text: You’re sitting on a linen sofa, looking at a painting on the wall that depicts a young boy with blond, curly hair dressed in his Sunday’s best, posing against a doorframe. His face is turned to show its left half. Surrounding you are cherry wood cupboards and stands with 19th-century lamps, windows clothed in floral curtains, an electric chandelier overhead, and to your side, a tall mirror on top of the crested hearth. Voices buzz from the adjoining room, but you’ve sequestered yourself alone in here because you wanted another look at the invitation letter. In your hands sits a brown envelope, sealed with a green wax stamp of the same crest on the hearth, and inside, there’s a single piece of laid paper. In an old English font, it reads, ‘You are hereby invited to the Whitlock manor for a dinner celebration of the new moon. The doors open at 9 p.m. Please wear your finest clothing, and we hope you’ll enjoy the party,’ signed by Molly Whitlock. Having lived in Whitlock Hills for most of your life, you’ve heard about this new moon celebration before. Your town sits atop a wooded hillside, sheltered from the outside world, truly alone. Yet, when the night grows dark, and you look out at the mountain’s base, you see lights from other settlements, building towers that reach into the sky. Many, including you, are curious to see what those places are like, but since the last car broke down forty years ago, there’s no means to escape Whitlock Hills--except for the new moon celebration. Seeing the youth’s curiosity, the wealthy Whitlock family organizes this event every thirty days and lends its resources to send a few people away on a trip. How lucky you feel to finally have the chance at that. Your sister participated in the event a few months ago as well, and she’s still out there exploring the world, so it must be a wonderful place out there. After putting the letter back in its envelope, you rise from the sofa and walk into the other room. Inside, amidst striped wallpaper, a display cabinet saturated by ceramics, and an antique carpet under your feet, is the host of guests. Apart from you, three other people have been invited, and they’re conferring amongst each other. While you recognize their faces, you don’t really know them that well, so you stay off to the side, quietly waiting until the event starts. Suddenly, unannounced, strangers start funneling into the room. Unlike your casual white T-shirt and jeans, they are dressed in blouses or tunics with tight vests scrunching up the chest, paired with dress pants or skirts based on gender. But even more peculiar are the black eye masks they don while their hair is tucked away in brown coifs. The other guests go silent, watching the mysterious figures fill the room, cluster into groups, and start their own conversations. None of them address you or another guest. Then, upon the last masked face taking their place, a woman appears in the opening. Her face looks gaunt, cheekbones poking out and eyes bulging from their sockets. A black boater hat rests just above her brows, a curtain of blond hair combed straight down the back of her head. Her black-gloved hands hang still in front of the pleaded skirt from her blue dress, puffed up at the shoulders. She bows and says, “Welcome, everyone, to another new moon celebration. I hope you’ll have a pleasant night.” The masked people suddenly start applauding rapidly and vigorously. The other guests follow along, so you do it as well. “Now.” The applause abruptly stops, and you lag behind a second. With a mellow grin, the lady’s eyes find you, then the three guests next to you. “Some of you aspire to venture out of this town, am I correct? I can understand; there’s a lot to explore, but the world isn’t as welcoming as you might think. So, before you run off into trouble, I want to make sure you’re prepared.” From a pocket in her skirt, she grabs a red mask and puts it on. “In the outside world, there are a lot of topics that are taboo to talk about. I know that, within our little community, people like to tell it how it is, but when you’re elsewhere, you must know when to mind your manners and hold your tongue.” She steps to the side, clearing the entrance. “Breaking such a faux pas is a mistake you don’t want to make.” Her arm presents itself to her side. “Hereby, I would like to introduce my son, Jonathan Whitlock.” A young man steps forward from around the corner, blond locks curling from his head, a face much rounder and fuller than his mother’s. He appears to be at the end of his teenage years, yet still wears a sailor’s shirt and shorts, fidgeting from their awkward fit. “Please treat him kindly tonight, and I will grant you your wish for freedom.” Someone in the group beside you leans to their friend, whispering, “So, is that Molly Whitlock?” “I think so.” Ms. Whitlock raises her arms and shouts, “Let the night commence!” before she booms two claps through the room. As if rehearsed, the masked people start turning and darting around randomly, scrambling you and the guests apart like debris in a storm. Swept up in the current and pushed around, you end up in a corner, a man and woman flanking you, wrinkled smiles sitting below their masks. “Do you know how the alphabet goes?” the man says. “I’m sorry?” you reply, unsure if you heard him correctly. “The alphabet,” the woman whispers. “Could you tell us how it goes?” “Uhm... A, B, C...” You stop yourself, feeling ridiculous at having to dictate it out loud, but the expressions of the masked pair don’t change. They stare at you