A/N: This is meant to be a sort of Gothic Horror.

CHAPTER ONE
Danse Macabre

Branches hang over the inky road like wasted fingers grasping at the old Volvo as it speeds past. Woven foliage blots out the moon and stars, the gloom only broken by a pair of headlights, painting the highway ahead in yellowed grey. The forest grows denser the farther the vehicle travels, the tight mass of trees inching closer to the thin shoulder—a creeping predator ready to snatch its fleeing prey.

Sarah shivers in the backseat of the car despite the blasting heater. With each mile, the air becomes thick, stifling. She closes her eyes, gulping deep breaths to dispel the claustrophobia snaking over her skin, tightening her chest.

"Are you all right?" The enshrouding darkness retreats at her friend's soft question.

Sarah's eyes flutter open. "I'm fine," she lies, offering Tara a wan smile before turning back to the windows. She traces lazy designs in the condensation, ignoring the foreboding that settles in her middle like a lead weight. It's nothing. Just the forest at night.

She shifts, tugging at her corseted bodice and fingering the tiny hand-sewn seed pearls. The other girls were thrilled to play dress-up, but Sarah would have preferred to wear something less period. When her roommate displayed the gown made especially for her, a chill ghosted up Sarah's spine. She touched the gossamer fabric with quaking fingers. "I can't," she whispered, backing away. Amanda, not understanding, told her to quit being silly and put the damn thing on. End of discussion.

"Aren't you excited?" Tara asks, pulling Sarah out of memory. "This is the last Halloween party for us."

Sarah nods, tipping the corners of her mouth up in what she hopes is a cheerful grin. "Sure."

She had been excited, until she learned this year's theme was a masquerade: La Bal Masqué des Goules. The invite forbade modern costumes, but instead encouraged attendees to find something appropriate for likes of Phantom of the Opera. Something that would have been appropriate for another ball Sarah had attended six years before.

If it had happened at all. Any of it.

"Hey." Tara nudges her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She's not, but she can't find the words to explain why. "Of course."

"It's like you're subdued or something." Tara shrugs. "You're usually more…you know…you."

Amanda swivels around in the front seat, assessing Sarah with her dark eyes. "Yeah, you look a little pale."

"It's the corset." Sarah forces a laugh. "I think you tied it too tight."

"If you can tough it out for a little bit longer, we'll fix it when we get there." Amanda gives her a reassuring smile before turning back around.

"I think this is it," Mark says, slowing the Volvo. To the right, a large sign hangs between trees, lit by antique glass lanterns. In bleeding crimson letters, it directs those attending the party to turn here.

The private road is narrow, paved with gravel, the forest crowding close enough that Sarah thinks she can touch the shadowed trunks if she opens the window. She wants to push them back. She wants space to breathe.

A flash of white dances in the corner of her vision, and Sarah turns, seeking the source. Deep in the wood a lurid shape weaves among the trees. Sarah squeezes her eyes shut. Just a trick of the moonlight. That isn't a ghost; it can't be. Don't look. She looks, her eyes opening in defiance to her silent command. The apparition is gone. Sarah sighs, chiding herself, reining in her vivid imagination. Halloween gives birth to eerie thoughts. That's all.

But the specter appears again, and Sarah lets out a strangled gasp. No, not a specter, but a stag as white as the night was black, keeping pace with the car. She opens her mouth call Tara's attention to the albino creature when its head turns, grey eyes meeting hers. There's intelligence there. Sarah shrinks from the window, her heart pounding.

Found you.

The silent words stretch from the stag in a hiss, a taunt, as if it knows an important secret she's not privy to.

Found you. Found you. Found you.

Ice slides down her spine. She's held captive by the animal's stare, by its impossible declaration. Her shaky breath mists the window as the stag veers closer, its glossy obsidian eyes never leaving hers. It's close, so close that she can make out its details in the waning moonlight—a twisting, sharp set of horns, muscles rippling in its flanks. A hazy aura pulses around it, and the air in Sarah's lungs turns gelid when she realizes the creature isn't darting around the trees, but running through them.

Found you. Found you. Found you.

She presses her hands against her ears in a futile attempt to shut out the sound, but it's in her mind. The stag dips its head.

Find me.

It rams the car.

She throws her arms over her face with a scream.

Nothing happened. No crunch of horn against metal. No alarmed exclamations from the other passengers. She blinks, lowering her hands, and finds nothing outside but the blur of dark trunks.

"Sarah?" Tara asks.

