The Masque of the Red Death

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   The Red Death had long laid waste to the country. No pestilence had ever been so deadly—or so hideous. Blood was its mark and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, sudden dizziness, and then bleeding from every pore, followed swiftly by death…

But Prince Prospero was happy, and fearless, and wise. When half his people had perished, he summoned a thousand light-hearted nobles and withdrew with them to a fortified abbey of his own design…

A lofty wall encircled the abbey, with gates of iron. Once the courtiers had entered, they welded the bolts shut. Furnaces, hammers, and plenty of food ensured their laughter could outlive the dying world beyond…

Inside was peace, pleasure, and denial. There were jesters, musicians, wine, and beauty. Outside—only the Red Death.

There were seven connected chambers, each bathed in its own color of light: blue, purple, green, orange, white, violet, and—most westward—black, whose windows glowed with blood-red fire…

The black room’s crimson light made even the bold grow pale. Few dared cross its threshold. For there, against the western wall, stood a gigantic clock of ebony whose hourly chime chilled every heart…

When the clock struck, the musicians froze, the dancers halted, laughter died. Even the most light-hearted grew pale until the echoes faded, and then—slowly—life resumed. Yet each chime deepened the dread.

The night of the ball was wild with color and chaos. The prince’s taste was bold, barbaric, and strange. Grotesque and radiant figures danced through the twisting halls—beauty mingled with horror, the sacred with the profane.

As midnight approached, the black chamber seemed to breathe crimson warning. The clock began to strike—twelve solemn tones. Music ceased. All fell silent. And when the echoes died, a whisper spread: a stranger had entered.

He was tall and gaunt, robed in funeral shrouds, his mask a corpse’s face, his garments splattered with blood. The revelers recoiled. Prospero, enraged, cried: “Who dares mock us? Seize him! Unmask him at once!”

No one moved. The stranger walked from blue to purple, green to orange, white to violet, and at last to black. The prince pursued with dagger drawn. A single cry echoed. Prospero fell dead.

The revelers rushed forward, seized the figure—and found no form beneath the shroud. Then they knew: the Red Death had come like a thief in the night.

One by one they fell where they stood.

The tripods guttered out. The clock stopped.

And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.