[Finally, in one place, my second story. Perfect Poe vibes for Friday the 13th and spooky season]
PROLOGUE
There were only two rules:
- Show up in your assigned mask and color
- Don’t tell anyone who you are
People referred to each other only as the colors they wore. The premise seemed silly at first. It got scarier once you realized what it meant: everyone was replaceable.
Black stared at the plague doctor’s mask resting on the table. It seemed to stare back, taunting: I dare you to put me on. You and I both know you’re unworthy. Just see what happens when you—
“Agh! Shut up!” Black screamed to the imaginary voice. The noise echoed through the dark maze of catacombs. Traversing the labyrinth was a long and complicated journey. Wearing the customary cloak, dark as the midnight sky above, made it easier to stay hidden. Both the cloak and mask were so vibrantly black, it seemed to warp the light around it.
Picking up the mask, Black wondered, How many before me have worn this? And the cloak? What motivated them to do such things? As the rumination continued, the pensiveness turned to rage. Whether it be ten or ten thousand before me, every last one of them was a murderer. But all of that ends tonight.
The mask fit neatly over Black’s head. Surprisingly, it didn’t smell or feel very old. Black turned to the only other person in the room, a poor fellow bound and gagged with some old rope.
“The knots aren’t hard to unravel,” Black explained to the prisoner. “But by the time you escape, it’ll be too late.” The captive watched helplessly as Black left the room.
About an hour later, Black emerged from the tunnels into the crisp, night air. I’ll play by their rules at first. I’ll wear the bloody mask and damned cloak—but every last one of them will die knowing who I am.
Part I
A SIDE
Scarlet couldn’t remember the last time she felt this trapped.
A textbook overachiever, her CV raised eyebrows of university admissions officers all over the world. Skilled in academics, athletics, and the arts—but for what? In all her years of pathologic type-A obsessiveness, she never learned how to politely exit a conversation. So she was stuck, silently praying for the man in green to stop talking.
The conversation in question was more of a monologue. It was delivered by a man in a bespoke emerald suit and matching mask. His conversational hostages, Scarlet and a second woman dressed and masked in white, hadn’t said a word in what felt like hours. Unable and unwilling to speak, Scarlet turned her attention to the rest of the party. She tried to piece together various clues, hoping to figure out what would happen tonight. But Green’s obnoxious personality drowned out the sound of her own thoughts. She had to swat his words away like flies if she wanted to keep a clear head.
Scarlet met many men like Green before. Almost all women had. And there was no crawling through a café bathroom window to escape this one. She certainly couldn’t leave the library the way she came. There were no other exits in sight—she’d been checking for the last half hour.
“So, whoever planned this party knew nothing about fire safety, am I right, ladies?” Green asked, referring to the wax candles lit throughout the library. To his credit, many of them were precariously placed on high shelves or near very old books. Green took a sip of his Old-Fashioned and grinned. Against his dark skin, his oddly large teeth shone and flashed like a warning. Scarlet couldn’t help but think of a Great White every time he opened his mouth.
Ignoring the joke, Scarlet watched the other attendees flit across the library. Their gowns and masks sparkled like jewels. Like Green, White, and everyone else in the room, Scarlet wore a mask (and clothing) true to her assigned alias. It was red, gold, and (she hoped) glittery enough to distract Green from her wandering eyes.
Scarlet wondered if the host got a laugh out of assigning her color. Her fiery hair earned her really creative nicknames like “Red” and “Carrot Top.” Usually, it flew behind her in a wild mess of curls as she dashed from one end of campus to another. Tonight, she wrangled it into a cascade of waves swept to one side of her neck. Under the party’s soft light, it glowed like the embers of a dying fire.
As if trying to control her hair wasn’t enough of a challenge, Scarlet was also tasked with finding bright-red black-tie attire on a budget. While men like Green custom-tailored suits for every occasion, Scarlet hadn’t properly shopped in months. In the weeks leading up to the gala, she scoured the internet, thrift stores, and friend’s closets for something that could work. When all else failed, Scarlet snuck into the the drama school’s wardrobe department. She left with a bright red sheath gown and gloves to match.