Sarah can't find her voice to answer. It wasn't real—couldn't have been. She stares out the window, searching, waiting. After several tremulous heartbeats, the vise in her chest eases.

"I'm sorry," she says, facing her friends with a weak smile. "I think I'm too keyed up. This place is creepy."

Mark snorts. "You scared the shit out of me. I thought some animal had jumped into the road. Damn near got us into an accident."

Sarah's breath hitches. It wasn't real. "No, I… I'm sorry." She lays her head against the window, letting her gaze follow the tree line. It wasn't real.

Tara's soft hand covers hers. "I'm worried about you."

I'm worried about me too.

"Here it is!" Amanda says. "We'll park the car, then get you fixed up, Sarah."

Sarah nods, unable to muster the same excitement radiating from her friends.

The road curves, and on the other side of the bend is a towering mansion. Flickering lanterns light the siding, dancing shadows around the building like earthbound spirits in celebration. The haunting illusion is only marred by the motley group of vehicles near the wide expanse of garages. Young masked men, attired in Regency-inspired costumes, hold flaming torches, guiding the line of incoming traffic into neat rows.

Mark shuts off the engine, and the others leave the car, the cold rushing in through through the doors. Sarah waits, hand paused on the door handle, unsure why she hesitates. Another swell of foreboding pools in her middle, and she has to remind herself not to let her wild imagination get the best of her.

Her door whips open suddenly, and thrown off-balance, she almost tumbles out of the car.

Amanda stands on the other side. "Come on, you. Let's fix this dress." She nearly drags Sarah out. "We've got to hurry before the party starts."

Sarah stumbles after Amanda, is yanked through the throng of party-goers filing into the mansion. She gapes at the costumes, such perfect replications she can almost believe the revelers have crossed the barriers of time to join in the Dance of the Dead. She wants to touch them all, to reassure herself of their solidity with her fingertips, but Amanda tugs her along.

Inside, the mansion is bright with the amber glow of a hundred candles—even more. Sarah's heeled boots click on the marbled floors as she lifts her eyes, taking in the grand staircase, the dark polished wood railing curling from the second story down to the entrance. The light doesn't reach beyond the ground floor, and she turns away from the darkness. She thinks of an incubus, slumbering above until the toll of midnight, and trembles.

Amanda pulls her into a bathroom underneath the grand staircase. The bluish artificial light in the tiny room seems glaring compared to the warm tones in the entryway. Sarah squints as Amanda undoes the laces on her corset. The constrictive boning loosens, and Sarah's ribs crack in response. She inhales deeply, filling her lungs to capacity. There. That's better.

It wasn't real, what she thought she saw in the forest. Just a hallucination brought on by lack of oxygen.

Find me.

"You're not going to faint anymore?" Amanda asks, stepping aside.

"Nope." Sarah smiles at her roommate in the mirror, pulling her sequenced mask over her eyes. Her hands only shake a little. "Let's get out there."

The air in the foyer crackles with anticipation. The crowd has gathered around the staircase, leaning toward it as if to conjure the host by collective will. Hushed conversation blends together like a murmured incantation. Amanda and Sarah wade through the group, searching for Mark and Tara. They find them in the far corner, eyes toward the second floor with the same expectant gleam as the other celebrants. Wordlessly, Mark draws Amanda into his arms.

Tara starts to whisper something to Sarah, but her words are lost when at once the candles went out. Startled gasps and the rustle of fabric rise into the perfect darkness. The hairs at the nape of Sarah's neck stand erect.

By the prickling of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

A single flame appears above, floating near the banister, moving along it until it stops at the head of the staircase. The dark, handsome features of Bren O'Shea are sketched by the flickering candlelight, the rest of him hidden in the shadows.

"The warder he gazes o' the night," he recites in quiet baritone, his expression austere, "on the graves under him lying."

He moves down a step. "The moon into clearness throws all by her light, the night with daylight is vying."

Another step. "There's a stir in the graves, and forth from their tombs the form of a man, and a woman next looms in garments long trailing and snowy."

Another step. "They stretched themselves out, and with eager delight join the bones for the revel and dancing. Young and old, rich and poor, the lady and the knight, their trains are a hindrance to dancing."

Step. "And since here by shame they no longer are bound, they shuffle them off, and lo, strewn lie around their garments on each little hillock."

He blows his candle out, opaque black sweeping back over the foyer. It's still, soundless as if no one dared even to draw breath.

"Welcome to la Bal Masqué des Goules!"

All of the candles flare to life, chasing away the gloom. The staircase is empty. Everyone twists around in search of the missing host.

