Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Mask of Silence

No one remembered the origins of the mask. It had simply always been there, stored away in the dusty attic of the old Winslow house. Generations had come and gone, each inheriting the sprawling estate with its creaky floors, hidden corners, and attic full of forgotten relics. But no one touched the mask. They knew better.

The mask was made of worn leather, darkened over time. Its smooth surface showed no sign of a mouth or nose, just two hollow eye sockets that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Legends about the mask had been whispered for as long as anyone could recall. Some said it was cursed; others believed it belonged to a madman who had once lived in the house. But most just chose to leave it alone.

When Claire Winslow inherited the house after her grandfather's sudden death, she hadn't heard any of the stories. She was a city girl, accustomed to the fast-paced life of bustling streets and towering buildings. The old manor felt like a relic of the past, an eerie remnant of a life she had never known. It was supposed to be temporary—just a visit to settle affairs, perhaps sell the house, and then return to the life she knew.

But something about the Winslow estate tugged at her, a strange magnetism she couldn't explain.

One stormy night, bored and unable to sleep, Claire found herself wandering the halls of the old house. The wind howled outside, and the floorboards groaned beneath her feet. Every creak felt like a whisper, urging her to explore. She didn't know why, but her feet led her to the attic door.

She hesitated. The door was old, painted in a faded shade of white. She could feel a draft seeping through the cracks, and for a moment, she thought about turning back. But curiosity won out. She pushed the door open with a creak.

The attic smelled of dust and old wood. Cobwebs hung from the rafters, and the dim light from the single bulb barely illuminated the room. Old furniture and boxes were scattered about, relics of a life long forgotten. And there, sitting in the corner on a pedestal, was the mask.

It immediately drew her in. She had never seen anything like it. Its surface, though aged, held a sinister allure. The empty eye sockets seemed to watch her as she approached, and a chill ran down her spine.

She didn't know why, but Claire reached out and touched it.

The moment her fingers brushed the mask, the world seemed to shift. The attic felt colder, the shadows darker. A strange hum filled the air, and Claire felt a sudden compulsion to put the mask on.

It was absurd. She knew it. But her hands moved on their own, lifting the mask from the pedestal. The leather felt cool against her skin as she slowly raised it to her face. Her heart pounded in her chest, but she couldn't stop herself. She had to wear it.

As soon as the mask settled over her face, everything went silent. The hum stopped, the wind outside ceased, and even the creaking of the house fell still. It was as if the entire world had been muted.

Claire opened her eyes. The attic looked the same, but something was different. She couldn't hear her own breathing. She couldn't hear anything.

She reached up to pull the mask off, but it wouldn't budge. Panic set in as she tugged harder, but it was as if the mask had fused to her skin. She couldn't feel the edges anymore; it was as if the mask had become part of her.

Frantic, she ran to the mirror in the corner of the attic, her reflection distorted by the dim light. What she saw made her blood run cold.

The mask was gone.

Her face—her own face—was featureless. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Just smooth skin where her features should have been. She screamed, but no sound came out. She clawed at her face, desperate to feel something—anything—but her fingers slid over smooth skin, no matter how hard she scratched.

She stumbled back, her heart racing, but there was nothing she could do. She was trapped in silence, her own identity erased.

Days passed, though Claire couldn't be sure how long she had been trapped in the attic. She no longer felt hunger or thirst. Her body moved, but it felt foreign to her, as if it no longer belonged to her. She wandered the halls of the Winslow estate, unseen and unheard, a shadow of her former self.

No one would remember her.

Just like no one remembered the others.

Because Claire wasn't the first to wear the mask.