You forgot your book. You stand in front of your bed, which now contains every single item from your suitcase…except your book. You knew this to be the truth before you dumped it out, but part of you couldn’t believe it without seeing for yourself. No book. 

You turn a slow circle and survey the room. It’s still early, for all that full dark has fallen outside your window. You tend to be a night owl, and the hours stretching between now and when you’ll finally fall asleep feel unforgivably boring. You’ll be climbing the walls within thirty minutes without something to distract you, and there isn’t even a television in this room to keep you occupied. 

Bluebeard told you to stay put after dark, but he doesn’t have to know you’re ducking out for a quick run to your car. You map the route in your head–down the long, meandering hallway, descend the staircase, through the foyer and front door. Your car is right there once you leave the house. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your keys, slip them into your pocket to ensure they don’t betray you by jingling, and crack open your bedroom door. You hold your breath, and then feel a bit silly for doing so. You’re a grown ass adult. You’re more than capable of navigating a house in the dark. And Bluebeard is far too polite to do something as creepy as stand guard outside your door to ensure you obey the rules.

Sure enough, no one appears to chastise you. Not as you open your door fully, not as you step into the hallway and pad on bare feet toward the stairs. 

You’ve spent plenty of time living alone over the years and so you’re more than familiar with what an empty apartment feels like. This house has a similar sensation, except it’s more pronounced. As if this house isn’t merely slumbering, but has reached its final resting place alongside your mysterious uncle.

You pause again at the stairs, peering down to the first floor as best you can. Despite your intentions to get through this journey as quickly as possible, your gaze tracks to the stairs up. They seem deeper in shadow than the ones down, the darkness thick enough to obscure the landing. You shiver. This place didn’t seem so sinister in the daylight.

It truly only takes a few minutes to hurry down the stairs and out into the night. You pause on the front step and take a deep breath, the scent of pine heavy in the air. The tight spot between your shoulder blades relaxes a little in response to the sound of frogs croaking at each other, and various night insects moving about their existence. “See. Not so bad,” you murmur. 

You have a moment to regret not pulling on shoes as you pick your way across the gravel to your car, but a brief discomfort is worth it to move silently in the house. Your book is right where you left it–in a tote bag with various snacks and drinks from the trip here. You grab the whole thing, pause to lock your car, and move quickly back to the house. 

Part of you half expects the front door to be locked against your re-entry, but the handle turns easily against your palm. The door doesn’t even creak as you swing it open and slip back into the house. You pause there in the foyer, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. There’s nothing to fear. It’s just an old house in the middle of the woods. Yes, your childhood fairy tales warned you of such things, but the small amount of risk is worth the reward waiting for you on the other side of the temporary trial.

The ascent back to the second floor is just as smooth as your escape. You glance at the steps leading to the third floor. You can’t help it. There’s something so odd about how the light doesn’t penetrate. It pulls at you, even as it repels you.

As you turn toward your room, you register a faint sound. You hadn’t realized exactly how silent this place is until it’s penetrated by a mournful cello. Your head snaps up. That’s definitely coming from the third floor. It must be Bluebeard playing, though you didn’t think he was the musical type based on your brief interaction. 

But then a violin joins the cello, and a faint thrum of a drum. That doesn’t make sense. There’s no one else here but you and Bluebeard; you’re sure of it. You stand there in confusion as more and more instruments come together until it sounds almost like there’s a small orchestra. The music changes, too, moving from so devastatingly sad you think your heart might break to something that feels like a hand reaching down to grasp your chin, to tug your attention away from the stairs down and toward the third floor.

You shouldn’t. You’re already breaking the rules, but at least you had a good reason to do so. If Bluebeard catches you, he’ll… What? Give you a stern talking to? You shake your head, trying to focus. This is all so strange. It has been since you received the notice in the mail about your long lost uncle, but that at least you could explain away. This moment feels different.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pivot and walk up the stairs to the third floor. You don’t make a sound, but with each step, your skin prickles as if sensing eyes on you. That’s impossible, though; there are no windows in this part of the stairs and it’s almost too dark to see anything at all.

You reach the third floor landing without a problem. The music is louder here, but only barely. It sounds as if it’s coming from a great distance, perhaps down the hallway stretched out at your feet. 

Now is the time to turn back, to retreat to the relative safety of your room. You have your book, after all, and that’s what you broke the rules to accomplish. But the music is in your bones, and curiosity sparks in your chest. You’re certain it’s not a recording, which means there are more people here than Bluebeard. You want to know who they are and why they’re in the house of a dead man, playing such a lively tune.

Your shoulder aches from the weight of your tote bag, but you barely notice it as you move quietly down the third floor hallway. It’s nearly identical to the second floor, but much darker, lacking the windows to allow the moonlight in. There are dozens of doors, each made of dark wood and standing slightly too tall and too wide. 

The source of the music quickly becomes clear when you reach the end of the hallway. You thought it stopped with a blank wall, but that was another illusion from shadows. Instead, it’s a great archway. 

You hesitate, but you’ve come this far. You won’t be able to sleep if you don’t see this through. With a fortifying breath, you propel yourself forward through the arch and into the shadows. They seem to part around you with each step, revealing a balcony overlooking a ballroom. The space doesn’t make sense with what you saw of the exterior of the house, but it’s possible you got turned around somewhere along the way.

It’s also not empty.

You expected Bluebeard, expected some kind of explanation to the music. You get both, but he’s not alone. The ballroom is filled with people in gowns and tuxedos, moving through a dance that looks like something out of the historical movies you enjoy so much. Every single one of them is wearing a mask–gold and silver and feathers and sequins arranged in vaguely animalistic features–to hide their faces.

All except Bluebeard, who stands next to the small band, looking like a different man entirely. Oh, his features are identical to the man you met earlier today, but that polite gentleman is nowhere in evidence. His entire energy is different, bigger, more dangerous. It sends a thrill of something– fear, attraction, or some combination of both–through you. 

The music pulls at you, an invitation you shouldn’t accept. But there’s a staircase leading down to the ballroom, and a small table filled with masks arranged at the bottom, there for the taking.

It’s not too late, though. Bluebeard hasn’t seen you, doesn’t know your trespass. You could slip away through the shadows and return to the room with him none the wiser…