Slate clouds roiled overhead as Ray walked down a narrow street. He passed an old man wearing a fedora and crumpled gray suit who was standing in the angled storefront of a small shop. A few antiques were displayed in the windows. Behind the dusty, tattered artifacts, black curtains obscured the interior. 

“Care to look inside?” the man asked in a mild eastern European accent as he gestured to a wooden door festooned with carved faces. 

Ray wrinkled his nose. “No thanks.” 

“Certainly,” the man said, holding out a business card. “Please.”

Ray took it to be polite, giving it a quick glance.  It read: 

Josip Vouk

Vouk’s House of Rarities – Hiša Redkosti

Underneath, a handwritten note was scrawled: Why not take a look?  

“What’s heesa redcost eye?” asked Ray.

“It’s Slovenian for House of Rarities,” explained Vouk. “A nod to my home country. Lightning flashed, followed by a crack of thunder, which ushered in a downpour. Caught without an umbrella, Ray ducked into the shelter of the angled storefront. “Looks like providence has decided you will reconsider my invitation,” said Vouk. 

Sensing the rain would continue for the foreseeable future, Ray shrugged, waving Vouk’s business card. “Sure. Why not take a look?” He followed Vouk into the small shop. Other than the storefront, there were no windows or doors. Instead of the usual secondhand articles, curios, antiques and cut-rate merchandise, the interior was bare except for an ornate carved pedestal standing in its center. On it stood a weathered stone slab featuring a carved face. It was illuminated by a lone ceiling light. Curious, Ray stepped closer. 

“I think you will agree the mascaron is very lifelike,” said Vouk, sidling up.

“Mascaron?” said Ray, staring at the carved face. “I’m not familiar with that term.”

“A mascaron is an ornamental carving of a face, usually human. In antiquity, their alleged function was to frighten away evil spirits. It seems to favor you, sir,” said Vouk. 

Ray moved closer, examining its features. He ran a finger over its rough surface. It did, he thought, but dismissing Vouk’s comment, he said, “I’ve got that kind of face. Besides, I wouldn’t be much of a deterrent to evil spirits.” 

Vouk smiled. “If you care to look at the other side, you will find something most intriguing.”

“What’s that?” 

Vouk tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. “Why not take a look?” 

“Okay.” Ray moved around the pedestal, finding himself peering into a duplicate, concave face. “It’s hollow,” he whispered.

“Of course it is,” said Vouk, “A hollow face, like a mask. In fact, the word mascaron can be traced back via Italian to the Latin word masca, which is where mask comes from.” 

Ray ran his finger along the polished inner surface of the hollow face. He felt a void. “What’s this?” Ray murmured, withdrawing his finger. He looked closer, finding two voids where the eyes should have been. He checked the front of the mascaron, rubbing a finger over its eyes. No voids there.  But returning to the hollow face side, he could plainly see the voids. Beyond them, something glimmered. He moved closer in an effort to discern what lay beyond those missing eyes. A clear image eluded him. He moved even closer. Without warning, his face was sucked in, smashing into the inner surface. A wave of exquisite, shattering pain surged through his body before everything went black.

---

Blinded, Ray grabbed his throbbing face, dropped to his knees, then rolled on his back. Hot grit and gravel dug into his skin. Glaring sunlight pierced the gaps of his fingers, stabbing at his eyes. He lay there, whimpering until the pain subsided. Sitting up, he shielded his eyes as they adjusted to the blinding light. A few feet away, a thin woman with tangled hair crawled along a wind-worn stone outcrop. Her long fingers creeped over the sand. 

She tore at a thick ball of dead brush hugging the outcrop. Brittle branches crumbled in her hands. Using a stick to dig down into the rotting roots, she pulled out a pale-yellow lump. It writhed in her thin fingers. She sniffed at it, then shoved it in a tattered harvest sack slung over her shoulder. Ray thought she would have been considered beautiful in better circumstances.

“Where is your sack?” she asked without looking up.

