Dance of the Lost Souls (Happy Ending)

I peer out from behind the elaborate mask, gaping at the palazzos on either side of the canal. The only sound I can hear is the slapping of oars as my gondolier skilfully manoeuvres his little boat underneath a stone bridge. Fog hangs low over the surrounding buildings, bringing with it the scent of the lagoon and casting the yellowish lights of sporadic lanterns into eerie shadows.

My gloved hand slides across the silk of my borrowed black gown and I have to pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. I can hardly believe I’m here, in Venice, and on my way to a mysterious masked ball. ‘Come, if you dare’ the card had said, slipped underneath the door of my hotel room. I’d thought it a prank until the receptionist’s envious glare had proved me wrong.

“You must go,” she insisted with a smile that hadn’t reached her eyes. “I’ve only heard rumours about this ball. It’s very exclusive. You are fortunate to have been invited. But you must wear a mask.”

“I have one,” I said, smiling, as I remembered the beautiful souvenir I had acquired earlier that morning.

I’d spent days perusing the wares of stalls around the Ponte di Rialto, never satisfied until I’d ventured into the smaller alleys, letting myself get lost, and finally stumbled upon a craftsman’s shop so tucked away I might have missed it had the mask in the window not caught my eye. My fingers had brushed reverently across it when the man took it down, sure I could never afford it. The face was made from the palest porcelain, the black Burano lace as delicate as a spider’s web, and the red lips painted with a smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s.

“How much?” I’d asked, prepared for disappointment.

Instead of answering, the man had studied me for a moment, his eyes carefully considering me. “Why are you here?” he asked, his Italian accent sharp as an espresso.

“I’m on vacation.” I shrugged, carefully avoiding his gaze.

“And?”

The word lingered in the air between us.

I swallowed as my anxiety tried to overwhelm me. I thought of the life I had left behind, the one I would have to return to in a few days. The one that was so ordinary, so boring, that the mere thought of it threatened to bring tears to my eyes. I wanted more. I wanted to escape.

I don’t know how much of that he had read in my evasive eyes, but he nodded to himself and said: “It’s yours.” I protested, but he insisted. “It is mine to give away,” he said gently. “And I want you to have it, signorina.”

My breath hitches in my throat as the gondola turns a corner and the winged lions of Piazza San Marco appear out of the mist, like two stone guardians standing watch on their tall plinths. Deftly, the gondolier steers the boat to the edge of the plain before offering a hand to help me out. The heels of my lace-up boots clack on the stone tiles as I disembark.

St Mark’s Campanile looms over me while the darkened windows of the Doge’s Palace stare blindly down, empty sockets above a gaping mouth. Through the fog, I can barely make out the curves of the domed roof of Saint Mark’s Basilica.

The plain is empty.

Disappointment weighs down my shoulders. I must have the date wrong.

I turn around. The gondola is gone.

Strands of my long black hair tickle across my face as a soft breeze brushes my body. “Come,” a voice whispers in my ear as the hair on my arms lifts.

Slowly, I turn back toward the piazza. It’s no longer deserted.

Masked figures fill the plain, all dressed in black like I am, moving in groups of two to the steps of a dance murmuring through the air. Their movements are as ethereal as the soft lights flickering through the fog.

Mesmerised, I move closer. My feet carry me into the dance of their own accord until I find myself in the centre of the group. A masked man takes my hand and leads me through the steps. I twirl and glide, giddy with the sheer joy of the movement, the spectacle, the mystery of it all.

We dance and dance until I am breathless and my feet ache, and still we dance. I can feel the music in my bones. It never stops, and it carries me with it.

Gasping for breath, I try to pull away from my partner, but he grips my hand tighter. I lose my balance and step into another couple’s path. An icy shiver runs down my spine as they pass right through me.

My heartbeat drowns out the music as I see the dancers for what they really are: ghosts trapped in an eternal dance, their movements graceful, yet haunting. Somehow, I’ve stumbled into something definitely not ordinary. My breath becomes ragged as panic rises within me. I try to scream, but no sound escapes my lips. It’s as if I have become a ghost myself, imprisoned in this eerie dance of the afterlife.

Fear surges through my body, giving me the strength to resist. I break free from my partner’s grasp and stumble backwards, away from the spectral dancers. The music fades and the fog lifts as I pull the mask from my face, and I find myself alone in the deserted piazza again.

Porcelain shards clatter as I drop the mask on the stone floor. Suddenly, ordinary seems a lot more acceptable.

I kick off my heeled boots and lift my satin skirts as I break into a run, back towards my hotel. If I hurry, I can catch the first flight home.