While Scarlet felt utterly ridiculous in such an ostentatious outfit, White seemed at home in hers. The sleeves of her lace jumpsuit crept from her wrist, up her shoulders, and ended halfway up her neck. The fabric was more a second skin than an article of clothing. Her real skin, visible in the fabric paneling, was a glowing tan: a sharp contrast to the pale, wedding-white lace. Patent white heels and a gauzy cape completed the look.
The Order required anonymity, but White demanded to be seen.
It was White who noticed Scarlet first. Scarlet exited the initiates’ tunnel, her face still covered in a thin layer of sweat. She looked around at the room, and White immediately made eye contact with her from across the library. She tapped Green on the shoulder, and they both waved her over. Scarlet’s trials in the tunnels left her wiped out, and all she wanted to do was collapse into one of the sofas and take a nap. But she knew that talking to fellow partygoers would help her better prepare for what The Order had planned for tonight.
When Scarlet joined them, Green exchanged introductions. He took it upon himself to introduce White as well. Green and White explained that they, too, were initiates, and traversed the same labyrinth to end up in the university library.
The library was completely transformed for the masquerade: the only lights were from candles and antique chandeliers, neither of which were normally used. And Scarlet would know. She was there a lot. There was a dais in the middle of the main floor. It wouldn’t be there come Monday, but right now, it looked like it had been there for centuries. The conversational hum and some soft piano music blended together to create a peaceful, ambient buzz.
Green spent most of his time guessing who was behind the masks (there were quite a few celebrities in the room). For Scarlet, the who didn’t matter so much as the why. She wanted to escape Green and figure out what this all was for, in that order. All she knew was that the people here were devoted to the arts so much they would give their lives for it. And maybe even kill for it.
It was just about midnight and a sudden chill went through Scarlet’s body. It was followed by a sense of foreboding. As the hairs on her arm prickled, she realized why: the music stopped. And everyone in the room held their breath.
Then, twelve violent gongs rang loudly through the room. She wasn’t sure where they came from—there was no instrument in sight, and nobody in the room moved a muscle. The doors flew open and a figure entered the room; gliding across the floor, making their way to the dais, with a cape, dark as night, trailing behind them.
B SIDE
21st September, 20—
Yeah, I guess it’s been awhile. But that’s because of Dave, and the band, and things just getting crazy. But lately, some stuff’s been going on that I can’t tell even Dave about. Dave, who’s seen me asleep with my cheek resting on the toilet seat after a hard day’s night; during the twin ecstasies of our first sold-out show and our first official date right after. Through the hardest semesters and most memorable college moments. Even before Dave and I got together, I felt like I had to tell him everything about every day. And I know he wanted to hear it.
So to hide something this huge from Dave feels incredibly wrong. But I can’t tell him about this, so I guess I’m stuck.
It all started when they sent me a fancy plum-colored mask and a calling card. It was straight out of an old-timey murder book. The card even had a raven stamped on the back. On the other side was an invitation consisting of a date (three months from now), an address (an intersection a few blocks from campus), and instructions to show up one hour past sundown. I was to dress only in the color of the mask they sent me. And, of course, this entire affair was to be kept a secret. It was signed: The Order of the Raven.
Our school had its fair share of secret societies. Obviously, I don’t know much about them. But the Order of the Raven is more than an exclusive alumni association. Once a year, two-dozen or so people worldwide “voluntarily” die as a “tribute” to the order. Again, because of the whole “secret” thing, I’m not sure how much choice they actually had in the matter. I couldn’t help but wonder: if I go to this masked ball, would I be one of the people sacrificed, or the one doing the killing?
There was no RSVP on the card. Something tells me they won’t take “No” for an answer.
20th October, 20—
Yeah, I know it’s been another few weeks. The first couple days after opening that invite, I would lie in bed, sweating, after waking from nightmares. Most of them featured a raven screeching “NEVERMORE” before proceeding to peck my eyes out. My body is then donated to science in the name of the Order of the Raven.
I had less brain room to worry about the invite after our band, Reichenbach Falls, got an offer to open for Valerian, the only band to make it big from our university. They loved the visuals I created with our drummer, Laine: digital avatars of the band in animal-humanoid form. They played weird-looking instruments and did other cute stuff on the internet. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason our band’s popularity rose so quickly: visuals are so easy to consume and share. Plus, the avatars make for great promo material.