Ray was surprised by her refined British accent. “What sack?” 

“You must be new,” she said, looking at the disheveled young man with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. Rooting in the sand, she pulled out a small brown glob and sniffed it. She wrinkled her nose and shoved it into a large burlap sack.

“Where am I?” 

“The scrubland, of course. I am Tilde. I used to be Matilda DuPont. In these places, no one cares what your real name is or where you came from, so I am simply Tilde.”

“Daniel Nally is my name. My middle name is Rayburn so everyone calls me Ray. Is there someone in charge who I can talk to?”

“Daub. He is the boss around here. He is not much for talking, though. Keep quiet and start digging unless you are in the mood for a beating.”

“Look. Something awful has happened. I don’t belong here, I was just…” Ray stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head slowly. “I…I can’t remember anything but my name.”

“Nobody remembers at first,” said Tilde. “Be patient, it will come back.” 

“Hoy!” shouted a gruff voice.

“Quick. Get busy,” said Tilde.

“Why?” asked Ray.

“That is Daub, and he does not put up with lollygags.”

“He’s just the man I need to see,” said Ray. He stood up, waving an arm.

“Now, you have done it,” said Tilde. 

Daub made a beeline for Ray. “What the hell’s going on here?” 

Tilde cowered. “He is new, sir.”

“Who asked you?” Daub said, raising his club. Tilde dug furiously, flinging grit out of the hole. Daub looked at Ray. “New, eh?”

“I’m at a loss, sir. I…I…” He stuttered, looking at the ugly stump of a man. “I don’t know. I woke up and found myself in this strange place. Can you help me?”

“Hoy. You’re a fresh one. Help you?” Daub paused, then nudged Tilde with his boot. “You show him what to do, or I’ll let the both of you have a taste of this.” He pushed her head down to the sand with his club. 

“Hey, you leave her alo—” was all Ray could get out of his mouth before Daub knocked him senseless with a backfist. 

---

Daub’s head appeared against the black backdrop of Ray’s subconscious, the taunting face sneered, “Hoy. You’re a fresh one, alright. I’ll let you have a taste of my rod.” Then, it began to writhe, morphing into a face altogether different from Daub’s. The finely chiseled face that emerged was familiar to Ray, but its identity remained elusive. It rotated slowly, revealing its back half was missing behind the ear. As it turned, Ray could see the head was not solid, and he was soon looking into a concave duplicate, except for one detail. It had voids where the eyes should have been, and beyond the voids, a distant landscape glimmered.

The image lingered in Ray’s subconscious until he heard Tilde’s voice. “Wake up. He has gone.”

“What was that you said?” Ray pushed himself up on one elbow, tears welling up in his eyes.

Tilde shook her head. “You had to go and open your mouth.”

“Yes.”

“Gah,” she muttered, rooting around in the dirt. She pulled out a yellow lump and shoved it into her sack. “Enough. Please stop your sniveling, so you can get to work.” 

“Oh, it’s not that. I got sand in my eye,” 

“Older and larger than you have cried under the sting of Daub’s fist.” 

Ray buried his face in his hands, “What is happening to me?”

“Could not resist sticking your face in it, could you?”

“In what?”

“Did you see something while you were taking your nap? Something familiar, perhaps?”

“What are you babbling about?” asked Ray. “You’re not making any sense. Something has gone terribly wrong. I don’t belong here. I have to get home.”

Tilde flicked her hand, brushing off his comment. “We all do, but you cannot cry about that now. We have work to do unless you want another taste of Daub’s fist. You can fret all you want after the count this evening.”

“Tell me what’s happened.”

“There is no time to explain now. You are confused, but it will begin to make sense as you remember.”

“Remember? Remember what?”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a yellow lump. “All you need to know right now is we are digging for groobs.” It squirmed in her hand. “The fat yellow ones are for the overseers.” She retrieved a smaller, motionless brown blob. “These are for us.” 

“Looks like a horse apple to me.”

“It will not taste much better, but it will suffice if you are hungry.”