"Please, cast off your inhibitions if they be a hindrance to dancing." Bren's voice comes from the left, close to Sarah and her friends. He stands before a pair of French doors manned by two others in archaic servant's garb.

Bren is dazzling. All of the costumes Sarah admired before become discount store replicas in comparison to his. He wears a dark coat with tails, the lace of his shirt spilling out of his cuffs over his gloves. A delicate jabot circles his neck, falling in tiers over the breast of his jacket. His breeches are tucked into shining leather boots. A mask of black feathers covers half his face.

He takes in the crowd, smirking. "And if your garments also be a hindrance, feel free to remove those as well."

The others laugh, but her throat is too thick to join in. For a heartbeat, a single blink, in Bren's place stands another man arrayed in a cobalt blue jeweled coat, wild blond hair feathering in some unfelt breeze. His eyes scans the crowd until they meet hers. He tilts his head, bearing his teeth in a triumphant grin.

Found you.

No. Sarah staggers back as if the floor has dropped out from beneath her. In the next breath, he's gone.

"If there are any here with weak constitutions, leave now," Bren says. "For once past these doors"—the men throw them open, revealing twin bonfires—"we share in the ghouls' delight." Bren claps his hands twice. "Come traverse through the purifying flames of Samhain as my ancestors once did." He spins to lead the way.

As if released from a spell, the congregation lurches forward, pressing against each other toward the exit, ripples of excited murmurs echoing in the hall.

Amanda snorts as they are herded along with the crowd. "God, he can be melodramatic. Honestly, he's so beautiful, I would swear he was gay if I didn't see him with a different woman every week."

"Hey," Mike protests. "What am I? Chopped liver?"

She gives him a peck on the cheek. "Yep. But you're my chopped liver."

Tara giggles, nudging Sarah with her elbow. Sarah smiles, her cheeks straining from the effort. It wasn't real. Hecouldn't have been real. She repeats the words silently as a chant, a prayer to ward off the phantoms from her mind. Tara links her arm with Sarah's, talking excitedly about the various masks of other guests. Sarah only half-listens, distracted by the sound of her pulse growing louder with each step she takes toward the bonfires. She tells herself the gooseflesh rising on her arms is because of the chilly autumn air.

It wasn't real.

Find me.

The flames roar, crackle, drowning the scattered conversations of the group and the music coming from the other side. Between the bonfires, the air is warm, inviting Sarah to release the tension in her neck and shoulders. She can't, though. She stares straight ahead, refusing to look into the blazes, certain she'll find something within them gazing back at her. Something that will reach for her if she stops denying its existence. Something that smirks. Her stomach twists, tumbles.

I can't do this. She almost says the words out loud. What's wrong with me?

The trek through the flames lasts only a minute, but her lungs burn as if she's been holding her breath for an hour. Once on the other side, she's plunged into the brittle night. Tara prattles on about the decorations. Sarah notices nothing.

"I need a drink," she says, heading for the pavilion where tables and chairs were set up—and an open bar.

"Already?" Tara asks as she followed.

Sarah doesn't answer. What can she say? That she's suffering from hallucinations? It's easier—safer—to pretend she hasn't seen anything. She'd think she was losing her mind if it weren't for her brush with something otherworldly years ago. But she won, which is why he can't be here. A glass of wine will calm her nerves.

Tara joins her at one of the tables after their visit to the bar. After a few sips of her drink, Sarah's finally ready to take in the party. Torches light the perimeter of the large gardens. Adjacent to the pavilion is an area for dancing, accompanied by a small orchestra. The music they play is haunting, eerie. On the far side is another pavilion where lines of attendees gather. She can't make out what's going on there. Another buffet and bar?

"Isn't this amazing?" Tara says, sipping her club soda. She's even more of a lightweight than Sarah. "Bren really pulled out all the stops."

Sarah nods. "Yeah, it's gorgeous." Her eyes follow the dancers. Somehow, watching them stumble through a waltz makes the party lighter, less ominous.

"I heard he set up some games—straight from ancient Samhain celebrations," Tara said, mispronouncing the ancient Celtic holiday as "sam-hayn." She points to the other pavilion. "Let's go see."

Sarah opens her mouth to answer when, among the dancers, she sees a mane of blond hair, jagged, sticking up at odd angles. In another turn, he's gone. She blinks, shaking herself.

Tara stands. "Come on, Sarah. What's with you tonight?"

"Nothing. I'm fine." Sarah finishes her wine before rising. The games sounded like a promising distraction.

