Tales of Terror
Authors: Les Martin
A
terrible sickness spread over the land. It was called the Red Death. Red is the color of blood. Blood oozing through every pore of the skin. That was the sign of the sickness and the seal of death.
All who caught it died within a half hour. But first they felt horrible pain and grew dizzy. Then they were stained red with their own blood.
With the Red Death came fear. No one was safe from the Death. And no one was safe from the fear.
No one, that is, except one man.
The great Prince Prospero ruled the land. He was the strongest of the strong. The bravest of the brave. The richest of the rich. The Red Death was mighty, but not as mighty as Prince Prospero. Fear might rule others, but not a ruler like him.
Let the Red Death rage everywhere. Let it turn farms into graveyards. Let it litter city streets with corpses. Let it slay workers at work, children in school. It could not touch Prince Prospero or those he chose to save.
Prince Prospero had many castles. But one was his favorite by far. He himself had drawn its plans. He had made sure the
builders followed them. The castle was perfect down to the last detail. It was like a mirror of the prince’s mind. It reflected everything he desired.
The prince now went to this castle. With him came the flower of his royal court. The boldest knights. The most beautiful ladies. Musicians, ballet dancers, jugglers, and clowns to amuse them. And servants to care for their every want and need.
All told, a thousand people came with Prospero. The castle was more than large enough for them. And easily able to feed them. Storerooms held food for years of feasting. Trees in the gardens bore fruit for every season. A spring brought fresh water from deep in the earth. Vast cellars were filled with the finest wines.
A wall around the castle stood above
all. The highest, thickest wall that could be built.
Only one door led through this wall. A door of solid iron. The door was locked as soon as the prince and his followers entered. But he was not satisfied with even this. He ordered it sealed shut. Sealed with molten metal. It hardened in an hour. The door was airtight.
No one could enter the castle now. No matter how desperate to escape the Red Death. And no one could leave. Not even anyone insane enough to risk it.
The people inside the castle had no choice. They could only enjoy themselves all day and night.
The people outside had no choice either. They could only wait for the Red Death to strike at any time.
All those lucky people inside the castle hailed the prince. He had won out over the Red Death. Here in his castle they would live until the Red Death died out. Then the whole land would be theirs. Theirs alone.
But Prince Prospero could not rest long on his victory. In a few months he faced a new enemy. An enemy within his castle and within his very being. An enemy he had to overcome.
Boredom.
It grew stronger with every passing day. Every week. Every month.
Boredom attacked the prince. It attacked his followers. The most delicious food tasted stale. The rarest wines seemed sour. Clowns drew groans. Jugglers drew yawns.
Finally, Prince Prospero gathered his followers before him.
“I invite you to a party,” he said. “A celebration. We have been in the castle six months now. Six months of safety. Six months of pleasure. The best six months of our lives. So I want to make this the best party ever.”
The party would be a masque, the prince told them. A masked ball—with everyone in costumes. Anyone could come as anything. And could do anything. At this party anything went. The wilder the better.
And there would be a special treat. The masque would be in Prospero’s private rooms. Only trusted servants had seen them before. Now everyone would enjoy them.
There was no boredom in the castle that week. Brains and fingers worked overtime to create strange costumes. Tongues wagged about what Prospero’s private rooms were like. The great prince had designed them himself. They had to be very original.
The prince’s followers were not disappointed.
The night of the party they poured into the prince’s rooms. Eagerly they explored them.
All the doors between the rooms were open, but each room was a separate surprise. The prince had not laid out his rooms in a straight line. Each room was at a sharp angle to the one before it. A guest could see only one room at a time. With no hint of what came next.
The first room was all blue. The vivid blue of an autumn sky. The furniture was blue. The walls and ceiling were blue. A blue carpet covered the floor. And tall blue windows faced each other on two sides.
The only light in the room came from outside the windows. There, fires blazed in metal stands. The blue windows turned the firelight blue. That blue light bathed the blue of the room.
The second room was all purple. The purple of kings, bathed in purple light.
The next one, the green of great lawns.
Next, the orange of flames.
After that, the blinding white of snow.
Then came the violet of a dazzling sunset.