Ray’s eyes grew wide. “Surely, you don’t eat those.”

“If you wish to avoid starving, you do.” She brought it close to her nose and frowned. “You may have this one. We will need more groobs before the wagon comes if we want to receive our water ration. Find a digger.” 

“Digger?”

Tilde held up her stick. It was ground smooth by the constant friction of the sand and grit. “You must use a digger or else you’ll tear up your hands. Look around for a good stick or a bit of bone.”

“I have a pen knife,” said Ray. “Will that do?”

“Is it big or small?”

Ray shrugged. “Small.”

“I suggest you find something else.”

Ray looked around until he saw the remains of a small tree clinging to the outcrop. He scrambled up to it and pulled with all his might. It snapped off near the base.

“That will do,” said Tilde. “Remove the branches and break it in half. Long diggers are too difficult to handle. Give me whichever half you do not want.”

Ray did as Tilde told him and for the rest of the afternoon, he followed her as she worked her way through the rocks and brush, showing him how to harvest groobs. Occasionally, they encountered other harvesters. They came from all walks of life, many speaking unfamiliar languages. All appeared haggard and forlorn. The ones who spoke English always asked the same questions. 

“Where have you been looking?” 

“Seen Daub?”

“Can you spare some water?”

“Got any extra groobs?”

Tilde and Ray continued until the sun dipped near the horizon. “Time to go,” she said. “Take these and follow me.” She handed the sack and water bag to Ray and set out toward the darkening eastern sky.  Other harvesters joined them as they made their pilgrimage to the end of the valley. 

A huge, weathered wagon waited there near a small hut.

“We turn in our harvest at the wagon,” said Tilde, “That shack is the water station, where we get our water ration. Every valley has one. They keep it heavily guarded, though, so stay away.” 

Ray followed Tilde as they queued up with the others for the count. Daub stood in the tail end of the wagon while several assistants gathered groobs from the harvesters. Each harvester placed groobs in a basket as the counter called out the tally. Other assistants loaded the baskets into the wagon. 

It took a half hour or more before the counter announced, “All counts acceptable.”

“Okay, get your water rations,” yelled Daub.

“Come,” said Tilde, pulling the stopper from her water bag. She took a long drink and handed it to Ray. “Drink up. You want it empty when they fill your bag.” She walked to the other side of the wagon to the hut. There, another assistant was drawing water from a well. Tilde called up to Daub. “The new one here does not have a harvest sack or a water bag.” 

Daub snorted, then rummaged around the bed of the wagon. He threw a sack and a water bag in the dirt at Ray’s feet. Tilde showed Ray how to present his water bag to get it filled, then they moved away from the other harvesters, sitting down on the western side of the ridge to catch the final rays of sunlight. She pulled out two brown globs, handing one to Ray. 

He sniffed it, wrinkling his nose. “Smells like a pig’s butt.”

She peeled her glob’s leathery husk. “These are dead groobs. You may eat them if they have not turned rancid. Ray poured some water on his and began to scrub. Tilde punched him in the ribs. “Do not waste water. That is all you receive until you turn in an acceptable harvest. Hopefully that will be tomorrow evening.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Water keeps you alive. Now, we eat half of our globs and save the rest in case we experience bad pickings tomorrow.” She glanced at the raw flesh on Ray’s hands. “Let me see your digger.” Ray held it out. Jagged remains of branches jutted out from the shaft. “You need to smooth those out.” she said. 

“I can use my pen knife,” said Ray. As he dug a hand into his pocket, his fingers found something in addition to his knife. “What’s this?” asked Ray, pulling out a crumpled business card. As he started to read it, the image of the hollow face he had seen after Daub knocked him senseless flashed in his mind. “Vouk,” he whispered. 

Tilde grabbed the card from his hand. “So, you are starting to remember.” Tilde examined the card and spit. 

A young Black man with a limp approached. He called out in a thick Haitian Creole accent. “Okay if I be sitting with you?” 

