the center of Kennedy Park. “Right here,” Warren said. “That’s where they’ll meet up.”
“What time?”
“Eight o’clock.”
Mr. Trueheart glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. It was just five after seven. There was still plenty of time. Kennedy Park was only three blocks away.
“The baseball diamond is a good place, and it’s certainly in the center of everything,” said Mr. Trueheart, “but I’m concerned that it might be too conspicuous.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s too out in the open, Warren. Too many people will be able to see it.”
“Oh.”
“Now,” said Mr. Trueheart, leaning over the photographs, his shadow hovering like a bird of prey, “if you were to place it here,” and he pointed to a low hedgerow that ran alongside the bleachers, “then we might be in business.”
Warren nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Wonderful.” Mr. Trueheart straightened up. “Did you bring me what I asked for?”
“Yes.” Warren leaned over and scooped his backpack off the floor. He unzipped it, procured the bottle of liquor from it, and handed it over to Mr. Trueheart.
“Thank you, Warren,” said Mr. Trueheart as he studied the label then pulled the corked cap from the bottle. He poured a few inches into his drinking glass.
“Can I try some?” asked Warren.
“No, son. I’m afraid that would be inappropriate. Besides, you’ve got important work to do. And I’m not only entrusting you with one very invaluable item, but two.”
“Really? What’s the second one?”
“Only the thing you’ve been asking for since we started talking about this and making our plans.”
Mr. Trueheart lifted his glass to his lips—the large sheet of paper speedily rolled up on the table—and took a sip. He grimaced and his teeth looked gray.
“Come,” he said, and beckoned Warren to follow him back out into the hallway.
* * *
Do you ever notice, dear Warren, how you are so frequently singled out in school or on the playground? That the children never seem to want anything to do with you? That sometimes they don’t know you even exist? And the awful things they sometimes do when they do approach you...it’s terrible, Warren. And do you know what else? It’s unnatural. Yes, that’s right. Because these children aren’t who you think they are. They’re imposters, Warren. They’ve been replaced. Come—listen to what I have to tell you. Would you like some chocolate milk?
* * *
From the hallway closet, Mr. Trueheart procured what at first looked like a hat or a rubber boot from the top shelf. It came loose in an avalanche of winter gloves and streamers of scarves, which Mr. Trueheart absently shoved aside with his slippered foot.
He handed the item to Warren.
It was a rubber monster mask, its fleshy face the color of pea soup, grotesque and alien in its countenance. The eye holes looked too narrow as did the slit within the mouth. It was like no monster Warren had ever seen on TV or in video games.
“That’s Ru’ulgreg,” said Mr. Trueheart. “I just call him Greg. But you can give him your own name. He’s yours now.”
Somewhat confused, Warren turned the mask over in his hands. He hadn’t been expecting this.
“In truth, it doesn’t matter what you call him. He’s an it, Warren, just a thing. But a very special one. He who wears the mask sees the creatures in their true form. It’s what you’ve been asking for all along.”
Warren looked up at him. “Really? Just from wearing the mask?”
“Mind you, it’s not instantaneous. It will take some time to...well, to grow on you. But soon you’ll see them exactly as I do. They won’t be able to hide from you anymore. And the mask will keep you safe, too. You can’t run around painting your face white and pretending to be the negative of yourself forever, can you?”
Mr. Trueheart laughed—a brassy trumpeting sound that caused Warren to jump and then to join in with his own high-pitched laughter.
Once the laughter subsided, Mr. Trueheart placed a thin-fingered hand on Warren’s shoulder and said, “We must hurry. You have to be there before the start of the parade. Otherwise people might ask questions. They might spot you and put a stop to the whole thing.”
Warren nodded. “Okay.”
“Come.”
They returned to the foxhole and knelt down before the Maxwell House contraption.
“Look here,” Mr. Trueheart said, and he pointed to a small toggle switch poking through an eyelet at the back of the coffee can. Warren hadn’t noticed it until now. It was switched down, presumably in the “off” position.
“You flip it up to turn it on,” explained Mr. Trueheart. “Then it will be alive.”
“Will the light on the top come on?” Warren asked, pointing to the darkened Christmas bulb.