Arm in arm, they wind around the dancers. Tara points out various masks, and Sarah properly oohs and aahs. The game pavilion is so crowded, it's difficult to see what's happening. They wait in a slow-moving line, Tara bouncing on the balls of her feet.

As they inch closer, the line forks into three—one for each game. To the left are brick fireplaces, emanating toasty warmth as the flames lap at nuts couples place together on the grates. With every pop and crackle, the surrounding attendees squeal and laugh.

Straight ahead, tables are set with a dozens of goblets filled with water. Behind them are stacks of eggs—a hundred or more. Party-goers crack them, dripping the whites into a goblet. It isn't until Sarah draws closer she hears it explained to be an ancient divination game to predict how many children the player might have.

"Let's do this one!" Tara pushes Sarah to the line on the right where barrels of apples sit.

When they reach the head of the line, one of the helpers gives them each an apple and instructs them to rind the fruit, and then toss the peels over their shoulders. It's supposed to divine the first letter of their future spouses. Tara goes first and they giggle over trying to decipher whether the peel makes an E or an F.

Sarah skins her apple in a single spiral with a grin, forgetting for the moment the ghosts that seem intent on haunting her tonight. She throws it over her shoulder, wondering what letter would take shape.

"It's a J!" Tara exclaims before Sarah can turned around.

Anxiety grips tight in her chest. "Are you sure?" She hesitates before looking down.

"Definitely. There's no mistaking that one." Tara bends over, tracing the peel with her finger. "See? I don't think I know anyone with a J name." She glances up at Sarah. "Do you?"

Sarah shakes her head. "No." Her voice was stiff.

O, what a tangled web we weave… She hears the deep voice in her mind as if he's next to her, whispering in her ear as the color drains from her face.

Find me.

Tara's brows draw together. "Sarah?"

Sarah presses her hand to her cheek. "I think I'm still a little dizzy. I didn't eat anything before we left."

Tara studies her for a moment longer with a narrowed gaze. "We can hit the buffet."

Sarah glances back at the peel as they walk away, breath catching when it seems to shrivel, curling into itself. She shuts her eyes against the image. It's not real. When she looks again, the peel is fresh.

She is losing her mind.

Before they reach the buffet, a young man stops them, asking Tara for a dance. Sarah waves her on with a promise to get something to eat.

She isn't hungry, though. Instead, she finds a small unoccupied table near the back, though still within view of the dancers. They lack the elegance of the celebrants from the crystal ballroom, some even shaking their hips in modern moves, laughing, clapping. Watching them anchors her, reminds her that no matter how brilliant their costumes and masks, these are still a bunch of college kids playing dress-up.

It wasn't real.

She pulls her mask off with a sigh and sets it on the table, rubbing her eyes. She's only been here for an hour and already she wants to go home. If only Amanda hadn't demanded they all go together; Sarah would gladly escape back to the safety of city lights and her bed.

"Now this is a travesty."

She's startled to find Bren sitting on the other side of her. She must have been so lost in thought she hadn't heard him approach. "What is?"

He pushes his mask up, revealing his striking blue eyes, so pale they're nearly translucent—a stark contrast to his dark hair. "A beautiful woman sitting alone at a ball."

Sarah smiles, warmth tingling across her cheeks at his compliment.

"Now, tell me," he says, gaze fixed on her as if he intends to ferret out her every secret, "what fool has left such a fair maiden to herself?"

She breathes a quiet laugh at his formal speech. Is he always like this, or is it part of his character for the party? "There's no fool. I came with friends."

"Ah. Dateless, then." His lips curve into a smile. "All the better for me." He holds out a hand. "I don't believe we've been formally introduced. I'm Bren O'Shea."

"I know who you are." The truth is, she only knows of him. He's a graduate student, and she an undergrad. Their paths have only crossed once or twice when Amanda begged her to help with set design. Bren performed a few times with the theater troupe, but he isn't a regular member.

Sarah gives him her hand, but instead of shaking, he lifts it to his lips, brushing kiss over her knuckles. "A pleasure, Sarah Williams," he says, releasing her.

Her eyes widen. "You know my name?"

"Clairvoyance." He winks.

She raises a brow, giving him a sardonic grin. "I'm guessing a little birdie told you."

He blinks at her and then throws back his head with laughter. "You could say that." After a moment, he rises. "I don't suppose you would do me the honor of a dance? It would make this evening far more delightful."

"Flatterer." She takes him up on the invitation and allows him to lead her to the dance floor.

The couples part for them, as if Bren is some kind of lord and the dancers are lower nobility bowing in supplication to stay in his good graces. She frowns at him, wondering what kind of person he is to command this kind of respect without raising a finger.