Ramping up our practice sessions already added to my full schedule of studying for a double major (classics and graphic design), a math minor (to appease mom and dad), and taking it “to the next level” with Dave (his words, not mine—still unsure what that means). Things have been too busy for me to even think about the Order and my impending death. It was only when I got fitted for my plum suit that things started to feel a little more real.
But I chased the thoughts away, and the full days and nights almost always resulted in a deep, dreamless sleep.
11th December, 20—
It was officially go time! As I pulled on the purple suit, I silently made peace with my fate. There’s a pretty good chance that I might die tonight. Something in my gut told me there was more to the Order than a murder and death cult. And that little beacon of hope is all that prevented me from downwards spiraling to rock bottom. For now.
Still, I had to be sure I covered all my bases: there were notes for my parents, my siblings Kai and Kat, Dave (of course), and a few other loved ones. I put a letter in the mailbox explaining what Dave should do if I don’t return in 48 hours. If I make it in time before the mailman comes, I’ll just remove the letter.
Tonight, he thinks I’m tunneling in on my thesis project. He’s probably doing the same, huddled with friends in a cozy library while I march through a fresh layer of snow in my plum suit and camel-hair coat. My mask, wrapped in a scarf, is resting in one of the pockets.
I made it to the intersection without anything notable happening. The streets met at a corner facing the kind of alley that muggings happened in. But this was a a fairly quiet college town. So quiet that if a masquerade was happening somewhere, I should be able to hear it.
And then, I let out the girliest noise that has ever left my body: “AAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHH”
Part II
A SIDE
As soon as Black flung the door open, the candles seemed to dim. All shadows took on a more sinister presence, including the hooded shade steadfastly approaching the dais. Every eye in the room followed the dark figure. Ignoring the attention, Black glid wordlessly up the stairs and took helm behind a podium. In an ancient midnight-colored cloak and matching plague doctor’s mask, Black looked like Darkness incarnate.
Black gazed out at the party. The plague doctor’s mask was flanked on either side by a chalice. Like the robe and mask, they would look more at home in a Medieval Castle than a university library. Scarlet wasn’t sure how long the Order had been around. She would never know the truth, but the Order of the Raven was older than her university, her republic, and even the language she spoke.
It seems the chalices’ role came later. Now, Black rummaged through a velvet bag taken from inside the podium. The contents clinked noisily until an object was selected. Black held it out for everyone to see: a large, peacock-blue marble.
Where have I seen that color before? Scarlet wonders, as she hears some shuffling behind her. She turns around and sees that her fellow attendees have parted on either side of the floor. They’ve cleared a pathway from the library floor to the dais. A woman in a glittering dress and mask that matched the marble appeared from the crowd. The woman was probably in her mid-fifties but had rock-hard biceps and well-defined shins that popped above her silver heels. A train of sheer fabric colored like a peacock’s tail chased the back of her ankles.
Oh, that’s right—the nosy one. During the party, Peacock would intermittently cast an appraising look at Green, White and Scarlet. It seemed like she had more interest in eavesdropping and judgment than actually speaking to the trio.
Scarlet—and everyone else—watched Peacock walk slowly down the aisle. She looked completely unafraid. No matter, Scarlet was more than afraid enough for the both of them. The fear settled in her bones as Peacock confidently strode up the stairs.
The crowd silently shuffled to close the gap. There were no solemn whispers, no looks of any kind. Scarlet stole a look at Green and White: even they stared stoically at the dais. She felt like the only one in the room who felt like something was wrong. Like screaming RUN! to characters in a scary movie—people that can’t hear you and never will. Like those movies, Scarlet had no control over tonight’s story: those claimed by death would perish.
And someone would die. Wouldn’t they? Would it be Peacock this time? Or would she be the one to make the kill? The notes attached to the deceased communicated nothing except that they died willingly, in service of the Order. Past sacrifices included people from varying social strata around the world. Some of them were even famous. Others, like Scarlet, were on the path to greatness. No sacrifice had cause to take their own life; rather, they saw it as giving their lives to the Order.
