The Dark Masque
A short story by Incredible Mouse
A short story by Incredible Mouse
Lyla often found herself there, in the wee hours of the night, quietly observing the old French architecture, serving as a backdrop to the collage of people coming and going. It had called to her again, as if from a barely audible voice echoing inside her head. It wasn't the first time she had listened to this voice, pulling her to the dimly lit streets of the French Quarter. The laughter and gawking of the day tourists was gone now, they were already snug in their hotels sleeping. This hour is reserved for the hard core stumbling drunks, the entranced raving hipsters, the sexual deviants, and the Goths who dejected society and hid under black dress. On rare nights she would spot a late-running haunted tour, serving as the final emptying of brave vacationing wallets. It was actually quite amusing to watch from afar. They often included a third party actor, who would stealthily follow the tour under guise of shadow and macabre outfits. Their job was to simply make a point of being occasionally noticed by the group - as if they too were being haunted this very night. The guide would play along, for everything it was worth. It must be a fun job, telling stories, watching goose bumps rise on the arms of your willing tourists. These ancient streets have an immense history of haunted stories, but $29.95 probably won't raise the dead from the cobblestones.
The fog was rolling in from the Mississippi, providing just enough chill in the air to keep most patrons inside. As Lyla walked down one of the narrow entrance streets to the Quarter, she passed a jazz club, and could faintly hear the bustling sounds of music and laughter coming from within. She tucked her scarf closer to her face to prevent the bite of the air. She couldn't see more than twenty feet ahead through this fog. Fortunately, however, the cool damp smell of it drowned out the customary stench of thick rotting beer. Each new building and passing figure was a materializing mirage, as each step gave way to clearer vision. There wouldn't be any tours tonight. Not in this weather.
She came upon an antique shop, and stopped at the window to admire the headboard on display. Made of darkly stained solid wood, it was hand carved into flowing water and waves crashing into rough rocks. The clouds at the top were ominous with deeply carved recessions. She couldn't imagine this in her home, and her girlfriend would probably burn it on the spot, but it was stunning nonetheless. She found the art in New Orleans was just as fascinating as its music and its people. Just then, as if pulling her from behind, the voice in her head awoke. She turned around and looked to other side of the street. There, through the fog, was a small shop. Its grey facade and yellowing window were lighted by two muted and flickering lamp posts hanging from both sides of the building. They must have been electric lamps that gave the illusion of gas lighted fire, though they convincingly appeared to be flames. They were throwing unsteady shadows over the items on display. It was filled was Mardi Gras masks, twenty or thirty of them, looking across the street, right at her. She stepped off the sidewalk slowly toward the store. It was a store she had never noticed prior, even though she had been down this particular street twice before. The building was out of place in what was normally a continuing theme of ornate French finishing and balconies laden in over-hanging ferns. It was a slender single floor that seemed far older than any of the other buildings in the area, as if the termite infested wood were being held up by the will of time itself. She was not even sure it was entirely vertical, appeared to slope inward at the top, and was shorter than the shops on either side. She wondered if the building had just been growing there, for a while, squeezing its way up, slowly pushing the others out of the way. It was the masks though that seemed to be yearning for someone to admire them. The movements of light on their faces made them seem less porcelain, with ever changing expressions. As she neared the window, and the masks became less hazy, she could see some that were happy and smiling, some were gemmed with royalty, and others were well crafted animals. They were stock items in this town of tourists. But, it was the mask near to the top that captured her eyes. It was the porcelain face of a woman, half black, half white. It was much less ornate than the others. Long swaying feathers seemed to grow from just above its brow, draping white on one side, black on the other. The shadows moving over the face depicted conflicting emotions, as if the mask were constantly at odds with itself. Its deep red lips looked delicate but powerfully sensual. Lyla looked up at this mask, unable to figure it out. What was it trying to say? She began to notice, even though it seemed to have been there the whole time, there were two faintly glowing white dots just below the mask. Squinting and focusing her vision there, she realized the dots were a reflection on the glass. Were those eyes staring at her? She heard someone whistle. Lyla spun around and was startled to see, in the middle of the street, a man hunched over his bottle of booze. He was making his way down the street. She exhaled, relaxed, and started frowning at herself. The man called to her and asked for a smoke. She told him she did not smoke. He mumbled something, then continued on his way. Lyla started towards Bourbon Street.
