Masquerade (Short Story)

Masquerade

The night was silent. Until it wasn't. Penny tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. She was never fond of camping; she could never sleep. She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to go to bed, when she heard it. The music. A slow and steady waltz. Penny rose from her sleeping bag. That's strange. I thought Mum and Dad said we were hours away from town. She wondered to herself. And who would be playing a waltz in the middle of the night?

She groaned and laid back down. But as she listened to the music, she became more and more curious. It felt familiar somehow, pulling on her, saying, "follow me." Before she knew what she was doing, she had her boots laced — flashlight in hand — and left the safety of the campsite. She wandered through the woods, following the alluring music. It was a breezy summer night, the full moon illuminating everything Penny's flashlight didn't touch. The forest was completely silent, but for the sound of Penny's footsteps over pine needles and the alluring melody, growing closer and closer. She pushed past an evergreen bush into a clearing, where an ancient cathedral stood.

It rose high above the trees — Penny was surprised she hadn't seen it coming, with its remaining spires being as tall as they were. The columns surrounding the outside of the old building were worn and cracked from many years of weathering. Half of the roof was missing, completely caved in. As Penny approached, she noticed a statue of a saint in front of the main archway; his face and fingers cracked off, trailing ivy growing up the base. 

The music was deafening now, like an orchestra was playing right beside her. She saw a glint of warm light from inside the building. Turning off her flashlight, she approached the archway leading into the main hall. There, among cracked stone and cobweb-covered pews, was a single lit candle. She went to it, feeling drawn, as if by a spell. She stepped over the threshold, one foot at a time, and as she did, the old hall changed before her eyes. The ceiling was no longer cracked and caved in; instead, it was tall and vaulted, with chandeliers of blood-red stones dangling down. Intricate sconces of gold filigree with red candles hung from the walls. Tall windows were inset into the carved stone, framed by wine-colored curtains. The floor was changed to a glossy, black marble, as if by magic. And it turned out, it was magic. Across the hall was a grand orchestra, their instruments made of wood so glistening it might be mistaken for gold. They played a magnificent waltz for masked dancers, spinning and twirling across the marble, with intricate gowns, insectoid wings, and beastly masks.

Penny was so stunned that she dropped her flashlight. It clanged on the perfect marble floor, but no one batted an eye. She turned around to the archway she had come in from, but instead of a crumbling stone arch, there were black doors — closed — as if she were the last guest, fashionably late to the ball.

She turned back around to the graceful dancers and noticed a few long tables to the left of the dance floor. They were draped with red and black tablecloths and laden with strange food. She smelled the sweetness of cakes, the saltiness of broth, and the sharp tinge of alcohol. But as she stepped closer, she could tell this food was foreign, unnatural, magical. The dishes just barely resembled human food: Unusual pink and green desserts with dripping black icing, roasted vegetables that looked as if from an alien world, and a broiled animal of some kind basted with a mysterious red syrup.

Suddenly, Penny's stomach lurched. It twisted in knots like she hadn't eaten in days. She rested a hand on the food table, reaching for a dessert, her mouth watering for a delicacy she had never even seen before.

As her fingers touched the plate carrying the weird cake, she hesitated. This is a magical ball. These desserts are obviously made for the strange guests. She paused. What even are these people?

She examined the closest dancer: a tall, slender woman in a rouge gown. She actually looked relatively normal, if not for the second pair of eyes dotting her raised cheekbones and the spindly antennae that sprouted from her forehead. Insect-like features, flawless skin, enchanting voice. These may be... faeries. She reasoned to herself. Didn't the fairytales grandmother always read say never to eat or drink anything of the fae? She turned back to the little cake. Her stomach fought back, trying to reason with her; she was so hungry. She had never been this hungry before in her life. As her mind and appetite were warring, she didn't notice the person behind her.