Peacock joined Black at the dais. From underneath the podium, she brought out three more marbles colored green, white, and scarlet. Upon seeing that last marble, Scarlet began sweating profusely through her elbow-length gloves. She felt her face break out in hives as Peacock added them to the velvet bag Black held open. Scarlet felt that, at any moment now, she would burst into flames. Every muscle, every neural fiber, every instinct in her body told her to run. But there was no escaping now: from the moment the invitation and mask arrived at her doorstep, she had no choice. The Order decreed that on this night, she was to be here. And so it was.
Black stored the velvet bag and brought out an old bottle of Petrus. Peacock stoically looked on as Black poured some red wine into each of the Medieval chalices. Since its invention, wine has been used in sacred rituals. Whatever perverse, death-culty thing that was to happen—it was happening soon. Yet nobody on the library floor moved a muscle.
All of Scarlet’s fears reached a fever pitch in the following moment: From the folds of the midnight-colored robe, Black pulled out the largest knife she’d ever seen.
Part III
A SIDE
Scarlet winced, hoping that the fear didn’t show too plainly on her face. Nobody was looking at her—and she was wearing a mask; but she’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, in her entire life. Black took the knife and raised it in the air, reciting something indiscernible in an ominous whisper. Probably Ancient Greek, maybe Latin, Scarlet thought. Then, in one graceful motion, Black slit the skin of Peacock’s palm. Peacock dripped some blood from her hand into each chalice while Black reached into the folds of the dark cloak.
Poison. It has to be poison. I’ll see Peacock poisoned, then we’re all going to have to drink from the poisoned wine blood cups. I’ll die having accomplished nothing—being a nobody.
Scarlet started to feel faint. Her vision blurred, and her knees started to feel like gelatin. She felt herself about to collapse. But then, a strange, out-of-place scent crept into her nostrils. It can’t be, she thought, But it was: once Scarlet realized she wasn’t imagining the smell, her eyes snapped open.
The next thing Scarlet saw was fire.
B SIDE
11th December, 20—
Four rows and four columns of plastic desks filled the room. They were the kinds with the chairs attached, and indentations to hold pencils at the top. A whiteboard hung opposite the desk, with the words “HISTORY FINAL TODAY!” written in perfect block letters. A large teacher’s desk stood underneath the whiteboard. Nobody sat there, of course, but an apple, a standard-issue clock, and a cup filled with sharp Ticonderoga #2 pencils rested on its surface.
While there were sixteen desks here, only one had materials on top: a thick packet of papers, a sheet to record my answers, and five number-two Ticonderoga pencils. The answer sheet was the kind that could be graded by a machine in seconds.
The last time I took one of these tests, I was running on three hours of sleep and an equal number of Rockstar energy drinks. I’d like to say that was atypical, but unfortunately I destroyed my body in high school. Getting good grades, first-chairing my orchestra, teaching guitar, and working on my own music was a difficult balance.
Did it pay off? Before I thought I was going to die in a sewer, I’d say it was. Now, it seems like I should’ve spent a little more time playing Nintendo. Knowing you’re going to die before your 21st birthday really changes your perspective.
Then again, my only chance at survival right now seems to be passing a test.
I took a deep breath and began reading the instructions, searching the instructions for any hidden clues or tricks. So far, the test seemed pretty standard:
WORLD HISTORY
Time — 120 Minutes
150 Questions
Directions: Each of the questions or incomplete statements below is followed by four suggested answers or completions. Select the one that is best in each case and then place the letter of your choice in the corresponding box on the student answer sheet.
Two hours and 200 questions. I’ve succeeded under worse odds. I flipped the page and read the first question:
1. Which of these women was not a wife of Henry VIII?
a. Catherine Parr
b. Catherine Howard
c. Catherine of Taranto
d. Catherine of Aragon
I knew the dude had lots of wives. And that he murdered them. I didn’t realize that there were that many Catherines, though. How was I even supposed to distinguish between them? I have a feeling he didn’t, either. I filled in “C” and moved onto the next question.
