The Costume Party

By James R. Coffey

The beautifully embossed black & gold party invitation read: Come as the person you'd most like to be! 

Though it had been six months, Michael had yet to meet his mysterious new neighbor, an older gentleman who seemed a bit of a recluse, and thought this might be a fun way of finally getting acquainted. The invitation specified: 8:00 Sharp! 

When Michael arrived at the designated time dressed as a reasonable facsimile of billionaire business magnate Richard Branson, he was greeted at the door by an elderly man who smiled and said, “Prompt . . . I like that! Please come in!” Making no mention of Michael's costume choice, the old man said, “You're the first to arrive! You know how some people simply insist on being fashionably late!” he laughed. “May I offer you a drink?”

Though Michael rarely partook of alcohol, he smiled cordially and accepted. “Sure, why not! It's a party, after all!”

“That's the spirit!” the old man said. “I've prepared some homemade blackberry brandy just for this occasion! A family recipe…from the Old Country.” 

While the old man poured, Michael gave the house a quick once-over. He'd always been curious about the inside of this old Victorian three-storey, and was surprised at the grandeur the old man enjoyed — stained-glass chandeliers, beautiful tapestries, fine art, rooms full of antique furnishings. The man handed Michael one of two small crystal glasses containing blue-black liquid; Michael silently prayed that it tasted better than it looked…or smelled. They clinked glasses and Michael gulped his down. Though nearly taking his breath away, he forced the vinegary concoction down his throat. 

“Uh…quite, uh, interesting!” Michael gasped, his eyes watering. 

“You're most kind,” said the old man. “I tried to get it just right! Please take a seat while I ready my costume and wait for the others to arrive.”

Michael turned to find a chair; took three steps before his legs gave out. Falling with a thud to the marble floor, he quickly became aware that he could feel neither his arms nor legs.

“Say, do you know the best thing about costume parties?” the man said, shuffling over to Michael. “You can be anyone you want to be!” he explained, withdrawing an Xacto knife from his pocket.

With an audible sigh, the old man knelt down, brushed back Michael's blond locks, pressed the razor-sharp blade to his forehead, and began cutting along his hairline; blood instantly trickled down his cheeks, pooling on the floor around his head. With the precision of a practiced surgeon, the man then sliced down around the ears, followed along Michael's prominent jawline, then continued up the other side — completing one circumscription of his face. Though searing pain radiated through every nerve of Michael's body, he was powerless to react. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream.

Carefully peeling off Michael's face, the old man took it into the light to inspect. Pleased with his handiwork, he grinned and said with a tone of pride, “Oh, in case you haven't sussed it out yet, neighbour, for this costume party, I'd most like to be you!”

As he excitedly began removing Michael's costume, the old man suddenly had a thought that caused him pause: “Damn it! I should have asked him who he was masquerading as before I poisoned him!”

About the Author

James is a multimedia writer whose work appears regularly in numerous journals and magazines including Aboriginal Science Fiction, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Close to the Bone, AntipodeanSF, Red Cap Publishing anthology, History Defined, Salvo Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Well THAT Was Funny, and Mystic Owl.