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A Masquerade With No Need For Masks

The snow fell silently on the numerous and unmarked graves of Rillenfield that night. Beautiful and incandescent, the moon’s beams lit the carefully balanced clusters of snow that hung on the evergreens-not unlike the twinkling candles of ballroom chandeliers. There he stood, in the midst of silence, afraid even the slightest movement or breath would disturb the marvelously delicate scene.
As the clouds were eased away by the breeze, the full splendor of the moonlight on the new fallen snow brought forth the luminescent souls of the slain, whom waltzed with more energy and life than when they were true denizens of the world of the living…