"The night looms in their eyes. Their hearts. But it's a night without stars." My older brother stops, points to the old church. "That's where the Faceless Ones live. No one ever goes there. Especially not children." A shiver runs up my spine; on my arms, gooseflesh erupts. I pull up my Halloween mask. It smells of red paint. I look across the field, the church crouching near the woods, its windows black: gaping eyes, solemn, vacant. Brother pulls up his demon mask, careful not to muss the horns. He kneels down, placing his hand on my shoulder. "The Faceless Ones have no faces. So, on nights like tonight, when the Veil is thinnest betwixt our worlds, they steal little children like you to find another face, then they wear it, take over their lives." "What happens—" But Brother stops me with a hand to my mouth, pulls me behind a tree. A finger to his lips, he beckons with his eyes for me to look across the field. Four little figures in dresses and cloaked capelets, a fell green mist clinging to their feet as they stroll through the night-damp grass. Plain white masks adorn their faces, the eye sockets like looking down into a well at night. The mouths are slightly open in tiny O's. The tallest one wears a peculiar pointed hood; her mask bears a devilish upturned grin in blood red, the face painted like a ghoulish clown in white and black. "That tall one is their leader. The other ones are scouts. They're the ones who search for children in their beds," my brother whispers. "To take their faces, steal their lives." A tap on my window, plunging me into wakefulness. My dreams scatter into fragments. A tiny white face gazes at me through the now open window. The curtains inhale and exhale with the autumn breeze. I hear the clock ticking time, like the metronome in my piano lessons. Tick, tick, tick, tick... Before I can scream, I am in that field, the church staring back at me. Dread surges in my bowels. How did I get here? An ice-cold hand, dainty as a doll's slips into mine, pulls me forward. To the church. I don't know why but I know I don't want to go there. I struggle, but she is oddly strong. I still hear the clock. Or is it the metronome? Tick, tick, tick... Then, the tall one, looming over me, that grin burning into my brain as a shriek erupts from my throat. Tick, tick, tick... I am back in the field, vision obstructed. Two other white faces drift in the darkness next to me, the green mist flowing around us. I remove a white mask. Walking away from me, toward home, is a small figure in my dress. But her gait is odd. And she's wearing my face. I must go get it back.

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.