The fog was rolling in from the Mississippi, providing just enough chill in the air to keep most patrons inside. As Lyla walked down one of the narrow entrance streets to the Quarter, she passed a jazz club, and could faintly hear the bustling sounds of music and laughter coming from within. She tucked her scarf closer to her face to prevent the bite of the air. She couldn't see more than twenty feet ahead through this fog. Fortunately, however, the cool damp smell of it drowned out the customary stench of thick rotting beer. Each new building and passing figure was a materializing mirage, as each step gave way to clearer vision. There wouldn't be any tours tonight. Not in this weather.
She came upon an antique shop, and stopped at the window to admire the headboard on display. Made of darkly stained solid wood, it was hand carved into flowing water and waves crashing into rough rocks. The clouds at the top were ominous with deeply carved recessions. She couldn't imagine this in her home, and her girlfriend would probably burn it on the spot, but it was stunning nonetheless. She found the art in New Orleans was just as fascinating as its music and its people. Just then, as if pulling her from behind, the voice in her head awoke. She turned around and looked to other side of the street. There, through the fog, was a small shop. Its grey facade and yellowing window were lighted by two muted and flickering lamp posts hanging from both sides of the building. They must have been electric lamps that gave the illusion of gas lighted fire, though they convincingly appeared to be flames. They were throwing unsteady shadows over the items on display. It was filled was Mardi Gras masks, twenty or thirty of them, looking across the street, right at her. She stepped off the sidewalk slowly toward the store. It was a store she had never noticed prior, even though she had been down this particular street twice before. The building was out of place in what was normally a continuing theme of ornate French finishing and balconies laden in over-hanging ferns. It was a slender single floor that seemed far older than any of the other buildings in the area, as if the termite infested wood were being held up by the will of time itself. She was not even sure it was entirely vertical, appeared to slope inward at the top, and was shorter than the shops on either side. She wondered if the building had just been growing there, for a while, squeezing its way up, slowly pushing the others out of the way. It was the masks though that seemed to be yearning for someone to admire them. The movements of light on their faces made them seem less porcelain, with ever changing expressions. As she neared the window, and the masks became less hazy, she could see some that were happy and smiling, some were gemmed with royalty, and others were well crafted animals. They were stock items in this town of tourists. But, it was the mask near to the top that captured her eyes. It was the porcelain face of a woman, half black, half white. It was much less ornate than the others. Long swaying feathers seemed to grow from just above its brow, draping white on one side, black on the other. The shadows moving over the face depicted conflicting emotions, as if the mask were constantly at odds with itself. Its deep red lips looked delicate but powerfully sensual. Lyla looked up at this mask, unable to figure it out. What was it trying to say? She began to notice, even though it seemed to have been there the whole time, there were two faintly glowing white dots just below the mask. Squinting and focusing her vision there, she realized the dots were a reflection on the glass. Were those eyes staring at her? She heard someone whistle. Lyla spun around and was startled to see, in the middle of the street, a man hunched over his bottle of booze. He was making his way down the street. She exhaled, relaxed, and started frowning at herself. The man called to her and asked for a smoke. She told him she did not smoke. He mumbled something, then continued on his way. Lyla started towards Bourbon Street.
Walking again, down the sidewalk, she ducked and just missed a branch that was lurking from above. The rest of the tree came into sight, from a yard enclosed by a wrought iron fence with a slowly creaking gate that moved with the wind. Just ahead and to the side of the house, she glanced down a dark and narrow alley. Two silhouette figures were facing each other. They seemed to be kissing. As Lyla started to look away, it seemed that one of them had looked at her. Two eyes, apparently catching the moonlight, had shined for a moment. She looked back again, but the figures were now walking away. The goose bumps were now crawling up her arms. She laughed at herself, and shook her head, thinking about the haunted tour actors.
