by Josh Shiben
suppressed a shiver as he realized he was still cold, despite the warmth of the ballroom. The rain seemed to have frozen him to his very core, and he wondered briefly if he should be worried.
A soft tap on his shoulder startled him from his reverie, and he turned expecting to see the long limbed doorman from before. Instead, he found himself standing face to face with an intoxicating masked woman. She wore a flowing red gown with a plunging neckline, and long matching gloves that reached past her elbows. Her flawless skin was a soft cream color, and her body was perfectly proportioned, giving her the appearance of a marble statue come to life. She wore a simple mask about her eyes colored in the same deep crimson as her dress, complete with frilled black-lace trim. Her eyes behind the mask were dark and seemingly bottomless – like the deepest reaches of the sea, where even color cannot penetrate. She held him with her gaze as she circled around to his front, and with a thrill, Glen briefly felt like a doe being circled by a wolf.
“And who are we?” she whispered, her hand never leaving Glen’s shoulder as she glided around him. Something about her seemed familiar. Had he met her before? Was she someone famous? He wished she would take her mask off so he could see. Perhaps her face would jog his memory.
Glen realized she had asked him a question and swallowed. “I-I’m…” he began before she hushed him with a gloved finger to his lips.
“No, no. Don’t tell me,” she murmured still circling him slowly, almost seeming to evaluate him. Then she stopped, and smiled broadly, her white teeth almost shining in the light. “Oh, darling,” she sighed, leaning in close. “You always find the most wonderful costumes.”
Glen leaned began babbling, attempting to free himself from her embrace. “No, no I’m Glen. Tillman. My car broke down and I’m-“
“Of course you are, darling. Now come and dance with me.” She dragged him onto the floor, where the band was just beginning another number.
“I’m not who you think I am,” whispered Glen, now realizing that she was expecting him to know how to dance. He had no idea what any of the steps were, and even if he did, was confident that he would disappoint the lithe dancers around him. “I don’t know how.”
“Of course not,” she whispered to him, placing his hand about her waist and taking his other in her own. He looked at her in confusion, until she locked eyes with him and he found himself moving gracefully along with her, in perfect step. She smiled at him mischievously through her red mask. They continued to dance, and Glen felt his body pivoting with grace he had never known he possessed -it was as if his body knew where to go, even as his mind panicked. A muscle memory he had never learned. He kept his eyes focused on hers, certain that if he were to tear them away the spell would be shattered, and his legs would throw him to the ground in a heap. They swept through the hall like a whirling tornado, the tempo of the song accelerating their movements as they seemingly fed off of the energy of the quartet. They were moving in perfect harmony, twisting and swooping across the dance floor like a single organism, their eyes locked on one another’s.
Glen didn’t understand what was happening, but was happy enough to allow his body to move miraculously. He found that he moved most fluidly when he stared into those deep orbs, allowing his legs’ movements to go unimpeded by his brain. They passed under a set of shining lights from above, and for the briefest of moments the light caught her eyes, and Glen saw her irises reflect the light back. They shone silver, like an animal in the moonlight. He suddenly realized his arm was still cold – even as it wrapped around her. No warmth radiated from her. His breath caught, and he dropped her to the ground – the spell was broken. The music came to a halt, and Glen felt the masked faces turn to him in unison as he stared down at the woman on the floor. She stared back at him, her face unreadable in the red mask. Glen took a backwards step towards the door, suddenly aware that his footfall was the only sound in the room – it was absolute silence. No one breathed, or coughed or smiled. They merely regarded him in graven stillness as he backed his way to the door. “What are you?” he whispered to the masks.
“They are the guests,” The reply came from behind him. It was the doorman, who had noiselessly pushed a large cart with an ornate covering into the room. The doorman maneuvered the cart into the room, stopping several feet inside, and turned it such that it faced the masked crowd.
“I want to leave,” said Glen, attempting to keep his eyes on both the crowd behind him and the doorman now standing between himself and the exit. “I’ll take my chances with the storm.”
“Of course, sir. You are free to leave,” the doorman bowed and turned towards the door respectfully. Glen took a step in that direction before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He spun, only to find himself face-to-face with the woman in red again. She had risen from the dance floor and silently crossed the twenty paces to Glen in an instant. Her perfume assaulted his senses again, but he now sensed under it the slight scent of decay and rot – putrefaction hidden deep inside the beauty.
“You can’t leave already,” she purred. “We’ve yet to eat.” She gestured to the cart. Glen tried to step away from her, but his feet were frozen to the spot in terror, his eyes fixed on her. She smiled coldly, her dark eyes gleaming from behind the mask. Then slowly, and with the grace of a spider spinning its web, she reached to Glen’s chin and turned his head to the cart. The doorman had opened the cart lid, revealing a bound man inside.
“Dinner is served, sir,” the masked man murmured quietly with another bow. Glen stepped to the cart in a stunned silence, his terror turning to disbelief as he approached the cart and recognized the tied, struggling form inside.
“It’s me. I’m in the cart…” He spun round to the red woman in confusion. “Why does he look like me?” She slithered beside him like a snake, almost seeming to float through the air.
“Perhaps it’s you that looks like him,” she whispered. “The flesh is malleable, you know.” The phrase sounded familiar to him, almost as if he had uttered it before. A creeping doubt began to enter Glen’s mind.
“What are you saying?” he asked as he backed slowly away from the doorman and the woman. He realized he was still cold. Freezing, even in the warmth of the room. The woman took a step towards Glen, driving him towards the silent crowd on the dance floor.
“You’re a worn identity. A mask.”
“No! I’m Glen Tillman! I wrecked my car and now I’m here!”
“Darling, there is no Glen Tillman. Or there is but…” she cocked her head towards the bound man in the cart, “you’re not him.”
He was panicking, his breath short and coming in gasps as he stumbled backwards among the still bodies. The masked crowd stared at him impassively, unmoving and silent. “Listen! I’m real. I’m me. I’m not some mask!” He was almost pleading with the crowd. “I’ve got memories! Dreams! Can a mask dream?”
“Mister Barrows, it’s time to unmask,” said the doorman quietly. As one, the figures all reached to their faces and removed the masks. Dark eyes twinkled in the dim lighting around Glen and he screamed for one last time. He felt himself unravel, and as oblivion took him Glen could only wonder if masks could dream.
