Emma puffed on her cigarette, trying to push back memories of that night, but her trembling fingers reminded her it was pointless. Instead, she focused on the passing traffic and the people walking and talking. How many of them shared her trauma? How many of them had imperfect lives?

  A man watching her from across the street caught her eye. Immediately she dropped her cigarette on the ground and moved to quickly re-enter the VCA building when he braved the traffic to cross the street in her direction. Emma gasped when he addressed her directly.

  “You know, you’re wasting your time in there.”

  He was so close that Emma could see a lip piercing and skull cheek tattoo. Scraggly black hair obscured his eyes. He held up his hands.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you, so chill, all right?”

  Emma’s heart pounded in her ears. The images of the leering face resurfaced. She wanted to scream.

  “I can help you, you know,” said the stranger.

  “I-I don’t have any money.”

  He shook his head, threads of hair shifting to reveal blue eyes. “You’re a victim, right? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “I don’t know what you—”

  “I can help you. Way more than just sitting around and talking about your feelings.”

  Emma fell mute, the experiences of that night threatening.

  “I can help you get the guy who did it.”

  “W-What?”

  “I know you’re a victim; I can see it in your eyes. In the way you carry yourself. The guilt and the shame are like chains around your neck.”

  The scream sat at the back of her throat. The tears came first, and she started to shake. The man took a step back and offered her a business card.

  “I know a way to help you,” he said, “I was a victim once, but not anymore. Come to this address if you want to learn more.”

  Shaken, Emma went back inside to the meeting. She wanted to tell someone what happened, maybe even call the police, but the stranger’s words burned a hole in her mind until the session ended.

  Once outside and away from prying eyes and ears, she took out the card to study it. It was a thick card embossed with an address: 1606 Mason Court. The high quality of the card didn’t match the roughness of its provider. Was it a trap, a lure to get her alone? She scratched the edge of the card with a thumbnail, confusion rising alongside the fear. How could the stranger have guessed her secret torment? She’d never seen him before at any VCA meeting. What so-called help was waiting for her at 1606 Mason Court?

  Martin passed her on the stairs. She reached out for the sleeve of his coat, startling him.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she said. “I…well, I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “To me? What about?”

  “Just um…I just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened to your fiancé—Rachel.”

  Martin looked like he would cry again, until he offered Emma a smile. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot.”

  Emma nodded. “I know how hard it can be to share our stories with total strangers.”

  Martin took off his glasses and wiped them with a hand­kerchief. “Yeah. Sometimes I wonder why it happened, you know… Why her?”

  “I wonder the same thing—every day.”

  He replaced his glasses. “I’d take it back if I could.”

  Emma fingered the card in her pocket. The stranger’s words lingered. “Did you ever find out who did it?”

  Martin shook his head. “The police found nothing.”

  “Imagine if there was a way to find out.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  She looked over her shoulder and stepped closer to him. “What if you had the chance to get the guy?”

  Martin’s mouth hung open. “Are you joking? ’Cause that’s not funny…”

  She toyed with whether to show Martin the card. “I’m sorry. I just had a weird experience before. This guy…came up to me from the street. He told me he knew how to find the asshole who—” She swallowed. “Who assaulted me.”

  Martin softened. “Oh, my god, were you…?”

  Emma shrank from the question.

  Martin stiffened and began to ramble. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way…but I found it really difficult to tell my story tonight and I’m not sure that uh…that I’ll be coming back. I’m sorry about what happened to you. I hope you can find the help you need. I’m sorry.”

  Emma didn’t know why but she took a cab straight to Mason Court. She stood on the kerb across the street and stared at its façade. Number 1606 was a turn-of-the-century building wedged between two modern apartments. The brickwork was weathered, grey and cracked, while the surrounding streetlights seemed to draw out the shadows rather than diminish them. Seven stone steps led to an ornate front door of heavy oak, painted black.

  Emma checked the address on the business card and then looked more carefully at the building. Every instinct told her to drop the card and run.

  “I once stood where you are now.”

  Emma released a cry at the sound of the stranger’s voice.

  Again, he held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, sorry, you know I don’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you keep coming out of nowhere!”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s been my thing for a long time.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered her one, but she shook her head. “You smoke, right? I mean, I saw you on the street with one.”

  She pointed the card at him. “Who the fuck are you? Why did you give me this card and what…”—she gestured to the old building—“what exactly is that place?”

  He lit up, took a long drag, and exhaled. “My name is Dixon. You know why I gave you that card? That place is your salvation.”

  “My salvation?”

  Dixon flicked the fringe out of his eyes. “I think the more important question you need to be asking yourself is what made you decide to come here.”

  Emma turned to the building. “I-I don’t know.”

  Dixon took another drag and tossed the cigarette away. “You want to know how I know.”

  She turned back to him. “Yes.”

