Sirena
Every autumn since the year I was born, I’ve gone to the Festival of Masks.
There are photos somewhere—buried deep in boxes that still smell like home—of me swaddled in a pumpkin mask, another of me at three years old in smeared face paint and a crooked paper clown grin, another of teenage me with my best friend Carly, faces covered in sequins and sparkles.
Back then, it was just another Briar Hollow tradition, all lantern light and laughter, nothing but harmless make-believe.
Now, it’s become something else entirely, and I'm not sure when it changed. Or is it me who's changed?
I told myself I wouldn’t go this year, that I’d finally break the tradition if it couldn't be with them, but grief has a strange way of making you reach for the things that used to hold you steady, to make you feel close to something, to make you feel anything at all.
These last eight months have been agony without them.
Every year, for one November Thanksgiving night separate from the annual Halloween Festival, the people of Briar Hollow shed their ordinary everyday selves and step into the dark, unrecognizable beneath their masks.
People I’ve known my entire life, ones I’ve seen around town at the hardware store or the café, who come to my photo studio for family portraits, and the people who serve me my drinks at the local pub.
That’s not who they will be tonight. It’s a night where you can be anyone — someone dangerous, someone mysterious, someone desired.
The air hums with electricity and something else, something that edges between fantasy and something feral.
For twenty-eight years, I went to the Festival of Masks with Mom and Dad. This time, I’ll walk through the lantern-lit trails alone.
If not for Carly, I might’ve stayed home, watching the shadows from my candles move across the walls instead, disassociating with my dark romance novels, being claimed by a masked man in my mind instead of grief.
However, she wouldn’t let me. She showed up at the studio yesterday, grinning like she’d won a lottery, holding a gold box tied with black ribbon, a simple white parchment card affixed to the bow with script saying Sirena.
It was for me. I’d never seen this packaging around town before.
Inside was a mask—deep auburn just like my hair, shaped like a doe’s face, delicate and wild, with silver and gold accents to sparkle in the light of the bonfire, complete with a crimson ribbon to secure it. It was mesmerizing.
It fits perfectly, soft against my skin. The ribbon lay behind my ears and ties just below my hairline. When I look in the mirror, I hardly recognize the girl staring back. Wide-eyed. Uncertain. Almost hunted.
It feels like an omen—and somehow, an offering all in one.
****
I check myself over in the mirror once more before heading out.
My auburn hair hangs down my back in soft waves, brown eyes rimmed in gold liner, the red ribbon of the mask tied in a bow at the nape of my neck peaks through my waves.
I’m wearing my signature MAC lipstick in a colour called Guessing Game, my cheekbones are perfectly contoured, and I’ve applied the perfect amounts of mascara.
I spent hours picking out an outfit that makes me feel my sexiest: my black mini, a black skin-tight tank top, my thigh-high fishnets, and my Doc Marten boots, complete with a black lace set of panties and bra; I feel unstoppable.
This outfit shows off all my tattoos and my curves, as well as making me feel like the hottest badass.
It’s a win-win. I grab my camera, lock my door, and put the key under the turtle on the porch.
Everyone knows it’s there, but no one breaks in anywhere in town; it’s too small, and we know each other too well.
By the time I reach the town square, the sun is beginning to set, and Briar Hollow is almost unrecognizable. The town is cast in the warm glow of golden hour, dotted with pumpkins, hay bales, and all manner of autumn decor.
The air is thick with wood smoke and cider, laughter curling through the night like ribbons of mist, ebbing, and flowing through the alleys and streets.
Lanterns swing from every branch, street corner, and porch.
Painted faces flicker in and out of the light.
Carved pumpkins offer an eerie vibe. Everywhere I look, someone is hiding behind a mask.
It should feel comforting, almost familiar, but it doesn’t. There’s something different this year, something restless.
The shadows move wrong, stretching too long beneath the glow of the dimly lit lanterns. The music is louder, faster, and more feverish than I remember in previous years. It vibrates through the soles of my boots, through my ribs. For a moment, I swear the ground itself hums with it.
As I arrive at the field all decked out for the festival, camera in hand, Carly finds me near the apple-bobbing stand, her skirt so short you can see her ass peeking out, her fox mask gleaming under the firelight.
She squeals and pulls me into a hug, her drink sloshing over the edge of her cup, her voice muffled behind velvet and feathers.
“You look incredible,” she says. “Like you were made for that mask.”
Maybe I was.
Or maybe, it was made for me.
I’ve known Carly and her mom my entire life; our moms worked together, and we were in school together since pre-k.
Most of those photos, buried in boxes from previous festivals, include her and her mom, and in later years, the two of them and their new family.
Fifteen years ago, Carly’s mom remarried.
Her stepdad, Greg Wolfe, is one of the nicest men I’ve ever met, and her stepbrother, Emerson Wolfe, serves me drinks down at the pub on a regular basis.
I have always been welcomed like family with the Wolfe’s, but it feels like they’ve been even more protective of me since my parents died.
Even Greg and Emerson welcome my presence and have gotten used to waking up and finding me at their breakfast table, drinking their coffee, and eating their food.
I knew there was never any chance Carly would let me come here alone this year, and I silently thanked her for that.
She drags me through the crowd, past the bonfire, past the costumed dancers spinning in blurred circles, past the children dressed as monsters chasing their parents.
The festival always feels like stepping into a dream, but tonight it borders on something else—something that profoundly moves and breathes.
Every flicker of light feels like it’s watching.
Every masked face turns just a second too late.
Something is different tonight, but I can’t place my finger on exactly what.
I lift my camera and start to take pictures as I have since I was a pre-teen, the shutter clicking softly against the swell of music.
This is my favourite town event to photograph; it has always been.
Through the lens, everything sharpens—the dance of the flames, the curve of a stranger’s smile, the slip of movement at the edge of the frame.
And then—him.
For the briefest second, I catch sight of a man standing apart from the crowd, cloaked in smoke and mist. He dons black jeans, a black t-shirt that clings to his muscular arms, and a wolf mask that appears as if it's made from an actual wolf skull, only covering the top portion of his face. There is the slight suggestion of a smile that doesn’t quite reach his dark eyes.
The camera flash catches something metallic at his throat — a pendant, maybe — but when I lower the lens, he’s gone.
A chill snakes down my spine. Did I imagine that?
Carly tugs at my arm, oblivious. “Come on, pretty Doe! Let’s get a drink and then go dance!”
I force a laugh and smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes, and I tuck my camera close, following her into the firelight. The whole time, I can feel it — the weight of unseen eyes tracking me from somewhere beyond the masks.