The cardboard box was about the size of a shoebox. Its surface bore no labels or writing, emitting a sinister aura identical to that of the invitation.
Byrne spent a moment crouching down, lightly tapping the surface of the box with his fingertips. Once he confirmed there was no immediate danger, he opened the lid. Inside, resting on a layer of black velvet, lay a mask. It was stark silver-white, its design an exact match to the pattern embroidered on the invitation: deep-set eye sockets and a mouth upturned all the way to the ears in a bone-chilling grin.
Byrne picked up the mask to gauge its weight; it was unexpectedly heavy. This, evidently, was the mask required for the gathering. Since it was still early, Byrne did not put it on immediately, returning it to the box instead.
He sat on the sofa and picked up the invitation again, re-reading the attendance guidelines.
[You must wear the designated mask to the gathering...][You are not allowed to initiate conversation with others...][Under no circumstances should you let others know your true identity...][You are not allowed to leave early; you may not take the mask with you, nor may you destroy it...]
Every single rule felt steeped in malice, as if preparing the stage for an impending hunt. The third rule was particularly unsettling; it lacked a specified punishment for violations, and such uncertainty was often more terrifying than a defined restriction.
Beyond the rules themselves, the guidelines revealed two critical pieces of information. First, Byrne was not the only person invited by the blood-red rules. Second, the mask was not a mere decoration but the core prop of the entire gathering. The rules repeatedly emphasized wearing and protecting the mask, even specifying its delivery time, which spoke volumes about its importance.
Time flew by, and soon it was past eight in the evening. After a quick dinner, Byrne pocketed the invitation, took the mask, and headed out. He reached the entrance of his residential district and hailed a taxi.
The driver was a middle-aged man in a grey jacket. Seeing Byrne get in, he asked, "Where to?"
"Driver, to the Red Maple Theater."
Upon hearing those words, the driver turned to size Byrne up, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. Fearing he had misheard, he asked again:
"Young man, are you sure? The Red Maple Theater has been abandoned for three years. Why are you heading there in the middle of the night?"
Byrne nodded. "You heard right. Red Maple Theater."
With that confirmation, the driver's expression shifted instantly. He tried to dissuade him: "Young man, take my advice. That place is cursed. Don't go looking for trouble. I heard an influencer didn't believe the stories and went there at midnight for a live stream recently; the next day, they'd gone completely mad. It's terrifying."
Byrne didn't feel like arguing. He simply pulled out a hundred-yuan bill and handed it over. "Driver, please don't try to stop me. Just drive. Whatever happens has nothing to do with you."
The driver stared at the money for a few seconds. Seeing Byrne's resolve and unable to resist the financial incentive, he took the cash. "Fine. Since you're dead set on going, I'll drop you nearby. I wouldn't dare stop right in front of the theater gates."
"That's fine."
The taxi started up and drove toward the old district. As they approached, the once-lively streets grew empty. The streetlights dimmed, and many were broken, leaving only mottled shadows stretching along the roadside. The driver turned off the radio and remained silent the entire way, only occasionally checking Byrne through the rearview mirror.
Half an hour later, the taxi pulled over at a junction.
"We're here. Go straight through this junction to the next crossroads, then turn right. It's a few hundred meters from there."
"Thanks."
Byrne pushed the door open and stepped out. The moment the door closed, the taxi spun around like a startled rabbit. The driver floored the accelerator and vanished into the night in a cloud of exhaust.
Heh, quite the coward, Byrne thought.
After that brief internal remark, Byrne put on the mask and walked toward the junction indicated by the driver. Before long, he reached his destination.
Looking ahead, the exterior walls of the Red Maple Theater were indeed as intact as the news reports had claimed. The off-white walls glinted coldly under the moonlight. The main entrance consisted of two heavy iron gates; the original vermilion paint had long since faded, leaving only a mottled, iron-black surface.
Byrne walked to the gates and reached out to push them. But before his hand could make contact, the iron gates opened on their own, revealing a brightly lit corridor leading to the main building.
Byrne paused, feeling deeply suspicious. The scene before him showed no trace of being destroyed by fire. Had the Rule Ghost Stories reset the theater?
He shook his head to suppress his doubts and entered. The floor tiles were smooth and clean, reflecting the warm yellow light from the wall lamps. There were no scorch marks from a fire, nor even a speck of dust. The air was filled with a faint scent of sandalwood, a stark contrast to the desolate and cold atmosphere outside—it felt like two separate worlds.
At the end of the corridor was a carved wooden door. A gold-plated plaque hung above the lintel, inscribed with the words "Auditorium." As Byrne approached, the wooden door swung inward automatically.
Passing through the foyer and another hallway, Byrne entered the auditorium. The seats, which should have been destroyed by the fire, were arranged in neat rows. The deep red velvet covers were as good as new, and the patterns on the armrests were clearly visible.
Byrne found a seat toward the back and scanned the room. Including himself, there were eighteen people sitting in the hall. These invitees were men and women, young and old. Despite their different clothing, everyone wore the same silver smiling mask.
The other invitees sat scattered about, maintaining absolute silence. Their hands were either on their knees or resting lightly on the armrests, their postures stiff as if bound by invisible rules.
At that moment, the curtains on the stage slowly drew back. There was no sound of mechanical operation; they moved as if controlled by an unseen hand.
Snap!
A spotlight above the stage suddenly flickered on, casting a piercing beam of light onto the center of the stage. The background music ceased instantly, plunging the hall into dead silence.
A man in a black formal suit walked onto the stage. He also wore a silver-white mask, though his was embroidered with golden patterns, marking him as the leader of this gathering.
"Welcome, invitees, to the Red Maple Theater."
The man's voice was filtered through the mask, giving it a somewhat breathy, textured quality.
"In three minutes, the gathering will begin punctually. Until then, please wait patiently and keep the attendance guidelines in mind. Those who violate the rules do so at their own peril."
After speaking, the man in the suit stood in the center of the stage and fell silent. The spotlight remained locked on him, casting a long, elongated shadow onto the black curtains like an eerie silhouette.