You received an invitation to attend the extravagant masquerade ball, the highlight event of the year in the kingdom of Uppended Grove. The message was written in uneven, blood-red strokes, hastily scrawled across the paper.
In black attire, you make your way to the castle. Nobles in exquisite gowns and suits filter through wide brass doors as the ball commences. Blue velvet curtains drift over the corners and walls of the ballroom; dim candlelight illuminates the pristine dance floor. An orchestra plays an ostensibly perfect symphony, but, being a musician yourself, you notice an eerie undertone lingers.
“Dance with me?” A voice proposes, slithering up from behind. You swivel to see the person, their mask veiling the upper half of their face but revealing just enough to see their lips curl into a cruel smile. A leather-gloved hand extends to you, offering a silent invitation for you to dance.
The dance begins slowly; the orchestra continues to perform just out of tune.
Your partner dips you from side to side, and you make your way to the center.
Then your partner swings you around.
Suddenly, the air grows heavy. Mid-turn, the music stops. Everyone’s eyes bore into your soul. The candles flicker out, one by one, until the moon is the only light in the room. You recognize a face lurking in the corner. A solemn stare and downturned lips. “Mom?” You croak, disbelief lacing your voice.
It can’t be your mom. She died last year at the same annual ball.
Then your partner pulls you back into a spin, and the strange hallucination turns into a memory. The candles flicker back to life. Music again fills the room.
You need fresh air.
You carelessly pry your hands from your partner’s shoulders, but you are stopped.
The masked dancer tightens their grip on your wrist like a vice, forcing you around again.
Your heart begins to pound rapidly against your chest. The melody comes to a screeching stop. Snap pizzicato begins to play, with orchestrators plucking off-key notes.
You struggle in your partner’s grasp. “Unhand me!” you scream.
The people staring at you stalk forward, their gaze unwavering. Their left hands rise in unison, slowly peeling away their masks to reveal layers of skin—raw, red, and exposed, the blood slowly oozing out. Hundreds of rotting faces stare back at you, their eyeballs wide open and their lips bloody. Bone and brain leak out of holes in their foreheads; the pungent odor of carcass enters your nose.
A piercing scream escapes your lips.
The banner overhead unfurls, revealing words that send a chill down your spine.
TONIGHT’S THEME: DEAD
But in your invitation, the theme says: “DIE.”
The moment you read the banner, a horde of dead, ravenous corpses lunges at you, their hands clawing desperately in the air.
You scramble towards the door, only to find it locked.
You spin around, and the last thing you see is your dead mother’s face, staring back at you.
