When Darkness Dines

The room was breathtaking—rich tapestries draped along stone walls, a fire snapping in the great hearth, candlelight quivering like it feared the dark. Something unspoken curled in the corners, a soft, forbidden tension. The masks didn’t help; jeweled things with feathers and lacquered smiles, hiding faces but not intentions. Silk rustled. Corsets creaked. Perfume and smoke mingled in the air like gossip.

We were told the game was simple.
One rule, whispered to me as my mask was tied.
Once you lift your glass, you must never let it touch the table again.

I thought it was harmless. A charming superstition. A silly custom for a silly party.

The night glittered with conversation—flirtations, laughter, soft touches, secrets passing like contraband. When the host raised his cup for a toast, we all followed. Crystal chimed in a chorus. My drink was warm, thick, sweet in a way that lingered too long on the tongue.

We cheered. We turned. We moved.

And without thinking—
I set my glass down.

A tiny sound, barely a click.
But it split the evening in two.

The room stilled.
A collective inhale.

Silks froze mid-sway. Masks pivoted toward me like flowers tracking the sun.

Heat climbed my cheeks. I snatched the glass back up, desperate to undo the mistake, and—again without thinking—I took another sip.

This time the gasp was sharp. Almost delighted.

My head swam. Thoughts thickened, slow as syrup. The floor shifted under my heels. A warm trickle slid from my nose; I brushed it away and my fingers came back red.

Blood dotted my glove.
Blood dripped down my bodice.
Blood bloomed like a dark flower across the front of my gown.

The masked faces around me—white-eyed, gleaming—watched with hungry silence.

My chest tightened. The candlelight thinned. My vision folded in at the edges like dying paper.

I staggered toward the next room, but the doorway drifted farther and farther. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the ballroom floor, skirts fanning around me like a fallen curtain.

Their masks hovered above me—floating, inhuman, unmoving. Their breaths were low, animal, anticipatory.

“It was just a game,” I whispered.

Something shifted in the shadows.

A soft rustling rose behind the masks—not from them, but from the dark pooled along the walls. The candlelight faltered. A heavy scent crept through the air, damp and old, like earth turned too deep.

The masks did not move. 

They watched as the darkness leaned in—slow, deliberate—finally allowed to dine.