Lyla arrived at her favorite hole-in-the-wall. It was commonly known as The Silversmith, even though the sign out front was so old and worn out it was no longer readable. It was a relatively quiet lesbian bar that was always dark inside. It had one TV that was seemingly stuck on a sports channel. Music from the jukebox made actually listening to the TV utterly impossible. Not being the hip place to be, The Silversmith garnered just enough patrons to form a group of regulars. At the same time, being on Bourbon St. meant it was common for intoxicated visitors to curiously stumble in. This enabled Lyla to sit by herself at the far end of the bar and usually go unnoticed. She could admire the local ambiance, and enjoy a cocktail and some music. As she made her way through the smoke filled room, without really looking, she noticed the usual ten or so regulars grouped around the front of the television. A cute couple was laughing and dancing off to the side. At the back of the bar, she pulled a bar stool out, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her wool coat. After making sure there was an ashtray nearby, and lighting her cigarette, she smirked at the thought of the drunk who had asked her for a smoke. Lyla sat down, removed her scarf and laid it in her lap. The stone fireplace on the wall behind her was instantly warming her up. The old woman behind the bar made her way over. The poor woman had grisly coal black hair and a face that was ten times older than her age. She was rough on the edges, but always attentive to her patron’s drink levels. Lyla ordered a margarita on the rocks, no salt - her favorite drink. Even though this wasn't the first time she had been in this bar, and ordered this same drink from the old woman, there was never any sign of facial recognition. There was never a “welcome back” greeting. No doubt this attitude wasn't going to win her bartender of the year, but Lyla loved it. Small talk bothered her.
The cute couple was now leaned against the wall and flirting with each other. Kissing and groping would surely begin soon. Through the window at the front of the bar, Lyla could see the usual foot traffic of Bourbon St. partiers passing by. After listening and observing for a while, her drink had already started taking effect. She could feel the slight buzz in her body. If she continued to another her nose would begin to go numb. This always signified it was time to stop. But, she ordered another drink anyway. Other than a few curious street wanderers, the crowd hadn't changed much from the original regulars, all huddled around the sports channel. Lyla noticed one of the passing silhouettes in the window had stopped. Its dark shape was strange indeed as it stood still then slowly turned. Lyla became frightened when the shape reminded her of the feathers sprouting above the head of the mask in the shop window. Two eyes began to illuminate on its face. Suddenly, a woman, who had been watching the game on TV, jumped up and yelled “Son of a bitch.” Two of the other women also jumped up and laughed as they clanked their drinks and toasted to an apparent goal. They blocked the view of the window. Lyla stood up, trying to get a better view around them. As they all settled back down in their seats, Lyla no longer saw the dark figure. She looked at the floor and wondered ‘What kind of craziness is this? I must be going insane!’ She took her seat again, keeping her eyes on the window. She noticed the lusting couple had retreated up the stairs to the second floor bar. Maybe the voice was talking to her again, maybe it was just an onset of worry, or maybe it was just the alcohol talking, but whatever the reason, she felt drawn to go upstairs as well. She gathered her things, while continuing to check the window.
It was so much darker upstairs. In fact, you could hardly tell where you were walking. Lyla noticed the cute couple was ordering drinks from the bartender in the center of the room. This bartender was considerably younger than the old woman downstairs, and she was wearing an elaborate 17th century black dress, layered in gray doilies. The irony here, of the young woman wearing the old dress, was not lost on her. There were a few others hunched over the bar. They were dressed in black, sporting tattoos and neckbands of metal spikes. She didn't want to appear social with them, so she continued around a corner to an adjoining room. It had a pool table, several booths, and doors that opened onto the balcony. She considered going out there, to see if she could spot the figure that was in the window. The idea of actually seeing what she pictured in her mind was quickly defeated by a feeling of fear. She took a seat at one of the booths, and finished off her second drink. Another couple was making out at a nearby table. Only the candles on the tables lighted the room.
Under the archway of the entrance, Lyla noticed the tall silhouette standing there. She panicked. Her heart raced. It was going to literally jump out of her chest. The figure, stepped toward the candle light. Lyla could now make out its black tux and cape. The feathered mask from the shop was now staring directly at her, with beaming white eyes. The beautiful delicate lips were now separated by two protruding and elongated teeth. Blood dripped from its mouth. Lyla squirmed further into her booth, as she noticed that the two women who were making out at a nearby table were now staring back at her, also wearing feathered masks! Lyla closed her eyes and screamed, as the masked figure walked to her.
As she opened her eyes, and the mask was staring back at her from behind the old shop window, she knew now what this mask was trying to say to her. Another set of automobile headlights passed behind her and cast two eye-like dots of light in the reflection on the glass. She smiled contently, turned and headed home.
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