16 Oct A Mask for Every Mood

Posted at 11:00h in Uncategorized by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on October 16, 2024

“A Mask for Every Mood”

Written by Matias Travieso-Diaz
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 12 minutes

Rating: 8.50/10. From 2 votes.

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“This thing is malfunctioning again!” shouted Eric, pounding the controls of the neurostimulator. Little by little, the youth’s limbic system lumbered into action, and the physiological markers of anger started to manifest themselves: increases in heart rate, arterial tension, and testosterone production. However, the silicone mask covering Eric’s face still displayed an incongruous smile.

Eric’s mother urged him to calm down. “You must learn to control that temper of yours! Instead of screaming, you should take your IPG to the service center; maybe the batteries are weak. I hope they won’t have to muck with the lead.”

“You know how long the lines are at the center? Everybody and his brother are having problems with this system. It’s too complicated!”

“What can we do? We all have got the virus,” she lamented.

“Damned virus!” Eric continued to scream beneath the still-smiling mask.

“At least this new gift from China doesn’t kill people, not usually,” she replied, prodding him again:

“OK, get going. Have them also look at the mask links.”

* * * * * *

The nearest service center of the Healthtronics Corporation was in a suite of rooms in a megamall a short ride away from Eric’s home. The center had a main room with a long counter and numerous uncomfortable chairs; there was also a backroom where repairs were made. The main room was full of waiting customers, some of them milling about impatiently.

Eric approached the counter and pulled a number from a dispenser. “137,” read the paper ticket. An illuminated display on the back wall read: NOW SERVING: 92.

“Aww,” moaned the youth. It would be a couple of hours’ wait. He picked up a pamphlet from an open display box and sat down to kill a few minutes reading.

He read: “The virus affecting the world population is a new strain, HSV-4, of the Herpes Simplex virus. Starting in Asia last spring, HSV-4 reached every continent in a matter of weeks. Like other herpes varieties, HSV-4 is highly infectious and transmits through bodily fluids, especially saliva. It can also spread through blood and semen during sexual contact, blood transfusions, and objects that an infected person recently used. HSV-4 distinguishes itself from earlier HSV strains in that it affects a victim’s nervous system. The virus lodges itself in the brain and interferes with the body’s control functions.

“Healthcare professionals worldwide strive to understand HSV-4 and develop a vaccine to eradicate it. No cure has been found yet, but the healthcare industry, led by Healthtronics Corporation, has launched an all-out program to mitigate the virus’ effects. Taking a clue from Parkinson’s Disease treatment strategies, Healthtronics has developed a deep brain stimulation system (DBSS) intended to bring back into action an inoperative limbic system. The DBSS is installed by drilling tiny holes in the skull of a patient, inserting miniature electrodes into the affected region deep on the back of the brain, and running wires through the neck down to the collarbone to connect the electrodes to a battery-operated implantable pulse generator (IPG) control center similar to a pacemaker.

“DBS systems have five main components: (1) Lead: This is a tiny wire surgically implanted into the brain area that is to be activated. Electrical stimulation flows to the brain through the lead. (2) Implantable pulse generator (IPG): Also called the neurostimulator, the IPG is the heart of the DBSS. Upon acquisition of the device, a trained clinician programs the IPG to deliver electrical stimulation for the patient in an amount and rate determined by the degree of viral infection. (3) Extension wire: This connects the lead to the IPG. (4) Remote control unit: A hand-held device, like those used to control home appliances. While the IPG operates automatically, a patient can control (speed up or slow down) the rate at which electrical stimuli are fed to his or her brain. Frequent use of the remote control unit to modify the IPG’s operation is not recommended. (5) Rechargeable or non-rechargeable batteries for the IPG: Rechargeable batteries can stay in place for many years but need periodic recharging. Non-rechargeable batteries last, on average, three to five years and require surgical replacement.

“Your physician will be able to prescribe the type and model of DBSS that is most suitable for your clinical condition and your preferences. Whatever system you choose, trained personnel at the service centers of the Healthtronics Corporation will provide efficient and competent assistance to ensure your device operates optimally.