2. Which one of these Hindu deities is not one of the Dasavatara?
a. Narasimha
b. Matsya
c. Karthikeya
d. Varaha
That’s it. I’m going to die here. The LA County Public School system did not have the budget for comparative religions. And isn’t a question about religion technically not a history question? Are all the questions in this exam this ridiculously difficult?
As I flipped through the packet, I saw that all the questions were similarly detailed. Even questions that contained subjects I kind of knew about, like the Apollo 11 Launch, were too specific for me to even make an educated guess.
“Okay! I give up!” I yelled to whoever might be watching. “At least take me somewhere else to die so I don’t spend my last moments in a classroom.” Of course, nobody responded. I looked at the clock: 30 minutes had passed since I sat down and opened the test packet. Only 90 more minutes between this world and the next.
There was just no way they expected anyone to know this level of detail about history. Even a history PhD wouldn’t be able to pass this test without studying. There had to be a trick somewhere. There had to be. Otherwise, I wasn’t getting out of here alive.
I did a little stretch and got to work. Ignoring the questions, I scoured the pages for anything weird; marks, odd spacing, incongruous fonts, incorrect page and question numbers. Fifteen minutes later, I finished my search empty handed and out of ideas.
I could feel myself on the brink of a mental spiral. Given the setting and task, it was only natural that I reverted back to my go-to strategy for keeping cool during real exams. During a high school test, you can’t let your eyes wander two centimeters from your own paper without being accused of cheating. So when I needed a break, I’d fixate on staring past the test in front of me and let my mind go blank for a few minutes. The #150 of the last question melted away into a blur on the page. And then I heard it:
Tick, tick, tick.
I tried pushing the noise out of my head. It persistently found a way to break back into my brain. And with each tick, it seemed to be getting louder.
Tick, tick, tick.
Maybe the ticking wasn’t just in my head. Maybe this was the Order’s way of telling me to hurry the hell up. I looked at the clock: I had a little over an hour left to finish this test.
Okay, breaktime is over. New strategy: first, fill in “C” for every answer so I have something down on the page (another high school strategy). Then, search the room one more time. Maybe the teacher’s desk had an answer key, or a solvent for invisible ink.
Tick, tick, tick.
Heart racing, mind afrenzy, I flipped back to the first page and bubbled in the first two answers.
When I got to the third question, I felt my skin prickle with goosebumps. I felt like I should know the answer to this question, but not how or why.
3. The Meiji restoration, which ushered in westernization in Japan, was concurrent with which US presidency?
a. Benjamin Harrison
b. James K. Polk
c. Andrew Johnson
d. Herbert Hoover
Meiji restoration? Where have I seen that before?
Palms sweating, I quickly flipped to the back of the exam and read:
150. In 1868, Japanese imperial rule was restored by Emperor Meiji, who ratified a constitution bearing his name. Which American helped write its only amendment, the Constitution of Japan?
a. Dwight D. Eisenhower
b. Chester Nimitz
c. Douglas MacArthur
d. Matthew Perry
I turned back to the first page. If the Meiji restoration happened in the 1860s, it was pretty close to Lincoln’s presidency. History wasn’t my best subject, but 15 years of US public school made damn sure I knew enough about Abraham Lincoln’s life and death—and who succeeded him after. The answer was C, Andrew Johnson.
The test was its own answer key.
Maybe if I hadn’t been so anxious in taking it I would’ve noticed sooner. Not wanting to waste time I didn’t have—one hour left— I scoured the exam for any mention of Eisenhower, Nimitz, MacArthur, and Perry—any clues to help me answer this last question. And sure enough, I found enough information in question 33 to make an educated guess on question 150.
Tick, tick, tick.
Over the next sixty minutes, I rushed through the test, flipping through the pages like a madman, circling and scribbling. Somewhere along the way, the ticking stopped.I finished with five minutes to spare. I set my pencil down, wiped my forehead, and waited for the door to swing open.
But it didn’t.
I got up to inspect the door. Instead of a doorknob, there was a slot. I went back to the desk and grabbed my answer sheet. With the carefulness and determination of a kid at a vending machine with a wrinkled dollar bill, I fed the sheet into the slot. It went through smoothly, followed by a deep, long beep. The door slid open. I was faced with a long corridor.
