Masquerade

As you check your mail, you notice a letter that makes you stop in your tracks. The heavy green envelope sits in your hand like a dead bird. Now, and this is important—do not panic.

              Go back inside, don’t let the neighbors see you starting to sweat, and make yourself a cup of tea. Or, pour yourself some of the good whiskey you’ve been hiding on top of the fridge behind the ornamental plastic plant. Either way, do not open the letter yet. Give yourself a chance to breathe even though you always knew, in the back of your mind that the letter would arrive. As it has always arrived around this time of year, every year, for the past ten years.

              No matter where you have gone, the letter has followed. Drink the whiskey. Now open the letter and read the familiar words: ‘You are cordially invited to attend, on the 10^th day of the month of July, anno domino 2020, the event known as ‘The Masquerade.’

              Wear your finest clothes—it is a black-tie affair. Polish your dress shoes until they show your own reflection. Show this letter and a mask to the driver. It can be any mask you like, but please, nothing overly vulgar or grotesque. 

              Did you just break that cup of tea? How could it have slipped from out of your fingers? No matter, drink some more whiskey and turn on your laptop. Check the website you made years ago and see if anyone has posted anything new.

              At first, you thought it some kind of mistake. The green envelope always arrives with no return address, no tracking information, and yet it always manages to find you. People commenting on your website at first thought you were mad, and you agreed with them. Who would make a website about a letter that had time and date, instructions for what to wear, but never a location? And anyway, you were pretty sure you had never signed up for anything even remotely masquerade-related, although maybe it was part of a clause hidden away in one of those damned Terms and Conditions you never read.

              It was almost funny at first—until the night of the first Masquerade when something knocked at your front door. One heavy knock at midnight, and you turned on the porch light and looked out the window but the figure was silent and hooded. It wore the mask of a long-beaked bird, and behind it in the road stood a great closed carriage drawn by two horses covered in black sheets. The thing had looked back at you through the glass. What was it about the thing that horrified you so much? 

              After you’d finally managed to crawl out from under your bed, you turned to your best companion. The internet, unfortunately, held no answers. So, your website was born. You posted about the letters, hoping for a response. A year passed, and then another. You were no closer to any answers than when you started, not even after you hired a private detective. You changed VPNs, houses, cities, even countries once. There was that whole summer you spent on an island off the coast of Costa Rica, and yet the letter arrived.

              Each year was worse than the last. The knocks drew you closer and closer, with an almost overwhelming need to answer the door. Only your terror kept you paralyzed long enough to resist. The years began to blend together and the only real divider between them was the arrival of the letter, the knocks, and then nothing. There were times you could almost forget about the letter. 

Almost.   

              Last year, you got a real response on the website. Someone else had received a letter and they were planning on going. You even helped them buy a throw-away cellphone so they could record everything. GingerExt1nct_3 even emailed you about the mask they were planning to wear and had prepared everything exactly as the letter had asked. You formulated a plan together—you would both record what was happening and then meet up at the Masquerade. It felt less terrifying if you knew there would be someone else going. The night of the Masquerade finally arrived: you video called each other. You dressed up as well and you showed each other your masks—hers was a lovely white rabbit and yours a polka-dotted cat.

              The odd thing was that when the driver knocked at her door, it also knocked on yours. Right at midnight. Were there two of them? Maybe even more. Would they go to the same place?

              The plan was working, until you heard the ominous knocks. That year it was nine knocks—one knock for every year you’d ignored it. Out of force of habit, you turned off the lights, but you watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as GingerExt1nct_3 stepped out with the driver and towards the carriage. She called you a coward. You told her to just go back inside, tell the thing that you’ve changed your mind, but she shook her head at you and, crying, said ‘it can’t be undone.’ 

Once in the carriage, the signal was lost.

              You’d gone to the police when two days had passed and there was nothing but silence in response to your messages. Even the private detective tried to find her, but there were no records of her anywhere. It was as though GingerEx1nct_3 had never existed.

But this year, you will go. This year is different. You’ve written a will, spoken with loved ones (not many and no one nearby), and have been so haunted with feelings of guilt and self-loathing that you figure it’s better to walk in the carriage with your head held high than to suffer another day.

              Tonight, you will find her yourself. A rescue mission, of sorts. 

              It is nearly midnight. Dress in your rented tuxedo and set down the painted cat mask on the table before you drop it. Drink some more whiskey to settle the nerves. Or don’t drink whiskey, but for the love of all that’s holy, quit shaking so much. Whatever happens, happens.

              You have no control over it now. The letter has arrived. The carriage will appear, along with those dreadful knocks, and you will go forward into that gentle night. Don’t forget to start recording on your phone. 

Please, your hair is fine. Stop going to the bathroom and ‘fixing’ it. Try to stay calm. If you’re going to pace, do it in the hall and not on the new rug. Lower the thermostat; you don’t want to sweat through the rental.

              Midnight comes along with the first knock. You can’t breathe—your lungs have forgotten what to do and your mouth hangs open. 

              The second knock. You close your mouth and take in a deep breath. You believe that you can do this. No time to be a coward.

              A third one. It doesn’t sound loud, but something about it makes the house tremble around you. 

A fourth knock. This is it. Do it for GingerExt1nct_3. You slip on your mask.

              At the fifth knock, you answer the door. The thing stands on your porch staring down at you. It moves its head from one side to another as though examining you. The light from the porch glints off the glass covering its eye holes. You greet the thing and hold up the letter.