with raptured interest. So, you continue. “D, E, F, G.” As you hum the melody you’ve been taught as a child, your ears pick up the voice of another guest nearby. “Four, five, six, seven.” They’re counting numbers, also for a captivated mask duo. “J, K, L, M...” You stop momentarily when you spot Ms. Whitlock’s son, Jonathan, walking towards the young girl who was also invited. You stare at his smooth face, thinking about how soft his skin looks, when something strange happens. On his right cheek, a fold begins to appear, then two more above it, right next to each other. A bulge of skin pokes out and grows further until it becomes a slope, and when the slits open, they reveal a row of teeth and two sets of eyes. There’s a face, a second face, on Jonathan’s cheek. “Good afternoon,” Jonathan says to the girl. “Uh--h-hey,” she replies, her eyes unsure where to look. “Do you like it here in our house?” “Get in my bed with me!” the second face yells. “Can’t sleep anywhere else, only on the floor!” You and the girl jump, shocked by that sudden, shrill voice. The masked woman of the pair then tilts her head at you and says, “Could you continue the alphabet, please?” Having forgotten where you left off, you start back from the beginning. “A, B, C, D.” Meanwhile, you tilt to the side to watch Jonathan’s conversation. “Is something wrong?” he says, leaning forward a little with his neck, which is followed by the other face shouting, “Kiss me, sexy lady! I know you want to!” “Just uh... surprised,” the other girl says through a tremble. “What for?” “Well...” Halfway between a smile and a frown, she glances around the room, looking for something or maybe someone. “I don’t know if I should say.” “Why not? You can tell me.” “I think it would be rude.” “There are no guest rooms, so let me grab those boobs!” The girl backs away into the wall, and Jonathan immediately pursues, grabbing both her hands and gently raising them up between them. “Trust me. If it’s anything I can help with.” “The uh...” You see her neck bulge and contract from a gulp. “That face on your cheek, the things it’s saying... they make me uncomfortable.” Instantly, Jonathan’s face levels out, a hollow expression, before he steps back and mumbles, “That is indeed rude.” Two pairs of hands emerge from the other room and grab her by her arms. She yelps out, “No!” but then they yank her back through the entryway, and in an instant, she’s gone. You hear her shrill screams fade into the distance--where you can’t make out, just gone. Your heart starts to race, a loud thumping pushing on your eardrums. One of the remaining guests leaps back and yells, “What the fuck!” which causes a masked man to face him. He shakes his head, saying, “No, fuck this,” and he runs out of the room. No one does anything to stop him. The front door clicks open before you hear a loud and abrupt thud, quickly followed by the guy’s high-pitched cries, slowly smothered by a heavy groaning until a wet splat marks a stop to it. The door then creaks shut. The room is dead silent. You and the last guest exchange glances, his face frozen solid, your own going sore from the high tension. Breaking the hush, you hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice ring from several rooms over. “Dinner is ready!” “Ooo, dinner!” With an excited clangor to his voice, Jonathan rushes out of the room and into another. The masked people calmly follow after him. Now alone, the other guest slinks to you and whispers, “Do you think we can get out?” “I don’t know.” You go over to a window and tug at its handle, but it won’t budge. A lump swells in the back of your throat, causing your voice to shake. “I think we’re stuck here.” “What now?” Thinking back on what Ms. Whitlock said, you reply, “Be polite... and ignore the face.” “Oh, dear guests! Will you join us?” A sudden chill washes over the air following Molly’s words, and you know--instinctively--that you need to arrive at the table. It cannot wait, so you walk over and turn to the left, entering the dining room, red walls on every side while a long table faces you, filled with plates, dotted with candle stands. “Please, take a seat,” Ms. Whitlock says from the table’s head. Jonathan sits at her side, gorging on meatballs drowned in red sauce, and the only spots left are right in front of him. Carefully, you sit down, making sure not to draw his attention, placing your arms softly on the table and keeping your eyes on your plate. The same meal is before you, bubbles bulging and popping from the dressing like magma. Your stomach cramps up, struggling to hold everything inside. “Not hungry?” Ms. Whitlock asks you. “No, I’m fine,” you say, barely able to draw enough breath. “I already ate before coming.” “You ate before the celebration?” Masked heads turn towards you, their eyes shadowed under the sockets. “N-no, I mean--I-I’m sorry--” “Fat fuck can’t stop eating!” Jonathan’s other face makes you falter for a second, the pressure of everyone’s gazes becoming heavier. “I didn’t mean any disrespect,” you quickly blurt out. “My cousin came over, happy about me receiving the invitation. Dad made some soup for us and-and I didn’t want to turn it down, so... I’m sorry if that was rude of me.” “Not at all,” Ms. Whitlock hums, a smile twitching across her face. “That’s fine, deary. Thank you for explaining yourself.” Letting your chest sink, you carefully smile back. “Your dad sucks! Mine cooks way better than yours!” The little face’s whiny voice attracts your eyes for only a moment, but when you return to Ms. Whitlock, her