“If you wish,” said Tilde. She turned to Ray, “That is Jacque. I have known him for quite some time.” Jacque dropped his gear and sat next to Tilde. “This is Ray. He’s new,” she said. Jacque nodded. “And,” she continued, “he has already received a taste of Daub’s fist.”

 “I feel sorry for you,” said Jacque, rubbing his knee. “Had me own dealings with Daub, the ugly bastard. He be the one who gave me this limp. One day, I be paying him back.”

“Do not say that too loudly,” warned Tilde. “There are those who would report you for an extra ration of water.” 

“Does he remember how he got here?” asked Jacque.

“I think he has started to remember.” Tilde handed Jacque the business card. He took a look and spit.

Ray furrowed his brows. “Why is everyone spitting?” 

“Because of that bastard, Vouk,” said Jacque. “May God be damning his soul.”

“Yes. I’m beginning to remember,” said Ray. “Give me the card.”

“Look out,” said Tilde. “Daub is coming.”

“Hoy, what you up to?” Daub yelled as he spied the trio. Ray grabbed the card and stuffed it into his pocket. “What’s that you got?” asked Daub.

“Nothing. It’s mine,” said Ray.

“Nothing here is yours until I says it is,” said Daub, raising his club. “Now hand it over.” Ray glared at the sneering lump of a man.

Tilde placed a hand on Ray’s arm. “Do not test him.” 

“That be good advice,” said Jacque. 

Ray tensed. 

“Give it to him,” said Tilde. 

“But I need to—”

“Please Ray, for all our sakes, give it to him,” she said. Ray hung his head, then pulled the card from his pocket. 

Daub snatched it from Ray’s limp grasp. He read it, then gave him a sharp blow with his club. “I’m sure Mr. Vouk won’t mind. Now everyone shut up before I beat the hell outta all of you.” 

---

 After their meal of dead groobs, dusk approached and Ray began whittling down the branch stubs and sharpening his digger. “So tell me what the hell this place is and how I get out of here.” 

“The scrubland,” said Jacque, “and they say all you have to do to get out is to find a hollow face.”

Ray looked at Jacque. “Hollow face? I remember. It all started with Vouk,” Ray said, slapping his hand on the ground. “That bastard tricked me into looking into the hollow face.”

“In one way or another, he tricked us all,” said Tilde. “Everyone here has had their dealings with Vouk and the hollow face. Maybe not exactly the way you did, but still to our misery.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she stared at her calloused fingers and ragged nails. “I was studying piano at the Royal Academy. That is where I met Vouk—”

Ray clenched his fists. “When I find him, his ass is mine.” 

“I be with you on that one,” said Jacque. 

“So what do I do when I find a hollow face?” Ray asked. 

“Wait a minute,” said Tilde. “Hollow faces are said to be a rare occurrence. I have never seen one here.”

“But if I did?”  

“First, you make sure it looks like you, then put your face in it.” said Jacque

“You gotta be kidding,” said Ray. “I already did that and look what happened. Surely, that can’t be true. Can it, Tilde?”

She sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “That’s how we got here. It makes sense that is the way out.”

“What are we waiting for?” said Ray. “Let’s start looking.”

“It is not that simple,” said Tilde. “They say finding one is rare—more luck than anything. Finding one that resembles you is said to be almost impossible. Besides, it will be dark soon. Finish your digger and get some rest. Tomorrow, we still have to hunt groobs if we want to stay alive. But, keep your eyes open.” Tilde drew in a deep breath. “We all will—just in case.”

Ray’s mind raced as he tried to get some sleep. The events of the day swirled in his head. Finally, from sheer exhaustion, he fell into a fretful sleep. 

In the morning, Tilde shook his shoulder. “Get up. Time to get to harvesting.” 

“It’s too early.” Ray rubbed the sleep from his eyes and rose up on one elbow. His whole body ached. He stood up, wincing as his foot came down on a sharp rock. He stared down at his feet. “My shoes,” he screamed. “Where are my shoes?”

