Ngozi pulled on the painting of a cherub, and as she expected a dark doorway lay behind. She swung the bright white light of her torch into the narrow room and saw nothing. Her curiosity piqued, she left the dimly lit hallway behind and stepped into the stifling darkness.
The painting slammed shut behind her with a bang! and her battery powered torch went out.
She instantly backed up to the painting and tried to pry it open. It didn’t budge. Then as the cold hands of fear started to wrap around her heart, candles lit up along the walls of the room and she saw she wasn’t alone. There was a mask, hanging at the other end of the narrow room. It was a long oval made of pitch black obeche and etched with faces frozen in silent screams. She gasped, still feeling frantically for a way out. When the mask moved, she froze, paralyzed; it floated off the wall, contorting and melting. With it, thick black smoke came, obscuring the little light that the candles gave off. It halted mere inches from her shivering form, now a creature with blood red eyes that seemed to glow in the dark; floating in thick smoke from its waist up. It spoke; its voice a thousand sounds that made the air tremble.
“To the woman who sets her eyes on the Mask of Oro, I curse. Continue reading