Part IV
B SIDE
December 11, 20—
The figure in Black reached under the podium and picked up an old velvet bag. When he stuck his hand in, I heard clacking, like the sound of pool balls hitting each other. Black took out a large, light pink marble from the bag. At once, everyone shifted their gaze to a man dressed in a Baby Pink suit. He wore white loafers and a crisp dress shirt open at the collar. The man nodded his head at Black and headed towards the stage. Nobody in the room made a sound. Someone must’ve turned off the music because I could only hear two things: the fireplace and my own heavy breathing.
Black handed Pink the velvet bag and reached under the podium again. This time, he brought out two marbles: plum and mustard yellow. He added them to the bag before putting it away.
I didn’t know it then, but that was my official initiation into the Order of the Raven.
Black then took out a bottle of red wine and poured a good amount into two ancient-looking goblets. He took out a small, suspicious-looking vial and added its contents to only one glass. And for his final trick, Black slit open his palm with a comically large knife, dripping his blood into both glasses.
I should’ve been terrified. I should’ve been sweating, mid-panic attack, and unable to hold myself together. But I think my body went through so much that evening it was hard to do anything at all. The most my brain could handle was dissociating from reality to watch the events on stage like a movie.
Then, a strong, feminine voice came from the figure in black. She (my bad) grabbed the wineglass spiked with the mystery solution, raised it to the crowd of partygoers and said:
“Make the tale live for us in all its many bearings, O Muses.”
In unison, the crowd repeated her words (I just mumbled along). Black then drank the contents of the glass. While all this was happening, Pink brought an antique-looking wood chair to the stage. Black took a seat while Pink sipped from the other glass. Then, he stepped in the crowd and handed the wine to a woman in lavender. She took a sip and passed it on.
When the glass came to me, I pretended to take a sip and gave it to a woman in gray. After everyone had a sip, someone handed the glass back to Pink. He motioned for Lavender to join him on stage and together, they carried Black’s body, in the chair, offstage. The library doors swung open and they exited—we all followed, silently into the Black night.
Wordlessly, we went our separate ways. It would take me awhile to make sense of what happened, but for now—
“Kai?”
Kai slammed Haruki’s diary shut and hid it back in its “secret” location: a hollowed-out hardcover of The Great Gatsby.
“Hi Dave,” Kai stammered. “How are you?”
“I’m okay considering the circumstances,” Dave replied, stepping through the doorway. His eyes were baggy and dull, his face haggard. In the past three weeks, it looked like he aged ten years. “Watcha reading?”
“Gatsby. For school.” She tossed the book on her older brother’s bed.
“A classic,” Dave looked like he was about to say something. The look on his face made it seem like was searching for the right words, “Listen,” he finally said. “We both lost someone important to us. We were never really close, but…”
“Yeah, I miss him. I know you do too.” Kai tried her best to keep her voice from breaking. Every time someone tried to talk to her about Haruki’s death, she could last all of thirty seconds without her anger taking control. How could she not be this frustrated when Haruki’s death was an intentional act sponsored by some sort of death cult? He was on top of the world. And they killed him. Dave cleared his throat, clearing the foggy rage clouding Kai’s thoughts.
“Your parents wanted me to say something at the funeral next week,” he said, “I hope that’s okay with you.”
“Yeah, that’s um… I know he loved you. I want you up there with us.”
“I’ll leave you alone, but if you wanna talk about it, I’m here.”
“Thanks, Dave.” she meant it. “I’m just—I’m just so angry. And I need to be alone for awhile. To get over it before the funeral.”
“I get it—about the anger,” Dave nodded. “Nothing about this was fair.” Kai nodded back. They shared another glance, and Dave thumped down the stairs. Kai heard him talking to Mr. Sato in the kitchen and reached back over to grab the diary.
Like all younger siblings, Kai was a snoop. She learned years ago that Haruki hid his diaries in hollowed-out books. Books like 1984 and The Lord of the Flies that would blend in a well-read high-schooler’s bookshelf. When Haruki was alive, Kai would read his diaries because her brother was an introvert and would never actually talk to his family about what was going on.
