The psychiatrist patiently heard him out and then painstakingly
explained in simple layman language that his early childhood experience
had made an impact on his impressionable, too-vulnerable young mind
all out of proportion to its actual importance. He pointed out that
the mask fear was far more than a physical one. True, the child had
been buffeted by the circus crowd, had been shoved and pushed down
between the seats--painfully and perhaps severely bruised. But the
fear went deeper than that. When the lights in the circus tent went
out, the child had been holding tight to his father's hand. The father
represented security, comfort, protection, home. Suddenly the child was
hurled into milling blackness and then out of the darkness appeared a
hideous leering face which bore down on him with apparent evil intent. So--the psychiatrist explained--in Mr. Apondee's subconscious mind
the mask--or any mask--had come to symbolize the loss of security,
of stability and protection. It symbolized all of the inherited and
acquired fears which lurked in Mr. Apondee's own psychic depths. Mr. Apondee listened and he was impressed. He felt better. He believed
that he now thoroughly understood the origin of the mask terror, and in
understanding, he judged, was exorcism. But this was only partially true. Although the explanation tended to
alleviate Mr. Apondee's mask fear, it by no means entirely dispelled
the fixation. The fear remained, buried deep in Mr. Apondee's psychic
being, and even though it no longer flickered into furious life at the
smallest draft of provocation, still it went on smouldering. In his early thirties Mr. Apondee got married, and if his marriage
had its occasional "ups and downs", it was probably no better and no
worse than the average. All considered, it might be termed reasonably
successful. Probably Mr. Apondee believed it far more successful than did his
spouse. Mrs. Apondee was frequently exasperated by her husband's lack
of enterprise, by his timidity and by his tendency to accept rather
than alter his lot. But after the first few years she seldom complained. It did no good,
and in any case Mr. Apondee had plenty of laudable qualities. Although
his job was a modest one, he worked steadily at it. He didn't drink,
nor stay out at night, nor grumble about the meals. Mr. Apondee himself was quite satisfied with his circumstances. He had
a faithful wife, a small but neat apartment home and a job which was
probably his as long as he wanted it, providing he was willing to
forego any prospect of raises within the foreseeable future. All in
all, he felt that he possessed a measure of security. He never mentioned his mask fear to his wife. He had an uncomfortable
feeling that she would consider it silly, that she might even ridicule
him. It was, after all, an awkward thing to explain to anyone and Mr.
Apondee could see no point in broaching it. If Mrs. Apondee had known about it, the chances are the surprise
birthday party for Mr. Apondee would have been staged in a far less
fanciful manner. Actually, the introduction of the masks was an afterthought. The five couples and Mrs. Apondee were crowded into the Apondee's small
apartment late one October afternoon. A big birthday cake covered with
pink icing and candles rested on a table in the living room. It was Mr.
Apondee's birthday and they meant to surprise him when he came home
from work at five-thirty. Suddenly young Mrs. Tyler had an idea. She was giving a Halloween
masquerade party later in the month, she said, and that very afternoon
she had been out shopping for masks. She had them with her now. Why
didn't they each put on a mask before Mr. Apondee came in? It would be
great fun; for a minute he wouldn't know who any of them were and that
would add to the element of surprise. They all--including Mrs. Apondee--agreed with enthusiasm. Then a
further eerie touch was added when fertile Mr. Fentonby suggested that
they put out all the lights in the apartment, except in the vestibule,
pull down the shades, and hold lighted birthday candles near their
masked faces. When Mr. Apondee first came in, they would remain silent
and he would be confronted by nothing but an assemblage of weird
glowing masks, hovering, as it were, in mid-air. Mr. Fentonby's suggestion was adopted with shouts of delight. At
five-fifteen they slipped on their grotesque false faces, snapped out
all the lights and got their little candles ready. Ten minutes later
they drew the shades, lit their candles and waited breathlessly like
mischievous children. The minutes dragged, but presently they heard the click of the
self-service elevator down the hall. And then Mr. Apondee's light but
steady tread. He was, as a matter of fact, slightly late. Work had piled up at the
office and he was more tired than usual. Opening the door into the tiny vestibule of his apartment, he sighed
with contentment and relief. After hanging up his hat and coat, he
strolled into the living room. In that impossibly black place eleven luminous, nightmare masks floated
suddenly out at him. They gleamed and flickered with an unearthly light
all their own. The masks were different, but they were all hideous, all
malevolent. Some had huge drooping noses; some, great white rubbery
lips, grinning with insane merriment; some had tiny glittering eyes and
fearful pink mouths. For one terrible moment Mr. Apondee stood frozen and speechless. Then
he began to scream. He screamed and kept on screaming and shouts of
"Surprise!" died in eleven throats which were in turn suddenly stricken
silent. Candles were dropped, and some of the masks, but too late. Mr. Apondee
plunged like a maddened thing through the darkened room. He headed for
the only glimmer of natural light which was visible--a window. He hurled himself through it, shade and all, and he was still screaming
when he struck the cement walk, seven stories below. THE VISITOR IN THE VAULT


Newling hated the vault. Hated its shadows, its silence, its cold stale
air. But this morning there could be no escape. Preston Haver's books had
been sorted and classified, and Mr. Twais, the head librarian, had
given instructions that some of the most valuable of the lot were to be
stored in the locked basement vault. Running his hand through his thinning hair, Newling pushed the book
truck into the staff elevator. Mrs. Joy, the desk attendant, watched
him with an abstracted expression. There was no one else in sight. Mr.
Twais was in his private office, reading the morning mail. The elevator glided to a smooth stop and Newling rolled out the truck. Fretting with irritation, he started down the long, dimly-lighted
corridor which led to the locked vault. Preston Haver always had been a nuisance. Always poking and prying
around the library, looking for some outlandish book which no one
had ever heard of. He had given Newling many a start as he shuffled
suddenly into sight around a book shelf, grinning and nodding like an
overgrown gnome.