"Tell me, Sarah," he says, pulling her into his arms with practiced ease, "how are you enjoying my party?"

And you, Sarah, how are you enjoying my Labyrinth?

She trips, falls into Bren. She mumbles an apology as she rights herself. "Two left feet," she explains. There's a quiver in her voice. She speaks quickly to cover it. "It's perfect—the party, I mean. I can almost believe I stepped out of the car into the eighteenth century."

"Thank you." He bows his head. "Though, it should be impossible for me to err on any of the details."

Something among the dancers catches her eye, but when she searches for it, she finds nothing unusual. "Really? Why?"

"I'm getting my doctorate in European history."

Her eyes snaps back to his. Doctorate? Isn't he too young? "How old are you?"

He smirks. "Old enough."

She scrutinizes him, a chill slicing down her spine at something ageless, unfathomably deep in his pale eyes. He holds her gaze for a moment before turning away, breaking the spell.

"You're an artist," he says, his tone light as if she wasn't on the brink of discovering…what?

She raises a brow, shaking the unsettling thoughts from her mind. "That birdie talks a lot."

Bren grins. "Yes, the best conversationalist, in fact." He spins her under his arm and brings her back to him with the grace she lacks. "I believe I've seen you painting theater backdrops before."

Again, her peripheral vision captures something, drawing her attention from Bren. Again, she finds nothing. He says something she doesn't quite hear.

"I'm sorry, what?" she asks, her eyes still on the rest of the dancers.

"I asked what kind of pieces you create."

"Everything, though not necessarily well." She tries to look at him, but her gaze wanders over his shoulder. "Much of my work, though, has a fantasy element to it."

"Wizards, elves and hobbits?" He winks at her.

"Goblins, usually. Mazes…" Her words trail off when one of the ladies dance pass. Her face is horribly marred under her mask—scarred or… She's gone, lost in the crowd before Sarah can get a better look.

Bren cocks his head, assessing her. "I wouldn't have guessed."

"Why not?"

"You seem too…angelic to dabble in dark fantasy." His brow furrows, and he swivels his head to follow her gaze.

She shakes her head, snorting. "'She was such a nice girl,' and all that?"

Bren gives her a half-shrug. "Perhaps. Then again, the nicest girls often hold the darkest secrets, don't they?"

Her mouth pulls down in a frown. That statement, unnerves her. "No, I—"

Her throat constricts, cutting off her breath as icy fear sweeps over her. Beyond Bren, all of the dancers have transformed. Each one who spins near is in a different stage of decomposition, lips curled back from yellowing teeth in death's grimace, skin rotting away, blackened, green, gowns and suits tattered, moth-eaten. She closes her eyes, willing the vision to pass, but when she opens them again the horror is still there. They laugh at her in hissing, rattling voices, taunting her.

"Have I offended you?" Bren asks, drawing her eyes back to him.

She stifles a scream. Skin peeled from his handsome face, exposing the ivory bone of his skull. His jaw is unhinged on one side, maggots crawling through the yawning holes in his cheeks, through his oozing eye sockets. She backs away from him into the mass of dancing dead. They claw at her, grip her. She shoves them, pushes through them, her heart galloping in her chest.

Before she reaches the edge of the decaying throng, he is there, standing casually as he lowers his mask, blond hair haloing his beautiful face. He raises a gloved finger, ticking it from side to side like a metronome as he shakes his head. She screams at him to go away, to leave her alone. Skeletal fingers scratch her, tangle her hair, yank on her dress. Adrenalin surges through her veins, and with a cry of terror and frustration, she brakes free.

She runs, past the pavilions full of more monsters and into the stand of trees. She glances over her shoulder, and bites back a shriek when she sees them chasing after her. Hitching up her skirts, she dashes deeper into the dark forest, branches whipping into her face. She doesn't stop. She can hear them crashing through the underbrush. They're gaining.

She runs harder, faster, her lungs burning, restrained by the stupid corset of her gown. And still they come. Ever closer. Breathing down her neck. Swiping at her. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, please! She loses a shoe, but keeps running, tears streaming down her cheeks when something cuts the bottom of her foot. Her face and arms sting from the branches. She doesn't stop. She cann't stop.

And then, her ankle catches on a root, sending her flying to the forest floor. She tumbles, rolls. Before she can scramble to her feet again, shadowed figures leapt at her.

She screams.

A/N: Bren recites Danse Macabre by Camille Saint-Saëns. Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts.