The Cursed Curtain

Lila found the old playbill in the basement of the abandoned Majestic Theater: “The Phantom’s Masquerade, 1945—Closed After 3 Deaths”. Curiosity pulled her up the rotting stage stairs, where a velvet curtain hung, stained with what looked like dried blood. Behind it, a row of porcelain masks stared from a shelf—smiling, frowning, their painted eyes glinting in the moonlight.
She reached for a silver mask with a cracked grin. As her fingers touched it, the curtain rustled. A voice, smooth as velvet, whispered: “You’ll wear it, won’t you?” Lila spun. No one there, but the mask felt warm, almost alive, in her hand.
That night, she dreamt of the theater. A figure in a tuxedo stood center stage, face hidden by the silver mask. “Finish the play,” he said. When she woke, the mask was on her nightstand, grinning wider.
Lila returned to the theater, mask in hand. The stage lights flickered on, illuminating a crowd of empty seats. The figure appeared, mask identical to hers. “Put it on,” he urged. She hesitated, then complied.
The moment the mask clicked into place, pain seared her face. She tried to tear it off, but it fused to her skin. In the mirror backstage, her reflection smiled—a fixed, porcelain grin. The figure laughed, removing his mask to reveal… her own face, eyes wide with terror.
“Now you’re part of the cast,” he said, and Lila realized with horror: the play never ended. It just needed new actors.