“A NOTE ON MASKS: A side effect of infection with HSV-4 is the irreversible cessation of electrical stimuli from the limbic system to the facial nerve that controls the muscles in a person’s face. The lack of such stimuli causes facial paralysis and some speech difficulty. Many persons affected by HSV-4 find these side effects intolerable and seek mitigating measures. Several vendors manufacture latex or silicone rubber masks designed to be pulled over the head as a form of theatrical makeup or disguise. Those masks can be outfitted with electronic devices to receive signals from an IPG directly or through the remote control unit. If this is done, they are marketed as “smart masks,” intended to alleviate facial paralysis.

“Healthtronics does not manufacture or sell smart masks. It does, however, manufacture remote control units that have been enhanced, following mask manufacturer specifications, to provide the ability to control the motion of portions of those masks to simulate the actions of a person’s facial muscles. A person experiencing a strong emotion will receive electrical impulses from the IPG that will stimulate the person’s limbic system. At the same time, if a modified IPG is in use, the IPG will transmit impulses to a receptor in the mask, causing it to send impulses to some of the buttons, which will heat up and expand the mask areas corresponding to the muscles that the emotion would activate. If necessary, the wearer of the mask pressing the appropriate buttons in the remote control unit would achieve the same result.

“The Healthtronic service centers will perform maintenance on modified IPG remote control units. They will be unable, however, to service the receptor on a mask or address other problems with the mechanisms in the mask itself. Customers should contact the mask manufacturer in connection with those problems.”

* * * * * *

The technician who waited on Eric was sympathetic but unable to render all his required help. “The batteries on your IPG were weak, and we have recharged them, so they are now fine; the device sends the intended electrical impulses to your brain and masks even as we speak. The lack of synchronicity you are experiencing between your emotional state and your mask displays may result from a malfunctioning of the mask’s receptor or a defect in manufacturing the mask. Such problems rarely occur, but they are not impossible. A person experiencing those difficulties should contact the outfit that provided the mask or the mask’s manufacturer.”

This advice was bad news for Eric. He had purchased the mask online from a discounter chain, and getting satisfaction from them might be difficult. The mask manufacturers were probably in South Korea or Taiwan; contacting them would also be impractical. For the time being, he was stuck with a defective mask and would have to live with it or buy another one, but masks were expensive, and his mom did not have that kind of money.

His lack of choices upset him. The physiological phenomena associated with his feelings were those of a saddened person, but the mask he wore showed energized dilator naris and depressor septi muscles, making him appear angry at the startled clerk, who crouched, for Eric was a hulking young man. Eric turned around and walked away, embarrassed at his unwittingly elicited reaction.

* * * * * *

The problems with Eric’s mask could not have cropped up at a worse time. He was in the first semester of his freshman year of college and could not afford to have his nervous system go awry while he was attending school. Moreover, it was the end of October, and there were Halloween-related parties he wanted to attend; Halloween had always been his favorite holiday, for he loved to dress up and pretend he was a pirate, a swordsman, or a vampire.

He could have taken off the mask when he attended this year’s parties or went trick-or-treating, but doing so would have left him with a paralyzed poker face that made him look stupid. So, his only choice was to continue to wear the mask and hope for the best.

The first event he wished to attend was a rush costume party at a fraternity Eric hoped to pledge. The chapters of Delta Upsilon Delta (commonly known as “the dudes”) were notorious for holding wild drinking parties, rumored to degenerate into orgies frequently. Eric had started drinking only a year before and had not graduated from 3.2 beer, so he was anxious to attend this party and partake of previously untasted alcoholic beverages.

To impress his potential fraternity brothers, he selected an eye-catching outfit from one of the world’s most famous horror stories: he wrapped himself in a funeral shroud covering himself from head to foot minus the traditional hood, leaving his mask-covered face visible. He had generously sprinkled catsup on his tunic and pants and even a few drops on the mask, so he appeared to have just come from a hard day at a butcher shop. He walked into the party with slow, sliding steps to complete the ghastly image. He talked to nobody until he reached the refreshments table, whereupon he seized a plastic cup filled with a clear liquid and drew a generous gulp, intending to savor the liquor and lick his lips appreciatively.