grin wanes. After glancing at her son in turn, she asks, “Is there something you want to say to Jonathan?” He looks up from his plate, gawking at you with wide eyes. “No,” you say. “I was just looking around.” “Are you sure? It’s rude to lie to people.” “It’s because I’m tired. I usually go to bed around this time, so...” “Oh, do you want some rest before leaving for the outside world? That’s fine. We’ll prepare some beds for you.” “Not my bed!” The little face cries. “That’s all right,” you say, pushing yourself and the chair back, glancing at the other guest next to you. “I think we’ll go home and travel the world another time.” “It’s really not a bother,” Ms. Whitlock pouts, shaking her head. “We have a room ready right now.” “I thought there weren’t any guest rooms,” the other survivor stutters. You nod along, your jaw rattling. “Yeah, and we don’t want to be a bother.” Following your words, the table remains quiet while the masked people turn their heads forward. The room becomes hot, and it feels like you can’t breathe--that the air is gone. “No guest rooms...” Ms. Whitlock’s voice drops to a low purr. “Where did you hear that?” “From...” The guy stops abruptly, shock spreading through his face right before his eyes jerk to Jonathan. All of a sudden, your neighbor is sucked under the table in a blur, so fast as if something grabbed his legs and pulled him with the strength to rip open trees. You barely hear the start of a yell when he’s gone from your sight. You look down under the table but only see a dark stain on the carpet slowly withering away. “What was that about a guest room?” Ms. Whitlock asks. You straighten and see her gaze latched onto you like a pit bull’s bite, the languid grin constant and unmoving. “Nothing,” you stutter, barely any strength in your voice. Sprouting a brighter smile, Ms. Whitlock leans over and grabs your hand resting on your chest, planting it on the table underneath her own. Then, her other hand reaches to stroke across your arm. “Don’t be nervous, sweetie. You’ve done well and remained polite; just let us get rid of your fatigue, and you’ll be off to new places in no time.” Despite your body wanting to tear itself away from this woman--this house--the gentle touch of her fingers trailing across your skin causes a numbing heat to throb through your body, her sultry whispers tickling your ears. “Won’t you stay over for a quick rest?” You fail to answer, too swept up by the sudden pleasantness of her presence, a nice, warm fire for the chill you’ve been suffering from. “Won’t you prepare a room for our dear guest, my boy,” she says to her son. “But I’m still eating.” “I shouldn’t have to repeat myself, Jonathan.” The clatter of a fork falling on a plate scratches at your ears, but you lack the motivation to look over at Jonathan. He must be standing up, retiring to the entrance hall before ascending the stairs. That’s your guess... since you’d rather bask in this hot glow some more. It makes you sluggish. Listless. For a moment, you forget what happened and think about nothing--true serenity. Then, someone sneezes, and instinctively--because it’s the polite thing to do--you utter, “Bless you.” Ms. Whitlock’s hands are pulled back, torn from your arm, leaving you in dreadful solitude, and when you look up at her, you see apathy in its most graphic sneer. It makes your head spin with nausea and constricts your chest until it stings. “Bless who?” she says. Her question stirs in your mind until you glance at Jonathan, and it finally settles in. He’s coolly staring at you while his second face is twisted in an evil smirk. You addressed it. “Bless who?” Ms. Whitlock repeats. “Remember, it’s rude to lie.” With each passing second, you feel the space around you wither as if a claw is slowly curling in on you. For a moment, you think about answering, ‘Nobody, I must be hearing things,’ but something tells you it’s already too late. Instead, you jump out of your seat, run out of the room, and into the entrance hall. Right ahead is the front door, offering freedom so close by, but then you remember the horrible sounds when it was opened and the scream that followed. You turn and rush up the steps to a hallway of doors. “Don’t be rude now.” You hear Ms. Whitlock’s voice echo from downstairs, gradually growing louder. Desperate, you try the first door you see, and it opens without a fight. However, once you step inside, it immediately closes behind you, and when you try the handle again, it's locked in place like stone. With a twist at the bottom of your stomach, you slowly turn around, and... a few feet away, you see a human skull sitting on a wooden stand. You carefully step closer, noticing that something else sits before the skull. It’s a clumped ball of chains, and once you pick it up, the bundle unfurls into a silver necklace adorned by a star pendant. The same pendant your sister wore. A hand lands on your shoulder, cold to the touch like steel, squeezing at your flesh firm enough that you know it could shatter your bones. Then, another one takes your other shoulder, holding you in place with absolute certainty. Gathering what little courage you have, you turn your eyes to the side and gently twist your head to see. A row of pointed, black fingers drape over you like icicles, their tips nudging at your skin. Unable to sense the beating of your heart anymore, you try to look back further at what’s behind you, but then you are thrust away into an endless darkness, and with the abruptness of a twig snapped in two... everything goes silent.