Her Death Mask Dusk had stolen the last of the light from the sky. Darcy hesitated. Had she made the right decision? Coming here alone and telling no one where she was going. The letter lay on the desk, the writing barely visible in the flickering light of the oil lamp. It invited her to attend an ancient death celebration held in a forgotten village. After a career spent acquiring and cataloguing Victorian death masks, the invitation had been too tempting to refuse. She let her fingers slide gently over the other thing resting on the desk. Warm lamplight gleamed on the smooth plaster surface. A Victorian death mask. Her death mask. The likeness was uncanny. She hadn’t tried it on. What if it fit? A knock at the door startled her. Muted giggles drifted through the wood. “Miss Ashbourne,” a high voice called. “The festival is about to start.” She opened the door. Four children stood waiting. All wore dresses and smooth white death masks with large holes cut for their eyes. One held out a tiny hand. “Time to go.” Another giggled. “We don’t want them to start without us.” Four blank white faces stared from hollow black sockets. “Don’t forget your mask,” said the smallest. Darcy picked up the mask and followed them into the torchlit street. At the village square she stopped. A huge bonfire crackled in the centre while villagers formed a vast circle around it. The children skipped into the gap waiting for them and left another for Darcy. She stepped into it. A child tugged her skirt. “You have to put on the mask,” she whispered. “It won’t take you if it thinks you’re already dead.” Darcy stared at the plaster face. “How will I breathe?” The child giggled. “The dead don’t breathe.” Darcy looked around. Firelight danced across the ring of blank white faces surrounding her. Empty black eye sockets stared from every direction. “Quickly,” cried the child, suddenly serious. “It’s coming.” With shaking hands, Darcy placed the mask over her face. It was a perfect fit. Softly, a sigh rippled through the empty faces. A rush of air swept around the circle, building to a shrill screaming gale. Pale faces rode a wave of darkness, rising up, then crashing down over the assembled villagers. Darcy tried to scream, but the mask held her face rigid. The darkness closed in. Dawn light filtered through her closed eyes. Groaning, Darcy sat up. She lay on a woodland path, alone. A dog bounded around the corner. “Rex!” called an elderly woman following behind. “Leave that lady alone.” Darcy climbed to her feet. “Are you alright?” “I’m not sure.” Darcy rubbed her face. “I was in the village down there.” “There’s no village down there, not anymore.” The woman frowned. “Not since the fire.” Her face drained of colour. “Where did you get that?” Darcy followed her gaze. Lying on the ground between them was her death mask.

In the middle of somewhere silent and empty, is a little old church attended by little old children. There’s a couple scraggly trees to stand guard, with faded memories of what the word ‘forest’ means. Though you may wander for miles through where the fog consumes everything, there’s nothing else to see. The children sit in the abandoned pews, listen to the echoes of past sermons. Embers of guilt and shame to keep them warm. Long ago, they forgot what they looked like, so they’ve donned costumes as children do. Three think they look close enough, to who they might have been, but the fourth isn’t sure. A point to her dark jacket hood and a sinister expression painted on her blank paper face. “It’s the eyebrows,” the one in the checkered dress-coat comments. The younger two nodding, in a growing number of repeating conversations, but never adding any to themselves. “It’s so much more than eyebrows.” The witch girl scoffs, hers in a permanent scowl. They forget their debate, as they’re wont to do, listening to the shushing of long gone worshipers. When murmurs sweep through, ebbing and flowing, the time to sit is over. When the bell cries its dusty memories, they’ll sit again but for now, they stand, sliding from the rotten wood. The narrow door always open before them. One pokes the malnourished grass with the toe of her rain boot, her mouth and eye-sockets as agape as they are with everything. Just like the others, except the little witch whose mouth remains haphazardly stitched into an assured smirk. Three shocked, one defiant. “Will there be a funeral today? Today?” The youngest sings. “Oh, it is a good day, for a funeral today, today. They’ve all gone away but I’d like to play, with somebody new today, today…” The girl with the eyebrows hums along. They all stand together, watching the nothing, waiting. For the day that special person will arrive. That promise they remember, someday, oh, someday, they’ll see. With the memory of a real smile, the little witch repeats to herself the promise she made in response. They’ll see and so will He.

Dear Beatrice, It has been far too long since we last spoke. I’m writing now to break that tragic silence and ask for a favor. Could you send me more of those hand-me-down clothes you have in storage? I’m afraid the children had a mishap with some of the costume pieces and now they refuse to wear any of it. I tried to explain they were Halloween masks, but the children wouldn’t listen. They were transfixed. Held in place by those pallid faces and the urge to wear them in public. I didn’t understand it, but with all that incessant chirping, I eventually gave in. Let me tell you, it was a huge mistake. As I expected, we received plenty of stares at the market that day. All the fresh smells and colourful produce couldn’t distract the little ones from the pointing, jeering masses around them. Children can be cruel, as you well know. Mine had never been laughed at before, and don’t know how to channel their feelings productively. Needless to say, the tantrum was more difficult to clean up than the clothes they tore up! What’s that stain remover you use? I tried hydrogen peroxide and baking soda, but it was no use. The cloth won’t even work as rags; I’ll have to use it as insulation. But all of that will have to wait. The brood was overzealous in town, and we’ll have to relocate. We live here because of the dimness of the local population, but even they won’t be able to ignore that many bodies. When I’ve set up a new nest, I’ll mail you a secure address for the clothing. As usual, I appreciate your help and advice. I should listen more closely. They just spent their first winter supping on treacle and preserves. They’d never been around prey before, and I should have chosen a more controlled environment. I should have expected them to play with their first meal. I know I did. Regardless, I’m still so proud of them. A full third made it to pupation and regardless of their poor senses for disguise, they already have the movements down. Within the year, we’ll have new colonies set up across the state. But enough about me and the kids. How have you been? I know it wasn’t the first time you’ve regrown a limb, but we aren’t molting like we used to. You have to take care of yourself, and if you’re going to keep acting like you’re still five, you should at least bring me to your next raid. Fresh captives can make good lessons for the little ones. Yours with love, Felicia