"Off to bed, you two. Your parents will kill me if you're up all night." "Aw, just one story before bed," said a younger version of myself—six years old, full of energy. "Please, Poppop?" my cousin chimed in. My grandfather sighed but smiled. "Alright, alright. I think I've got one… but it's a scary tale. You think you can handle it?" "Yeah!" we both said in unison. "Okay then, let me get something first."
He stepped out of the room and returned with a glass case. Inside was a mask. It was pure white—unnervingly clean—with an exaggerated smile carved into it. The grin stretched wide, crescent-shaped and sinister rather than joyful. Above it, two sharply curved slits formed its eyes, giving it a look that felt wrong. Just one glance, and I knew—nothing good ever came from that mask.
"Let me tell you a tale," my grandfather began, "the tale of the Grand Assassin. "About 700 years ago, there lived an assassin—the best the world had ever known. They called him The Grand Assassin. Silent. Precise. Unstoppable. Once he chose a target, that person was as good as dead. He never left a trace—just silence and a body. "One night, rumors spread of a hidden cult performing demonic rituals underground. The assassin caught wind of it… and his curiosity got the better of him. He tracked them down and slipped in unnoticed. From the shadows, he watched. "At the center of the chamber, the cult leader placed a mask. This mask." He tapped the glass case. "The members formed a circle around it, joined hands, and began to chant…"
"Tenebris ducit. Sanguis offert. Animam tollit. Maskara surgat." The mask began to tremble—slowly at first, then violently. From beneath it, the gates of hell seemed to open. Shadows slithered out, clawing their way up like smoke given shape, swirling around the mask in a ritualistic dance. The cult leader raised his hands. "Enough."
Silence fell.
Then the shadows lunged downward, like a serpent striking, and slammed into the mask. A soundless scream echoed through the room—a pressure in the chest, not the ears.
The ritual was complete.
"Finally," the cult leader said. "We have done it. The demon's energy is sealed inside. With this mask, we have captured power beyond imagining. Whoever wears it shall be reborn. This mask shall be our salvation—and the world's undoing."
But before he could place the mask on his face, a figure dropped from the shadows above.
"Sorry," the assassin said, lifting the mask. "Gonna borrow this. Hope you don't mind."
"You must be him," the cult leader said, stunned. "The assassin who vanishes. The assassin without a face."
"What were you planning to do with this mask?" the assassin asked.
"Wear it. Become a god. This world would kneel to me."
The assassin stared at the mask. "So, if I wear it… I get demonic power?"
He turned it over in his hands.
"I'll believe it when I see it."
He put the mask on.
His body jerked violently, knees slamming into the stone floor. The energy coursing through him was unbearable—like his veins were filled with fire—but he didn't scream. The pain was worth it.
"I really thought I was done for…" he growled, rising. "You weren't lying. I feel it. All that power… it feels so good."
"Get the mask back!" the cult leader barked.
Weapons were drawn. The cult members encircled him.
"You wanna dance?" the assassin said, grinning beneath the mask. "Then let's dance."
A scythe erupted from his palm, the blade forming out of his own flesh. He spun it effortlessly. "Hope you're excited… 'cause you're about to die."
They rushed him. It didn't matter. They couldn't keep up.
He moved like a storm of blades and shadow—slashing, spinning, dodging, cleaving through flesh like it was paper.
One by one they fell. Screams were cut short. Limbs separated from bodies in clean, violent strokes. Blood sprayed across the stone walls.
Until only one remained.
The cult leader stood frozen, trembling. His chants forgotten. His eyes locked on the monster he'd helped summon.
"Any last words, you bastard?"
"Please… don't—"
But it was already too late.
The scythe was through him. Clean. Effortless. Final.
"What happened after that, Poppop?" I asked.
"He vanished. Disappeared from the world. Some say he still walks among us… killing in the shadows, wearing that mask."
"So the mask really has demonic power?"
"It's just a myth," my grandfather said. "Just a story. And just a mask."
But I couldn't take my eyes off it.
Something about it… I don't know. It felt like it was watching me. Like something inside it was staring back.
The mask sat in its case, unmoving.
And yet…
I felt it.
Breathing.
Waiting.