The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. Inside this secluded area, a musty smell of liquor and wine emanated from the top of the mahogany bookshelf and table. This vicinity was as depressing as the night itself. The scarlet curtains hung in odd angles portraying somber faces of depression and lonesomeness. The wind cried in the dark. The seven paintings, nailed onto one side of the wall were of cynical state. Each picture consisted the movements of one girl, just one, running room to room from someone, or something. The artist had used a pallet consisting of mystifying colors ranging from a deep red to a charcoal black. The painter was able to show the girl’s pain, the color of her cheeks each second, her fiery red hair, formerly tied in plaits; was now untied and strung together with heavy beads of perspiration which clung to her forehead for dear life.
There was a child in that very room. Lydia was her name. Her uncle was Prince Prospero. The man had recently invited her to stay with him after her parents had recently perished in the terrible pestilence that nearly wiped out the whole countryside. He was terribly kind to her. But the esoteric castle still held its secrets. The castle was placed in the neck of the woods; where it wouldn’t be noticed unless it was looked at intently. Visitors were infrequent and messengers were discriminated against. Before the era of the “Perilous Plague”, Lydia’s mother, Catherine Von Luewenjau; was the only living heir to the throne next to uncle Prospero. She knew, deep down, the only reason she was invited to stay with her uncle, was for ownership of the inheritance her parents had left. She hated him because of this; she knew he was the cause of all her problems.
The old church bell of St. Augustus suddenly eradicated her string of thought. It was as if it had broken the glass wall between her mind and the outside world. It rang twice. Although it was just a bell, it’s music sounded melancholic and lugubrious. It was strange how the recondite church pastor, Frollo Mastronomo, knew how to bring one back to the existent world. The hair on her skin prickled, as she thought about the old man’s face. It was hideously ugly; but rather comforting. The sounds of the party held downstairs echoed throughout the great walls of the castle. Gay music and endless notes of harmony were heard from the grand piano, located in the west wing. The sounds of the other guests twinkled in her ears. The butcher was reciting a sonnet in a clear and voluptuous and exceedingly deep voice. “What terrible noise, she thought. These fools had no idea how to express their own feelings. She questioned the reason behind not listening to the guardians of evil.
Her uncle had forbidden her to accompany him with the guests. She didn’t care, though. The dimly lit room provided a homey feeling. The light blue scope she had passed several days ago was nothing compared to this setup. She had planned to enjoy every room thoroughly. It was this room that amazed her the most. She watched the seven paintings on the wall with great interest. Although it was just one painting, broken up into pieces; it spoke to her. “Help me, please, help…” the girl in the paintings cried. There was much beauty, much alarm, and much terror in those paintings.
Lydia had always wanted to be a part of the paintings. She wanted to be drawn and noticed in that way too. It was actually more of an obsession. She was always interested in dark things. She was attracted to the mentally insane for, as she thought, had the potential of village scribes. The characteristics of her facial features were of plenty. Her face was a strong color of amber, which was always covered with her thin, and wiry and scraggly hair. It swept up the area around her pointed ears and was glued to the back of her collarbone. Her bushy eyebrows were arched in sinister curves and breaks. The mouth was of a deep bloody color that stood out in a room of complete darkness. As for the jaws, they were quite stern and livid which protruded a large snake of a tongue; slithering and swerving when she spoke. The overall appearance of this character was deathly and wicked. Her heart leaped at thought that someone might frighten her to her demise.
The guests had now begun to leave the strange rooms, the party was held in, and went to their rooms for bed. As the last visitor continued down the stairway a loud shriek echoed throughout the house. Patrons ran towards the noise. A loud buzz, then a quiet murmur was heard- then, suddenly, of fright, of remorse, and of concern. Lydia leisurely slid down the hallway banister without a problem in the world. As she came into the hallway parlor her pompous uncle lay dead on the floor. The grotesque image replayed over and over in her mind. The whites of his eye were a tinge of mustard and were speckled with red flecks. A bubbly white liquid seeped out of his mouth. Dark black colors encircled his plump, ruddy red lips. The cheery disposition of most of the guests was gone, and in its place a masque of disdain had taken over. A terrible evil lurked in the corridors of the palace walls. “The prince is dead!!” a guest shouted. “What sweet sorrow” Lydia thought to herself. “That catastrophic cow of an uncle of mine deserves to be dead” she said once more to herself. The guests chimed in shouting “This death will be announced ‘round the world!” Again the church bell’s sorrowful song reverberated throughout the hallway corridor. This time, everyone listened, and not a word was said. The silence was unbearable and before long one guest made a statement.
“Without the prince we will perish, and without the prince our country will not survive” one individual said. “He was a remarkable prince with feet of clay” another claimed. Prior to another remark, a scratchy and obscure voice boomed in the west wing. A coated outline of crimson approached the outlandish body of Prince Prospero. The hooded creature spoke of how the prince fought like a lion against his competitor. When the guests began to question the murderer’s whereabouts, the cloaked figure replied with a low and servile tone of voice. “I killed the prince”, he said.
Nothing was said. Then summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng
of the partygoers leaped onto the dark figure. Lydia stood and watched. She knew that whomever this buffoon was it would not hurt her. The assassin merely stood without concern. The hits and punches of the unbridled crowds did not seem to wound him in any way. In contrast, their punches were doing more damage to himself or herself rather than to the destroyer. As the woeful crowd tried their best to defeat the disguised avatar; they were killing themselves in both strength and spirit. The form came over to Lydia and wiped the smug grin off her face with a blow of his rank breath. His bloody red lips slightly kissed her leaving a mark that burnt her forehead.
And now was acknowledged the presence of this curtained configuration of ruin. It had come like the sun at daybreak and disappeared with it as it set. As the bell of St. Augustus rang once more there was not a sound. For there was no one to experience it’s distressing resonance. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.