Story 1117: The Mask Beneath the Veil

There were rumors in the market towns—of a woman who wore a veil of black silk and never spoke above a whisper. Some said she was mourning. Others claimed she had no face beneath the fabric. But all agreed on one thing:

Wherever she went, someone died.

Clara Veil found her in the village of Droswick Hollow, where the streets were damp with fog and the bells never rang. It was the third death in as many nights. A merchant, a midwife, a priest—each found with eyes wide open, mouths curled in terror, and nothing physically wrong.

The veiled woman stood in the chapel garden, unmoving, as if carved from grief.

Clara approached slowly, fingers brushing the lantern at her side. The woman turned. No face was visible beneath the thin veil—only the suggestion of hollows where eyes should be.

“You’ve been following the dead,” Clara said.

The woman’s voice was the wind through a dying cornfield.

“I do not choose them. The mask does.”

“Mask?”