Eric was unprepared for the intense burning sensation he experienced as the cheap vodka coursed through his throat and into his chest. He began coughing loudly and, for a moment, felt he was choking; he experienced a brief wave of panic. His IPG signaled his nervous system to turn into fear mode, and he clasped his throat with his right hand to alleviate the discomfort. At the same time, his mask conductor activated the lip corner puller muscle (zygomaticus major) and the dimple muscle (buccinator) spots in the mask, making him assume an expression of profound disgust.

His reaction to the drink was noticed by the knot of invitees and fraternity brothers roaming around the refreshment area, causing them to break into derisive laughter followed by sarcastic remarks about the plebe’s distress after a sip of vodka. One of the brothers presiding over the event exclaimed, “Boy, you came to the wrong party. We have no room among the dudes for someone who doesn’t like liquor.”

Eric went through a rapid stream of emotions – shame, anger, frustration, and disappointment – which his IPG faithfully conveyed to the youth’s nervous system. At the same time, the conductor in his mask elicited a series of overlapping, convulsing facial motions and twitches that added to the audience’s mirth and resulted in a circle gathering around Eric, laughing at his discomfort. Someone said, “He looks like he is having a heart attack,” after which one of the fraternity brothers seized Eric’s shoulder and gently guided him toward the restroom.

“Are you okay?” asked the host. Eric wanted to explain that he was having problems with his mask but felt that doing so would come across as a lame excuse for his breakdown. He whispered, “Yes, I’m fine,” thanked his rescuer, and rushed away from the party. He had never felt so mortified, yet his mask registered an ecstatic expression.

* * * * * *

Second on Eric’s list for the evening was a party being held by one of his childhood friends, Charlie Mason. Charlie was the beneficiary of a well-endowed trust fund set up by his late grandfather, so he did not have to worry about working for a living. Instead, Charlie threw great parties attended by persons of all sexes and persuasions out to have a good time. Alcohol and drugs were plentiful at those events, which usually lasted until the morning of the following day.

Eric had attended a couple of Charlie’s parties and, in one of them, had lost his virginity to a Nicaraguan exchange student named Xiomara. Consequently, he was looking forward to the opportunity for a repeat performance with Xiomara or some other beauty, foreign or domestic.

He had rushed to get away from the dudes. He was panting from exertion when he arrived at Charlie’s apartment, which was full of young people in various stages of intoxication from drugs or alcohol, jumping and shaking to the brutal sounds of metal rock blasting out of Charlie’s stereo system.

Eric went to the kitchen, poured himself a Coke, and returned to the dance floor, where he nearly collided with a voluptuous blonde who was gyrating by herself near the front door.

“Hi,” he greeted. “I’m Eric.”

“I’m Olivia,” responded the girl in a drawl that was accentuated by substance abuse. “What are you doing dressed like a corpse from the morgue?” inquired the girl, placing a probing hand on Eric’s shrouded chest and moving it downwards.

“Oh, it’s a long story,” began Eric, his IPG starting to fan the flames of arousal in his limbic system. However, his mask suggested something like dread, for Olivia stopped her hand’s motion and asked, alarmed, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

“Of course I do,” replied Eric quickly. “Don’t stop!” But seeing the increasing terror reflected in the mask, Olivia stopped. Her face displayed a knowing smile a moment later, “Oh, you haven’t done this before, have ya?” Without more, she took Eric by the hand and dragged him into Charlie’s bedroom, which was luckily unoccupied. She closed the door, knelt before him, and got hold of his penis.

Eric’s hypothalamus was instantly stimulated, and the touch of Olivia’s hands prompted an immediate erection. Again, his mask registered a totally different, inconsistent set of emotions: fear and displeasure.

Olivia let go of Eric’s member and stood up. “It doesn’t look like you are ready for this,” she observed acidly, getting ready to go.

“Please stay,” begged Eric, but the contradictory signals he was sending out were too much for the girl. She opened the bedroom door and walked out before he could attempt to explain his predicament.

* * * * * *

After his second disaster of the evening, Eric realized he had a problem: the systems he had in place to address the effects of the viral infection were in constant conflict. It was as if the IPG and the mask’s receptor were battling each other for control of his emotions, with disastrous consequences. He had the urge to remove the mask to prevent any future misapprehensions of his emotions, but at the same time, he felt naked without a mask in place. Deep in thought, he left Charlie’s party and started the long walk back home.