  “It’s this place. It knows. And it told me to come and find you, offer you an invitation.”

  “To get the…the piece of shit who did this to me? How? I don’t even know who he is. All I have are fucking nightmares about a face I can’t remember. The cops have no idea who he is, so how could you?”

  Dixon shrugged. “As I said, it’s not me. It’s that place. All I know is that I got the salvation I wanted when I walked through those doors.”

  “How? How did it help you?”

  He put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, his gaze on 1606 Mason Court. He sighed like he was tired.

  “My little brother and I got into a lot of trouble when we were kids and ended up in juvie. The warden and his goons were the worst of the worst. They beat my brother and me every night. Every fucking night. We were in the place for nearly five years. In the end, my little brother took so many beatings that it fucked with his head. Left him a fucking vegetable. I had to be the one to shut him off. I eventually got released and tried to live a normal life, but every day, I would think of my little brother and how I wanted to get the fuckers who killed him. Then, one day, this guy comes up to me and gives me the same card you’re holding now.”

  Emma looked down at the card. Dixon stepped closer.

  “Come across the street with me, and I promise that I’ll show you how I got my life back…and how you can too.”

  After Dixon opened the front door to 1606 Mason Court, he led Emma down a darkened hallway that ended with another door.

  Trepidation set her heart pounding, but she felt there was no turning back, she was committed to learning the secret. Light glimmered softly around the edges of the second door and as she and Dixon approached, it opened of its own accord. Dixon looked over his shoulder and gave her a broad smile.

  “Pretty freaky, huh?”

  Emma followed him and they stepped across the threshold into a circular room. On the wall in front of them were rows of small drawers, like safety deposit boxes. The brass locks on the drawers seemed to shine.

  “What is this place?” said Emma.

  Dixon pressed a finger to his lips and reached out a hand for the card. He took it towards the wall of drawers. A lock opened with a click, and one of the drawers in the center row slowly slid open.

  “Candidate Emma Walker,” said Dixon.

  “How did you know my—” whispered Emma, but again Dixon silenced her.

  He placed the card inside the drawer, and it retracted, closing with a soft scrape. A moment passed and all Emma could do was breathe and listen to the beat of her terrified heart. She considered turning and running out the door but the entry had already closed. A further scraping sound made her turn back to see the drawer had reopened. Dixon stepped forward and retrieved what she thought was the same card—until he handed it to her. On the card was the new printed text:

  Rick Miller, 1289 Brighton Street.

  She read the text and looked at Dixon. “What is it?”

  “That’s your chance,” he told her.

  Emma stared at the text, the name Rick Miller burning into her subconscious. The leering face that had haunted her—scarred her—now had a name. The text began to blur as tears welled in her eyes.

  “This…this is him?”

  Dixon nodded. The scraping returned; another drawer had opened beside the first. Dixon gestured for Emma to approach it.

  “You have to be the one to take it,” he said.

  She wiped the tears from her eyes and cautiously went to the drawer. At first, she thought the drawer contained only darkness. She leaned in closer. The contents made her gasp. Inside was a mask. It was flesh but devoid of any facial features. It was simply a blank human visage, both blind and mute. She picked it up and faced Dixon.

  “What the fuck is going on? What is this?”

  “It’s anonymity.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to the open drawer. “It’s part of the deal. They give you the means—and the tools—to get the justice you deserve.”

  Emma scanned the wall and the ceiling. The drawers seemed to disappear into the darkness.

  “They? Who are they? What’s behind this wall?” She held out the card. “How the fuck do they know who he is?”

  Dixon pushed a strand of hair aside. “There’s no point asking these questions. They just know. And I swear to you that it’s all true. They gave me what I wanted and they can give it to you too. All they ask is that you wear the mask so they can watch.”

  Emma scoffed. “Watch me what?”

  He looked at the card and then into Emma’s eyes. “Come on, Emma—so you can kill him.”

  The name Rick Miller was stark against the perfect white card. The thought of killing the man responsible had always resided in the deepest recesses of her heart.

  “Take the mask,” Dixon said. “Take it and that card and get what you deserve.”

  Brighton Street was in the projects, the lost part of the city. Emma took the 12.05am bus, staring out the window to watch the streets gradually become darker, filthier, and more desperate. On the journey, she thought about how desperate she was—how far she would go.

  She got off the bus at 1261, deciding to walk the rest of the way. Her destiny was only a block away. She walked past the homeless and downtrodden, counting the house numbers. The items in her jacket pockets weighed heavily on her mind.

  Then 1289 Brighton Street came into view on a corner. The house was a single-story timber shack with peeling paint and a front lawn of dying grass. A chain-link fence surrounded it, but the front gate was wide open. Through the front window she glimpsed a figure bathed in the flickering light of a television.