“Looks like someone copped them while you were having your beauty sleep,” said Tilde. “No use crying about it. If you come across the culprit, you can take them back. But for now, we need to get going.” She hefted her water bag and gathering sack, then started walking. “Looks like we are headed to the north valley today.” She smiled at Ray. “And remember, keep your eyes open.”

---

Three weeks had passed when Ray joined Tilde and Jacque as they queued up to the wagon. “How was your harvest?” Ray asked. Before she could answer, he stiffened. “My shoes,” he fumed, pointing toward a man ahead in the line. “The bastard’s wearing my shoes.” 

“Are you sure?” asked Tilde. 

“Yes.”

“Then go ask the gentleman to kindly be returning them.” Jacque laughed.

“Like hell,” Ray said, lunging forward. He tackled the man, landing a few solid punches before he was yanked back.

“What goes here?” growled Daub.

“He stole my shoes,” said Ray.

“Stole your shoes, eh? That’s a right serious accusation to be throwing about.” He looked at the man. “Stand up.” The man picked himself up from the dirt. “Them shoes look awful big and new on you.” The man remained silent. Daub looked at Ray who had only socks on his feet. “You’re the new one, ain’t you?

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Daub. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about shoes. But, I ain’t gonna put up with fighting and such. One of you two is gonna get a taste of my rod and the other gets the shoes. It don’t really matter to me.” He looked at the man. “Get them shoes off.” He turned to Ray. “Try them on, and they better fit.”

The man kicked off the shoes and stepped back. Ray grabbed them up and slipped them on. They fit perfectly. 

Daub frowned, resting his club on Ray’s chest. “Too bad. I was hoping for other results. I got my eye on you. Just give me an excuse,” he said, shoving Ray backward. He turned and jabbed the club deep into the man’s stomach. He fell to the ground in pain. Daub continued to beat him. “And that’s for getting caught.” 

Ray fell back in line. The trio emptied their harvest sacks and walked to the side of the wagon for their water rations. As Ray opened his water bag, Daub looked over the side of the wagon. “Half ration for this one,” he said. Ray started to say something, but Tilde grabbed his arm. 

“That is what he wants,” she whispered. “Do not give him provocation.” Ray closed his mouth. They moved off and found a quiet place to eat.  

After they finished, Jacque said to Ray, “You be lucky Daub didn’t beat the life out of you.” 

“What was I supposed to do? Those were my shoes.” 

Tilde shook her head and gathered her things. “I would like to stay with you gentlemen and chit chat, but sunup comes early. I am going to bed.” 

“Me too,” said Jacque. 

“When in Rome,” said Ray. 

---

Months passed as Ray, Tilde, Jacque, and the other harvesters trekked through the scrublands, ceaselessly harvesting groobs. They arrived in a new valley and spent the night camped around its water station. In the morning they resumed harvesting.

After their midday break, they found themselves harvesting at the base of a ragged knoll. Jacque who had moved around to the other side came hobbling back. 

“Hey, come here!” he shouted. “You have to see this.”

Tilde stood up, waving him off. “Quiet,” she hissed. Jacque covered his mouth with one hand while beckoning them with his other. He continued to labor toward them.

“What do you think he wants?” asked Ray.

“I do not know,” said Tilde, “but he is sure to draw unwanted attention.” 

“Come on,” said Ray. “Let’s go meet him.”

Jacque was panting when they reached him. Between gasps, he rasped, “I found one.”

“Found what?” asked Ray. 

“A hollow face. Around the other side in a patch of exposed rock.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Tilde.

“Come see for yourselves,” said Jacque. 

“Lead the way,” said Ray.

Ray and Tilde followed Jacque around the knoll until they came upon his sack and water bag. He pointed upward. There, a flat rock face peered out of the gritty slope. In its middle was a hollow face.

“Perhaps it is merely an optical illusion,” said Tilde. 

“Could be,” said Ray, “but it sure looks like the one I saw in Vouk’s store.”