              It bows slightly and steps aside, pointing at the carriage and inviting you to step towards it. You nod in understanding and the moment you step out of your house; something changes. Every step you take no longer feels like your own. It is a steady march towards the covered horses and carriage.

              The panic sets in. You want to turn back, but find that you can’t. You resist the overwhelming need to continue forward, but you do not stop. You bring your cellphone up to better record everything—the dark horses stomping the ground impatiently, the driver following you and opening the carriage door.

              Inside there is only a needy darkness. It seems to pull at you, wanting to draw you inside. You see nothing inside, but when you look at the carriage through your phone’s screen you see that it is normal, with seats and a window on the other side. So why can’t you see anything?

              The thing motions for you to get in. You nod, cold dread filling your belly. But then you see something outlined in the gloom. Is it a rabbit mask?

              You climb into the carriage and in an instant the thing closes the door behind you. The rabbit mask is replaced by darkness and you hear the metallic click of the lock.

***

              You do not know how long you’ve been sitting in the carriage because you sense nothing. There is no change in the air, no sense of motion, not even a sliver of light. Nothingness holds you.

              But then the carriage door opens and you clamber out. Take a deep breath. The return of your senses is overwhelming. You can hear the horses rattle their reins and blow air. The thing holds its arm out, pointing to the lavish house up on the hill.

              Go gently up the path. Do not falter, but do not rush. Look behind you at the darkened landscape and forests. Up ahead the mansion is like a lighthouse—sometimes so bright it’s blinding and then in another moment, there’s nothing there.

              Don’t forget your manners. Knock when you get to the front door. Bow to another thing with a mask you can’t identify. The lights also glint off of its mask’s glass eyes. It leads you to the main ballroom, where all of the other guests are dancing to no music. 

              You cannot count how many people are in the room, nor can you tell how large the room is. Mirrors align the walls; some are actually glass doors that lead out into the garden. Go see the garden.

              Wait, go try some of the food first.

              No, sorry, don’t do that. Quit ogling people. 

              Yes you were—don’t argue.

              Remember your manners and look for the white rabbit. Her dress was purple, wasn’t it? You must search the crowds. Ask if anyone was here last year, if anyone remembers seeing her.

              What is wrong with the people here? They all seem to waltz as if in a dream. Grab someone and make them stop dancing so you can talk. Quick, that one! 

              Why’d you let him go?

              So what if their eyes looked vacant? A little too reflective, mirror-like, perhaps?

              Don’t worry about that. Those eyes must be part of their mask. Just find her. You should have brought a photo with you. What happened to your camera? Did you drop it in the carriage?

              Stop! You saw something, didn’t you? Was that a rabbit mask? You rush to where you saw it, but it’s a mirror. You spin around, looking desperately for her. There’s a flash of purple nearby.

              It’s her. You hurry and grab her shoulder.

              “You’re hurting me!”

              Apologize. Tell her you can’t believe that she’s here. Why didn’t she try contacting you?

              She shrugs your off and says, “Listen, I just got here. I don’t know who you are.”

              “But it’s you.” You say, your voice starting to shake, “GingerExt1nct_3, you know me: MaskedMad35.” You take off your mask.

              Her eyes reflect the light from the chandeliers and she shakes her head. You grab her mask and pull it off. Her eyes are a clouded color, but still reflective. Opening her arms, she tells you, “Dance with me.”

              Where are you going? Out into the gardens? No need to push people just because you’re in a panic.

Don't look up at the sky. There’s nothing there—no moon, no stars… Everyone else seems content, why can’t you be?

              Run out into the woods, then. It won’t do you any good. The same needy darkness from within the carriage waits for you out there. Pulling you in.

              You can’t keep running blindly into the forest. You keep ending up back in the gardens. At this point, you’re just tiring yourself out. Try to think.

              Go back to the carriage in the front. The thing is standing with the horses, petting them. You yell to be taken back home, but the thing ignores you. 

              Despite your fears, you grab it by the arms and force it to face you. The thing tilts its head at you, but says nothing. Between yells and tears, you pull off its mask.

              The long-beaked bird mask slips from your fingers as you stare up into the darkened hood of the thing. Straight into a dark nothingness. The thing lurches towards you and you trip on your way back up the hill.

              From a distance you watch as the thing puts its mask back on before you hurry back into the mansion. The other things bow to you, but you don’t pay them any attention as you run into the ballroom.

              Is that music you hear playing? There wasn’t music before. But now…you hear it. So sweet and soft, the haunting melody oozes its way into the room. The dancers keep going, not noticing you or that anything has changed. You reach out and start pulling off masks wildly. All already have round mirrors instead of eyes.

              Is that you screaming? Please stop.

              A few people with mirror-eyes stop dancing, and a thing comes to lead them away. Soon, a new thing appears—to help bring out more food, tend to the garden, welcome new dancers.

              Because new dancers are arriving. They’re always arriving.

              You stumble towards them. Try and warn the new arrivals, but you know it’s too late. Why don’t you just enjoy the music? Listen to it.

              Really, listen to it.

              The longer you spend in the ballroom, the louder the music becomes. You get close to the new dancers, but the moment you get to them all you can hear is the music. You open your mouth, trying to remember what was so urgent that you had to speak. 

              Speak?  And ruin such beautiful music? Doesn’t it just fill you with nostalgia for a place you’ve never been? Washing away other memories; no longer important.

              No, better to say nothing.

              Better to dance.