When he left for college, his diaries went with him. After Haruki’s death, the Sato family packed up Haruki’s college apartment and stacked the boxes in his childhood bedroom. Kai rifled through the boxes, ready to resume her detective work to find some answers about the Order of the Raven. After finishing schoolwork and chores, Kai settled into a nightly routine of sitting in Haruki’s bedroom, throwing on some Reichenbach Falls, and reading his old diaries.
Before the diaries, all she had to go off of was a photo of Haruki’s suicide note. The paper was embossed with the Order’s signature crest. It read, in Haruki’s handwriting, that he “Bequeaths his mind, body and soul to: Calliope, Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, Polyhymnia, Terpsichore, Thalia, and Urania”
The diary changed everything.Kai didn’t expect Haruki to chronicle the practices of a secret society in such great detail. Especially considering that his diaries were hidden so poorly. While the initiation ceremony shocked Kai, what happened to Haruki after the masquerade was unbelievable: if Kai hadn’t actually witnessed it, she wouldn’t believe it.
The post-gala period was associated with the meteoric rise of Reichenbach Falls. Suddenly, everything fell into place for Haruki and his band. Their music went from good to phenomenal. They became the most popular band on campus, then in the city, then in the tri-state area. There were talks of record deals. They were viral on the internet. People recognized them in public.
But it wasn’t just the band that changed: Haruki himself was divinely inspired, with a new epiphany every hour. His entries were incoherent scribbles, notes, song lyrics, and other ephemera noted in fits of inspiration. Some entries made it sound like someone other than Haruki was writing. In the middle of the manic scribbles, Haruki had some coherent, normal things to say about his daily life. It seems like he forgot about the Order entirely, except when he would chronicle a success and scribble a quick thanks to the Muses.
Haruki couldn’t push them out of his mind forever, though. A calling card came for Haruki next year bearing the crest of the Order of the Raven.
Kai read all about her brother’s second gala. A gala where a plum-colored marble was drawn at the podium. Haruki was to be Black in just his third year with the Order.
Haruki, of course, knew what was coming to him. And so did Kai. But that didn’t prepare her for the despair, anxiety, and hopelessness of Haruki’s subsequent entries. She couldn’t read more than three paragraphs without her blood boiling. But she had to finish. She had to find out as much as she could about the Order.
Reading about Haruki acquiring the plague doctor’s mask and black cloak was the final straw. She couldn’t take it anymore. She knew what would happen to her big brother, and the hurt it precipitated. She slammed the diary shut and stowed it back on the shelf. She needed a break for a few days. Kai threw herself into helping her family with the funeral preparations.
After the ceremony ended, Kai felt ready to read the final pages of Haruki’s diary. She went back to the bookshelf and perused the spines for The Great Gatsby. After overturning every volume in Haruki’s library, a sinking feeling began to grow in Kai’s stomach:
The Order of the Raven stole my brother’s diary.
Part V
A SIDE
Within minutes, the library was in flames. Scarlet took off a glove and used it to cover her nose and mouth.
“The profane theft of human life ends here,” Black boomed through a voice modulator. It was a gratuitous precaution: nobody was expected to survive this evening.
Scarlet, along with everyone else, rushed to the exit. Around them, books and their shelves caught fire. All the windows had bars, all the doors were locked. There was no visible way out.
“I will take your lives in exchange for all the innocent ones you claimed,” Black would put a stop to the Order. For what they did to Haruki. For what they did to everyone who loved him.
The library filled with smoke and screams. Black disappeared amidst the chaos, somehow, while the Order of the Raven went down in flames.
~
Later that evening, Dave unlocked the door to his apartment and flicked on the lights.
He still smelled like smoke.
Dave shrugged off the black cloak and pulled off the plague doctor’s mask.
I should’ve left all this on campus, Dave thought, putting both articles on the coffee table. He kicked off his shoes and collapsed on the couch, reaching for the nearest book. To the unsuspecting observer, it looked like a beat-up copy of The Great Gatsby. It was, in fact, the diary of his late ex-boyfriend. Thumbing through the pages, he whispered:
“This was all for you, Haruki. It was for Kai, for Kat, your parents—for everyone who’s lost someone because of the Order. Nobody will feel loss at the hands of those bastards again.”
Dave fell asleep with the diary on his chest.