  Emma checked over her shoulder to make sure no one was around, she retrieved the mask from her left jacket pocket. When she held the mask the first time, it was cool to the touch; now it felt warm in her hands. She turned it over and saw the inside of the mask was still pitch black. She wondered how she was going to see out of it.

  “Anonymity,” she whispered.

  She placed the mask over her face and a pulse immediately spread throughout her body as if she had suffered an electric shock. Confusion reigned as a cacophony of voices entered Emma’s head. Her vision turned blood-red, and the taste of metal flooded her tongue. A wave of compulsion washed over her, and she could only watch herself as she started to walk through the front gate of 1289 Brighton Street and up the steps. Her right hand moved on its own to knock on the door. The voices rang in her head.

  You wanted this.

  This is what you asked for.

  Emma reached into her right pocket and pulled out the gun.

  This is what you want.

  This is what we want.

  Rick Miller opened his front door. The leering face—the mask that plagued her dreams, her future.

  Emma raised her hand and squeezed the trigger.

  Emma’s clothes smelled like Rick Miller’s blood. She re-entered the house at 1606 Mason Court, the doors swinging open to welcome her, but at that moment, she wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else.

  She walked into the circular room, her legs shaking so much she could barely manage it. There was no one else in the room, no Dixon—only her and the wall of featureless drawers. She took off the mask and the fifth drawer in the center row crept open. She reached into her right pocket and took out the gun, which still reeked of its last act. A second drawer opened. She looked at the open drawers like judgemental eyes and released a long scream. The sound cascaded through the room, serving to remind her she was alone.

  “You made me do that!” she said to the wall. “You made me no better than him!”

  Emma waited, expecting a response, but the drawers sat open, like a pair of hungry hands.

  “Why? Why did you give me this?”

  When no reply came, Emma tossed the mask and the gun away and scrambled to the wall to pull the drawers until they came free, leaving two rectangular wounds. She dropped to her knees and screamed into the dark holes.

  “Answer me! Who the fuck are you?”

  Again came silence, which only fuelled her rage. She pulled out another drawer and another. She looked into each hole, finding only darkness on the other side, until glints of light appeared. Faces-masks tethered to the black. They were the same mask she’d worn when she murdered Rick Miller. She had been wearing them.

  We know what lies behind men’s faces, behind their souls.

  Emma sobbed. “You…you made me kill him. So that you could fucking watch?”

  Sin is sin. Punishment is punishment.

  “Then why do I feel like you’re punishing me?” Emma slammed her fist on the wall. “What are you—angels, demons? All I see are faceless fucking freaks! How can you do this to people?”

  The masks retreated into the dark, leaving behind only the echo of one final refrain.

  We gave you a choice: either salvation or damnation. It’s how you chose.

  Emma waited for Martin on the stairs outside the Victims of Crime Association building. When he emerged, she could tell by his eyes that he’d been crying, that he was still having nightmares about Rachel and the man who had taken her from him. He saw her and stopped halfway down the stairs.

  “Emma—wow. Nobody’s seen you in weeks.”

  She offered him a smile. “You know you’re wasting your time in there.”

  Martin adjusted his glasses as she handed him a business card.

  “They can’t help you,” she said. “But I can.”

  Left on October Lane

  Jake sat on the end of the bed in his skeleton onesie listening to a real-life monster screaming at his mum, the horrible sound echoing throughout the house.

  Twenty minutes before, his stepdad John had come home smelling of drink, lumbering beast-like into the kitchen demanding his steak and beer. Jake had been watching TV, staring at Laurie Strode’s terrified gaze when John had walked in. John’s stern voice had drawn Jake’s gaze to his mother. Laurie Strode’s look of fear didn’t even compare. Mother and son’s eyes met and when John noticed, he’d stepped between them.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” John told Shelley.

  “I’m sorry,” she’d replied, and Jake couldn’t help but wish she was holding a knife, like Laurie on the TV.

  John staggered over to stare at Jake and what he was watching. He laughed and shook his head.

  “What in the name of Christ have you got this kid watching now, Shelley?”

  Jake averted his stepdad’s gaze and watched Michael Myers’ pale face dominate the screen; he so wanted to be as strong as Michael. John’s voice soared with each vile word that passed his lips.

  “How can you let a twelve-year-old watch that crap, Shelley? You’re letting him rot his god-damned mind—do you know that?”

  John stormed across the lounge room and switched off the TV with such force that it almost toppled over.

  “Get your ass in your room, boy,” John said.

  “Please John, leave him, it’s Halloween—he just wants to watch one movie…”

  Jake could tell his mother knew she had made a mistake and her voice trailed off, but there was no doubt that John had heard her. A wave of fury filled his eyes, more terrifying than any celluloid serial killer.

  “What did you say to me?”

  John defied his inebriation to move like a ghost into the kitchen. The following harsh slap of skin on skin that rang out was like a starter’s pistol and it sent Jake out of the lounge room and down the hall so fast that he thought hell was on his heels.