His neighborhood was full of families with children, and Eric kept running into groups of kids going door to door to demand holiday treats. He felt disappointed at not having yet done his share of trick-or-treating and resolved to do some himself around the neighborhood before calling it a day.

He arrived at his apartment, rummaged through the pantry, and found a grocery store bag. Holding it, he went out again, not allowing his mother to ask any questions.

As Eric emerged onto the street, the rational part of his brain began raising objections. Wasn’t he way too old to be out trick-or-treating? Wasn’t it getting too late in the evening to be knocking on doors? Wasn’t the outfit he was wearing sort of scary? Shouldn’t he just go back home? Drawn by an irresistible impulse, Eric stifled all concerns, approached a house, and knocked.

“Trick or treat,” he demanded. A voice from behind the door replied with asperity: “Go home! It’s after nine! You should be in bed!”

He felt a crimson sheet rise behind his eyelids at being disrespected. The house had a garden in front with plots of geraniums and gladioli. Eric went over and seized a rock the size of an apple from one of the plots, hurled it at the closed door, and moved on. “Here is a trick for you!” he muttered.

He got no answer at the next three houses he approached, even though, in each case, the lights were still on inside. With each failure, his indignation at the outrages of this terrible day went up a notch. These houses had no plots from which to draw missiles, so he had to go away fuming, his bag still empty.

Someone opened the door at the fifth house. It was an enfeebled man, bent with age, holding a sack of Skittles and Reese’s Pieces. He was digging into the sack to take out some candy when he looked up and saw what appeared to be a menacing giant covered by a bloody shroud. The man uttered a small cry and slammed the door closed.

Eric began banging on the door furiously. “Trick or treat!” he shouted.

After a while, the door reopened, and the old man reappeared, armed with a shotgun, finger on the trigger. “Go away, you fiend, or I’ll shoot!”

Eric was startled by the sight of a shotgun aimed at him and reacted with an alacrity that, later on, he would find surprising. He jumped into the hallway and tried to wrestle the shotgun out of the old man’s hands. The man’s grip was surprisingly strong for somebody his age, but suddenly, he let go of the gun and fell to the floor, where he lay, clutching his chest.

“Help! I’m having a heart attack!” cried out the man, shaking with pain.

Eric stood about the man, bewildered. What to do? His first impulse was to assist his attacker or call for help. Then he had a second thought: If the police found him in the house, he would probably get arrested; also, if the man could describe his costume, he was a goner since half the city had seen him wearing it.

He did not want this dreadful evening to end that way. He walked around the man, intending to run away from the house when his pent-up emotions caught up with him, and he began retching, feeling a sudden need to throw up.

He turned around, went further into the house, and found a bathroom, where he vomited the contents of his stomach in a series of painful bursts. He turned to the sink and sought to clean himself up. Looking in the vanity mirror, he noticed that his mask showed an expression of shock, confusion and fear that matched his feelings.

He was startled by the change. All day, his IPG had been sending the “right” emotional signals to the converter, but the converter had been causing “wrong” emotional clues to be displayed by the mask. That being the case, the two devices should have never been an agreement. Unless…

He extracted the remote control unit from his shirt and examined it carefully. He had not used it before visiting the service center earlier. What if the technician had missed something wrong with that device?

Looking closely, he noticed that one of the keys on the right side of the unit, those used to send signals to the converter, was slightly depressed. Experimentally, he pressed and released the key time and again. The mask went through a series of changes that mimicked emotions he did not feel: pain, sadness, elation. It then changed back to shock, which matched his current state of mind. He stopped pressing, and the mask continued to reflect his current emotion, no surprise. “Oops,” he thought. “Maybe all my heartaches could have been avoided. Damn that guy!”

Back in the hallway, Eric emptied the sack of candy into his grocery bag without glancing at the man writhing on the floor. He told himself: “My bag is almost empty, but I have enough loot for tonight. Gotta get moving. But first, I must get help.”

Again, he thought of calling 911, and once more, he resisted the impulse. Letting a man die unassisted was in keeping with the inhuman persona he had assumed this Halloween and was a newfound callousness that would dictate his actions in the future. No more Mr. Nice Guy.

He returned home, trying to master a feeling of dread at the irrevocable change in the course in his life. His unease was now reflected in the mask’s expressions.