Miranda swooned and almost fainted, but forced herself to stay upright. The house was almost empty now. There was only one person left, a naked, frightened-looking man at her feet. She realized that it was Richard.
“Get out,” she said.
He sobbed, rocking back and forth. Miranda took the mask off.
“Out.”
“Miranda!”
“Get out, Richard,” she said. “Whatever you have to say—”
“Miranda, your hands!”
Miranda saw the red splotches on her palms. Blood flowed from her fingertips and she felt it gush from her nose and mouth. Her insides convulsed and she fell to her knees. Richard was staring, wide-eyed. She tried to crawl to the door, but her strength was fading.
“‘His vesture was dabbled in blood — and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror,'” the voice of the Red Death said in her ear.
Miranda tried to speak, but her mouth was bleeding, and she lacked the strength. She collapsed, and the world went red, and then black, and then it was gone altogether.
***
It was morning. The party guests found themselves lying on the beach. Most of them still wore the tattered remains of their costumes. The house was nowhere in sight.
Some were hurt. A great many were hung over. A few remembered nothing of the previous night, and more wished that they didn’t. They brushed the sand off and waded into the ocean, desperate to feel clean again.
Nearby, Miranda and the Red Death watched, unseen. She wore her own costume again, and he was dressed in his robes and mask.
“Well Miranda, you did it” he said. “You saved them. Most of them anyway. And all it cost you was your own life.”
Miranda said nothing.
“Do you think it was worth it?” said the Red Death. “None of them would have done the same for you, you know. They’re not good people.”
“No,” said Miranda. “But they can change. Everyone can change, except for the dead.”
“Indeed,” said the Red Death. “The dead never change. Isn’t that right, Carmilla?” He addressed himself to a particularly morose-looking jack-o-lantern he carried. Miranda shuddered when she saw it.
Richard sat on the beach, holding the remains of his wolf mask. There was blood under his fingernails. He tried to clean them, but it wouldn’t come out.
“What will happen to him?” said Miranda.
“He’ll probably try to pretend that nothing happened for a while,” said the Red Death. “And eventually the guilt will send him to the police. Then he’ll spend the rest of his life in some institution. Or maybe it’ll just be suicide instead; it’s a hard thing to know yourself.”
“And what about me?” said Miranda.
“It’s not for me to say,” said the Red Death. “But I’m sure you’ll get along well, whatever you do.”
The house loomed over them.
“So little time to get ready for next Halloween,” he said. “So much work to do.”
He brought the new jack-o-lanterns inside. Stopping in the doorway, he looked back at her.
“You are a remarkable woman, Miranda,” he said. “I’m glad to have met you. If you ever wish to return, my door is always open.”
The door slammed shut.
“But I know that you will not.”
The house faded away, and so did the people. Miranda was alone, on the beach, in the fog. She walked to the waterline and kicked off her shoes, wading in up to her ankles. It felt good. She stripped off the rest of her costume and threw it away. She didn’t mind the cold. It was refreshing.
She walked in no particular direction. She was free, and it was All Saints Day, and the only tracks in the sand were hers