“No. The light was there only for the test runs. It wouldn’t be prudent to have it lit up like a...well, like a Christmas tree, considering what we’re trying to do. Am I right?”
“Sure.”
“You’ll need to switch it on once you’ve placed it in its spot. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“And then you need to get far away from it.”
“How far?”
“Back to the street, at the very closest. But you should probably just go home after switching it on. You don’t need to be there when it happens. It’s on a timer.”
“How long is the timer?”
“It’s set to go off exactly three minutes after it’s turned on.”
“Alive,” Warren said.
“Yes. Alive.”
“I can do it.”
“Yes, Warren. I know you can.”
Because they’re monsters, Warren thought, and they need to be stopped. They can fool everyone else but they can’t fool us.
He wanted to get outside and try out the mask.
* * *
Mr. Trueheart helped him slide it into his backpack. He helped Warren tug the straps up over his shoulders. The thing inside the backpack wasn’t hardly as heavy as Warren had been expecting. He’d spent the better part of the year buying supplies for Mr. Trueheart—everything from powdered dish detergent to fertilizer, from soap to nine-volt batteries—but he didn’t know exactly how Mr. Trueheart had built the contraption. What was inside the coffee can?
At the front door, Mr. Trueheart said, “I would do this myself, you understand, but I can’t, Warren. I’ve grown too conspicuous after all this time to be out there among them.”
“Out in the open for anyone to see,” Warren added.
“That’s right. No amount of face paint will protect me. No mask, either. Not anymore. So, you see, I must remain in the house. But that’s okay, because this is where the second phase of the plan must take place. Phase one involves you at Kennedy Park. Phase two involves me right here in my home. Do you understand?”
He really didn’t, not fully, but he trusted his friend so he said, “Yes.”
“Excellent. Now run along, Warren. You’ve got a job to do. And you can’t be late.”
Out on the street, Warren pulled the mask over his face. It stank of mildew and it was hard to breathe through the tiny slits in the rubber, but he felt safe wearing it. The greasepaint hadn’t been as effective as he had hoped—those sixth graders on the porch had noticed him—but the mask felt right. As if he could walk around all night, right through a crowd of people, and never be noticed by anyone.
This theory was reinforced when he arrived at Kennedy Park. It was still early, but there were already a few kids and their parents milling about, waiting for the Halloween parade to start. No one paid Warren any mind as he hurried across the field to the baseball diamond. Near the bleachers, he wedged himself between two of the bushes that made up the hedgerow. He was careful sliding his backpack off and unzipping it. He was even more cautious removing the Maxwell House contraption from it, and set
tling it down in the dusty sand behind the bushes. The thing was incredibly light. He wanted to shake it and see if things rolled around inside—he’d also purchased ball bearings, screws, and nails at the hardware store in town at Mr. Trueheart’s behest just a few weeks ago—but he was afraid the thing might blow up in his hands. Instead, he covered it up with some dead leaves then climbed up into the bleachers to wait for the crowd to grow.
The mask still over his head, he watched the children execute cartwheels in the grass, watched a group of young girls play hide and seek behind a copse of trees, watched parents talking and smoking and looking at their cell phones. Despite whatever power the mask might have, they all still looked like regular people to him. Mr. Trueheart said it would take time—
It’s not instantaneous. It will take some time to...well, to grow on you. But soon you’ll see them exactly as I do...
Warren would wait.
He had always been a patient child.
* * *
Just about everyone has been replaced, Warren. Replacements fill your school, replacements walk up and down your streets. Let me ask you, Warren—have you noticed anything peculiar about your mother lately? No? Well, that’s good. That’s good. Maybe there’s still time to save some of us, yeah?
* * *
At eight o’clock, the children gathered along the third-base line of the diamond at Kennedy Park, all manner of ghoul and goblin and witch and mummy in attendance. They kicked up plumes of dust with their sneakers, laughed raucously, swatted at each other with ninja swords, zapped random strangers with ray guns whose barrels lit up with sparks of flinty fire. Their parents climbed up into the bleachers, some taking photos of the festive lineup, others still busy on their cell phones. An infant’s plangent cries echoed out across the darkening park.