But nothing prepared a guest for the
seventh room. No one could escape its shock.
The room was black. The deepest black. The black of a bottomless hole.
Except for the windows.
They were blood-red. Blood-red light came through them and cast hideous shadows.
Guests shrank from that light. Quickly they left. Few stayed long enough to see the clock in the room. A towering black clock. But all heard it. It chimed ominously every hour.
That sound went through every room. It cut through the music. Through the talk. Through the laughter. It was like a sudden chill.
But when the sound died, the party fever rose again. The party went on, even
wilder than before. It was as if everyone had forgotten the clock would chime again. The frightening feeling would return.
The prince walked among his guests. He was pleased. He had told them to enjoy themselves, and they were obeying his command.
He smiled to see them dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Their voices grew louder and louder. Their feet more and more clumsy.
Above all, he was amused by their costumes. He had urged his guests to set no limits on their imagination. They had obeyed. He saw gods and devils, clowns and animals. He saw kings and beggars, policemen and thieves. The divine and the horrible. He saw everything men and women could dream of being.
Then the party paused again. The black clock was chiming. Twelve times. Midnight had come.
The last chime died away. Music and laughter rose. The prince looked across the blue room. There he saw the strangest costume of all, and his smile faded.
The person wearing the costume stood alone. The costume filled other guests with disgust and horror.
The figure was tall and thin. Its costume was a shroud. A corpse’s shroud that hung from head to feet. Its mask was just as gruesome. A chalk-white mask that was a perfect copy of a corpse’s face. But even this was not the worst of it. The mask was spotted with bright dots of red.
This guest had come as a victim of the Red Death.
The prince’s face grew pale with shock. And with a swift, sudden touch of fear.
Then it grew red with rage.
He would not let this hideous joke spoil his perfect party.
“Who dares insult us?” he roared to his followers. “Seize him. Unmask him. So we can know who he is before we hang him at sunrise.”
Prince Prospero’s commanding voice rang through all the rooms. His followers moved to seize the strange figure.
But the figure did not retreat. Instead it advanced with a slow, solemn step. Straight toward the prince.
The prince’s followers parted before it. They gave the figure a clear path. A stab of fear went through them. The same icy fear that had touched the prince himself.
Frozen, they watched the figure pass by the prince. Within a yard of him.
Prince Prospero was frozen, too. He watched the figure leave the blue room.
Then again a wave of hot anger flooded through the prince. Anger at this man who mocked his power. And anger at his own moment of weakness.
His followers might bow to fear. That was why they
were
followers. But he could not surrender to it. That was why they bowed to him.
Raging, the prince rushed into the purple room. But the figure had left. It had gone on to the next room.
In the green room the story was the same. And in the orange. The white. The violet. The figure kept its lead.
Prince Prospero was not worried. The
figure was in the black room now. From that room there was no escape. Not from the prince. And not from the dagger in his hand.
The prince raised his dagger high. His eyes gleamed. The gleam of a hunter closing in on his prey. He entered the black room and saw he had his prey trapped.
The shrouded figure was at the far end of the room. Its back was toward the prince. Prince Prospero rushed toward it.
Then the figure turned.
The prince was four feet away.
He got no farther.
A sharp cry came from his mouth.
The dagger dropped from his hand. It fell on the black carpet.
Then the prince fell. Fell to lie beside his dagger.
His body lay facedown on the black carpet. It lay there still as a corpse. Bathed in the red light.
His followers saw all this through the open doorway. Their love and loyalty overcame fear. They poured into the room, ready to tear the motionless shrouded figure apart.
But all they found was an empty shroud that had crumpled to the floor. Beside it lay the chalk-white mask. Right in front of the towering black clock. The clock that had now stopped.
Then they turned the prince over and saw his face bathed in the blood-red light. But it was no trick of light they saw. It was blood as red as the light.
Now they knew who had come to their party.
Now they knew who had come uninvited, like a thief in the night.
Now they knew who was among them, touching them all.
One by one they fell to the floor. Writhing. Howling in pain. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue. And in every room their blood stained the carpets.
One by one the flames outside the windows went out. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue.
Until darkness ruled the castle.
Darkness—and the Red Death.
