An anthology of dark and scary stories

The crimson mask

The year was 1947, and India was on the brink of independence. Amidst the chaos and turmoil of the partition, I, Raja Vikram Singh, retreated to my secluded estate in Shimla. To escape the horrors of the outside world, I decided to throw a lavish masquerade ball for my friends and family.

The invitations were sent out weeks in advance, each one a work of art, adorned with intricate gold designs and embossed with my family crest. I envisioned a night of revelry and pleasure, a chance to escape the darkness that was engulfing our nation.

As the day of the ball approached, a sense of anticipation filled the air. My guests were eager to escape the turmoil of the outside world and indulge in a night of revelry and pleasure. I could feel their excitement, their anticipation.

I had spent weeks preparing for the ball, ensuring that everything was perfect. The gardens were illuminated by thousands of twinkling lights, the air was filled with the intoxicating scent of flowers. The mansion was transformed into a glittering wonderland, a place of beauty and luxury.

As the guests arrived, they were greeted by my servants, dressed in elaborate uniforms. They were led through the grand halls of the mansion, their eyes wide with wonder. The decor was opulent and extravagant, reflecting my wealth and status.

I watched as my guests donned their masks, concealing their identities. Some wore masks that were playful and whimsical, while others were dark and mysterious. The atmosphere was electric, filled with anticipation and excitement.

I was filled with a sense of satisfaction as I surveyed the scene. My masquerade ball was a success. But as I looked out at the crowd, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. There was a darkness lurking beneath the surface, a sense of unease that I couldn't quite explain.

I tried to dismiss the feeling, to focus on the positive. This was a night of celebration, a night to forget the troubles of the world. But the feeling persisted, a nagging doubt that refused to be ignored.

As the night wore on, the guests began to relax and enjoy themselves. They danced, they drank, and they laughed. The air was filled with the sound of music and conversation.

But even as the revelry reached its peak, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was as if a dark cloud had descended over the estate, casting a shadow over the festivities.

I tried to ignore the feeling, to focus on the positive. This was a night of celebration, a night to forget the troubles of the world. But the feeling persisted, growing stronger with each passing moment.

And then, it happened. A figure, cloaked in darkness, appeared in the doorway. The figure was wearing a crimson mask that seemed to glow with an otherworldly light.

A gasp went through the crowd. Who was this mysterious figure? What was their purpose?

As the night wore on, the guests began to relax and enjoy themselves. They danced, they drank, and they laughed. The air was filled with the sound of music and conversation.

I watched them with a growing sense of unease. There was something about their laughter, their carefree demeanor, that seemed forced, almost artificial. It was as if they were trying to mask a deeper, darker emotion.

I tried to dismiss the feeling, to focus on the positive. This was a night of celebration, a night to forget the troubles of the world. But the feeling persisted, a nagging doubt that refused to be ignored.

I turned my attention to the crimson-masked figure. They were standing alone, watching the crowd with a cold, calculating gaze. There was something about them that was unsettling, something that sent a chill down my spine.