Stygian Masquerade

Prompt Inspired Micro-Fiction

Photo by Victoriia Gerasymchuk via Pexels

Blackened waters rippled ink-spilled in the pale moonlight, fractured by rising mist curling between skeletal limbs. Damp earth and something metallic hung thick in the air. A manifestation in a long, tattered cloak, a plague doctor mask with a grotesque beak, led the way—slow and deliberate. Leather straps secured the mask, wound tight around the figure’s hood.

We sat rigid in silk and shadow beneath masks of bone-white porcelain, smooth, cold, hollowed eyes, and delicate cracks. Some were expressionless, blank as death, while others bore sinister smiles—grins stretched a tad too wide, edges curled subtle, giving the illusion they were living flesh frozen in a moment of silent madness.

Candles flickered in tall, arched windows. No one spoke. Masked revelers trailed toward the grand entrance, a sweeping line of funeral shrouds. A woman wearing a dress the color of spilled wine passed through. She reached for a goblet. The contents, something dark and viscous, caught the light in sluggish waves as she lifted it to her lips. Inside, the ballroom pulsed as figures moved in a hypnotic ritualistic dance underneath chandeliers of twisted metal and blackened glass hanging like inverted cages from the vaulted ceiling. 

When the time had come, the music halted, bows poised over violin strings as if waiting for permission to breathe. The great doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. Beyond them, only darkness. One after another, the dancers turned toward the void, masks catching the candlelight, creating a stygian masquerade—shadows slowly descending into oblivion. The last guest entered the void with the finality of a coffin lid slamming shut. After some time, the music resumed, ready for the next dance.