Deathly Nights

[Chalice]

You know, sometimes I envy you guys. By the way some of you tell it, you’d think the weird parades down the street for all to see, beating their chests like Tarzan and screaming out their location. It doesn’t work like that here, where the heat settles comfortably in all year round. The Garys and the Sallies, we have to work hard at finding the things that hunt us. They don’t stand around after killing 150 people in one night and yell insults as we draw near, fully loaded. No, they snatch one, maybe two if they feel bold, and then they run. And generally, we’re caught with our pants down because we don’t have numbers. If we’re lucky, we catch scent of their trail and chase after it. Some of us tell the police, but they don’t believe people like us. And the tourists don’t help, either. They’re worse than the most migratory vagrant. Either they’re too drunk to make sense of what they might’ve seen, they’re trying to score with the bikini babe, or they’re gone before they can change their mind.

We see things, but it’s hard to tell what’s what sometimes. We don’t have the “sight” as some of you seem to. But those of us who are Garys and Sallies, we try. The weirds don’t fear us yet, but they’re learning not all the vagabonds are just going to hide in a soiled box if they see something unusual. As I said, we try. Sometimes we miss close, and sometimes we hit spark on. I don’t know the hit to miss ratio just yet, never bothered to keep track. Personally, there’s only been one night that was the closest thing to what I’ve read on here.

I was downtown last night, working on business, because we don’t have days off. One side of the business was good that night. Tourists like their candy, and I had plenty to give. The other side was going pretty good too, but I decided to cut them a break. It was Halloween, after all. Let them spend their money somewhere else, at the rave parties. I felt compelled to try one rave party in particular, myself. Nearly all were costume parties, and this one was no exception. There were a few paper masks left in a bin for 75¢, so I took one and went in, flashing my I.D. when the bouncer tried to stop me.

Inside, the party was sparse with furniture, rife with partygoers. At first, all seemed well and ordinary. There was drinking, there was laughter, and more. I danced with my share of dashers, some drunk, others high, and even a few sober. But then things started getting odd, and I wished I had Axel with me. First, it started getting cold. Cold enough I could see my breath. Funnily enough, no one else could, and no one else was breathing ice, either. The music seemed more in the blood and soul, than in the air. And it was hard to describe, hard to pinpoint the genre, the tempo, the beat, the very origin. When asked, my partner said, “It rocks!”

Finally, there were my dancing partners. At first, tourists in bright tourist colors and paper masks. Then I started noticing other people in fanciful costumes one might see in the Phantom of the Opera. Bright, vibrant and flowing. Their masks were not cheap paper, but opulent creations of incredible design from eras past. Dance partners became freer in their allowances. I danced with men. I danced with women. I danced with two at once. I danced with three at the same time. As the population of these newer people grew, that of the partygoers shrank. The masks became more and more stylized, faces fashioned into emotions only seen in dreams. Soon, men and women in impossibly elegant costumes from a masquerade filled the dance floor. I was alone in an ocean of vivacious colors, dancing with people I knew nothing about.

I began picking up on these strangers. Firstly, their movements: beyond professional. Now, I’m not a dancer by any stretch of the imagination, but learning to people watch has earned me a few extra chances and a few extra bucks. These guys were good. Secondly, their silence: nobody spoke, laughed, cried, or vocalized anything. Just the mysterious music playing from everywhere and nowhere and the disturbing sound of wind as velvet cloak swished, silk skirt twirled, and booted feet tapped to the dance. Thirdly, their clothes: not from around here. You couldn’t buy them here, you had to special order them or import them. A single flaw marred the perfection of their antique quality costumes. The extravagant richness couldn’t hide the eyes. There were no eyeholes. Just painted eyes, staring. The final pickup wasn’t the people so much as a feeling that began gnawing at my lungs: the distinct impression that if I danced with these guys much longer, the ineffable supposition that if I wore my paper mask much longer, I’d be wearing it indefinitely. I’d be dancing with these guys for eternity.

With these thoughts, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t dancing with people anymore. I was dancing with a bunch of costumes. I was dancing with a bunch of stuffed suits.

In short, I was dancing with the dead.

I recoiled from my partner. She continued to smile and to dance, holding out her hand as an invitation to resume the waltz. It was an invitation offered by everyone as I retreated, tried to find a way out. An army of beautifully costumed bodies surrounded me like a maze, all masked, all offering to be my partner. They didn’t fight back when I pushed them aside in my swelling panic, but their numbers seemed endless, and they closed ranks as I pressed on in my search for a way out. Finally, I saw the exit sign. There was red splattered across the door.

That didn’t stop me from rushing for the door as fast and as recklessly as I could, tearing off my paper mask as I went. My momentum overbalanced me as I suddenly found my pathway cleared of the silent, colorful dancers. I expected to hear the shout of the fire alarm as I pressed the door open and stumbled out to a welcome heat, landing hard on the gravel and rolling away.

Nothing. The only sound were the faraway screams of sirens. The last thing I saw as I spun back, wary of pursuers, was a man standing in the doorway. His costume was brilliant, the pinnacle a flowing cape of scarlet. Everything but his pleasant, sinister smile was covered by a black mask and gorgeous hat. Reaching out into the blissfully hot air, he smiled at me, grasped the door handle, and pulled the door shut, separating the chill of death from the rest of the world. The lights of the rave faded to black, and I was back in my city. I looked at my watch.

The final digit flashed different right before my eyes. Now, 3:01 a.m. Before, 3:00.

November 1, 2011.

I was alone.

Sorry all you guys missed it. It was the closest thing I’ve seen to what most of you go through. But that’s okay. We get raves here every night. While we may not have dances like that every night, feel free to drop in anyway. We’ll have a party or something.

[Gotham Witch]

...that's really messed up and really creepy.

And to think I used to love masquerade balls.

[Chalice]

I still like 'em well enough. But I always make sure I can see their eyes. And the mask is the first thing I take off when I get the Johns an' Joans alone.