EPILOGUE
Dave awoke with a start. The plague doctor’s mask stared at him from the coffee table. It was somehow scarier, more alive in the daylight.
Dave threw the cloak on top of it, and rolled off the couch.
Sleeping on the couch didn’t do my back any favors, Dave thought. He hopped in the shower and thought about how to dispose of the infernal regalia in his living room. His mind then turned towards last night’s events.
I set fire to hundreds of people, he thought. It’s not that he felt guilty about what happened. Nor did he think he was likely to be caught. But people were sure to be talking about the great fire at the rival university’s library. He couldn’t jump every time someone mentioned it.
Aside from that, it was a typical Sunday: coffee and then, band practice. Dave put on his headphones, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.
Once his feet hit the pavement, Dave played his favorite album by the White Stripes. After a few verses of the first track, he paused the song. Something wasn’t right. This was his comfort album. The music itself didn’t sound any different—he just felt different. In fact, he felt nothing at all. He may as well have been listening to a dial tone.
Dave shook his head and turned the music off. Weird, he thought. My brain’s probably still off from last night.
He stopped by Nation’s coffee for a cold brew.
“Hey Dave!” The barista, Eileen, was one of Reichenbach Falls’ first fans. “What can I get ya?”
“The usual,” Dave replied with a smile. “How’s your Sunday going, Eileen?”
“Livin the dream’” Eileen said, returning his smile. Eileen was a prototypical morning person, which is a perfect fit for a coffee shop on a college campus. “Oh, look—we put up the latest promo poster for The Falls” she said excitedly, pointing to a bulletin board on her left.
Dave looked at the poster. Even after his death, the band’s posters usually featured Haruki’s art. Lea, their drummer, digitized his archives and continuously used them for new material. The most striking drawings were those done after Haruki joined the Order.
The poster Dave looked at featured one of them. The design was a small girl on the back of a beautiful dragon, charging towards a fire-blast from a shadowy man’s hand. He remembered Haruki working on this design, and seeing drafts all over his kitchen table.
Whether it was before or after his death, Dave couldn’t look at Haruki’s art without feeling emotionally moved. But today, Dave felt nothing. It was like looking at a blank piece of paper.
“Is something wrong?” Eileen asked. For a moment, Dave forgot she was standing there. “Should I take it down?”
“No,” Dave replied quickly. “I’m just… still in grief. Sometimes seeing his art, even now, it…it’s hard”
Eileen nodded. “You guys had something really special. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” Dave replied. “And thanks for the coffee—you’re doing a good thing, keeping us going,” he said with a small laugh. Dave took a sip of his coffee. Even though it was ice cold, it tasted like lukewarm tap water.
Things got weirder at practice. Dave’s rhythm was entirely off. The notes seemed like isolated pings, rather than melodies. He could hardly keep track of what song they were playing.
“Sorry guys,” he apologized. “I think I need to take five. I’ve been off all day,” before they could ask him any follow-up questions, Dave left Lea’s garage and began walking dow the street.
The rosebushes, the vibrant trees, the songbirds—Dave recognized their existence but not their beauty. It was like looking at patches of turf or hearing a car on the road. This was one of the most enchanting streets in the neighborhood, but its appeal was entirely gone.
Everything is a flat line. I feel like a flat line, Dave thought. It’s turning from color to a staticky black and white. Of course, the world was not really losing color. Dave just felt that way. Like the world turned into a perpetually temperate, cloudless, September afternoon.
Music, art, nature even coffee—I still notice everything, but nothing means anything anymore. I feel like I should be more upset about this, but I still FEEL nothing. I just want to sit on the ground and maybe—
“CAW!” the sharp call of a crow snapped Dave back to his monochrome reality.
“A crow,” Dave murmured. It squawked again and looked right at him. “Or are you, perhaps, a raven?” It was too on the nose to be a coincidence. He walked over to where it was perched, about twenty paces away.
Right as Dave reached the bird, it flew away. In its place was an index-card sized piece of cardstock. Dave picked it up. Of course, Dave thought, it has the Order’s seal. The card read:
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true—truer somehow than truth itself…
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World
… For in that sleep of death, what dreams?