“Oh, it be a proper hollow face. I’d bet my good leg on it.” Jacque turned to Ray. “Looks like you.”

“What do you mean, looks like me?” asked Ray.

“I think Jacque is correct,” said Tilde, “It is a face, and it looks like you, Ray.”

“Can’t be.” said Ray. 

“There is only one way to know for sure,” said Tilde. “You will have to climb up there and see.”

Ray took a deep breath. “Okay.” He started to climb up the slope, feet slipping in the grit and gravel. He finally climbed high enough to get a good look. He paused.

“Well?” Jacque called out.

“You’re right.” Ray called back.  

At that moment, Daub rounded the side of the knoll. “So, this is where you lollygags has run off too,” he yelled, bolting toward them, club raised high. “Now you’ll get it,” He pulled up when he saw the face. “Ahh, you found one. That’s mine. You up there come down here.” 

“Like hell,” yelled Ray. Daub threw his club. Ray managed to dodge the club but lost his footing. Tumbling down the slope, he landed at Daub’s feet.

“Gotcha now,” growled Daub, wrapping his fingers around Ray’s neck. “I’m gonna make this hurt real bad.”  Ray struggled for air, lungs burning. He closed his eyes, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness. Then Daub howled and let go of his grip, screaming, “You little bastard, I’ll teach you to stick me with a digger.” Ray sucked in a gulp of air as he opened his eyes to see Daub grab at the back of his leg, pulling a bloody digger from his calf muscle. Jacque scurried away as Daub lunged, grabbing him by the ankle. Jacque shrieked as Daub drove the bloody digger deep in his chest. 

Ray pulled his own digger from his belt and leapt on Daub’s back, stabbing his neck until blood spurted out. Daub shook him to the ground. He raised his boot to crush Ray’s head but screamed and toppled backward as he reached for the digger Tilde had driven into his back. Ray and Tilde watched their nemesis writhe in the dirt, gurgling blood, until he lay motionless. 

Tilde spit. “Good riddance.”

Ray knelt by Jacque’s lifeless body. “It should have been me instead of you.”

“No time for that,” said Tilde. “You must get to the face before it disappears.” 

Ray took Tilde’s hand. “Come with me.”

“It does not work that way. Your face, your journey. Now, hurry. It may be your only chance to get away from here. I will manage.” 

“I can’t leave you here alone,” he said.

 She touched her fingers to his lips. “Say no more. Do not make this harder than it needs to be. Go, Ray, please.”

Ray nodded and climbed back up the slope. Reaching the face, he looked back at Tilde. She smiled and nodded. He wanted to sear her image in his memory before he turned his attention to the face. He peered into the hollow face, moving closer, trying to discern what awaited. He felt its pull. Instinct caused him to resist, but he could not withstand the inevitable. His face rammed into the stone, flooding him to the marrow with agony before he spun into blackness.

---

Ray rolled on the floor of the dim room, his face in throbbing pain. Dull gray light filtered through grimy, cracked windows. He sucked in stale air. Its moldy odor caused his lungs to tighten. As the pain subsided, he lay on the cold, hard surface, flashbacks careening through his mind. Had it really happened? 

“Anyone here?” he called out. He could see clearly enough to recognize he was back where his misadventure had started. It was different, however, looking like it had been abandoned for years. A thick patina of dust covered every surface. The display window curtains sprawled on the floor in rotting tatters. The pedestal was toppled. The mascaron lay shattered, its delicate remains resembling bits of eggshell. 

Ray rose to his feet and stumbled to the door. He searched for a handle but found none to pull. He pushed with all his strength, but it did not move. Grabbing the pedestal, he rammed it time and time again into the display windows. They refused to break. He closed his eyes, beating his hands against the door until he had no strength left. 

Exhausted, he stood motionless for a long time. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the hollow face.

Paul Stansbury is the author of the four volume Inversion series; and Down By the Creek – Ripples and Reflections. His speculative fiction stories have appeared in a number of print anthologies as well as a variety of online publications.
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