The Masque of the Red Death

The Masque of the Red Death is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe. He wrote it in 1842. It is one of the most famous scary stories in English. It is a dark story about fear, pride and death.

The story happens long ago in a country that is not real. A terrible sickness is going across the land. Its name is the Red Death. It kills people very fast, and it hurts a lot. Blood comes out on the face and body. In just thirty minutes, the sick person dies.

The king of this country is Prince Prospero. He is rich and brave, and he is not afraid of anything. Half of his people die. Then he makes a plan. He takes a thousand healthy friends to a big, strong building. It is like a castle. They close the heavy gates. Then they make the gates shut with iron, so nobody can open them.

In the building, there is food, wine and music. Everything is beautiful. Prospero thinks, "We are safe here." The sickness is outside, and they are inside. For many months, they are not afraid.

After five or six months, Prospero has a big party. Everyone wears a mask and a strange, colorful costume. But on this night, a quiet and terrible visitor will come to the party. No door can stop him.

The story starts with one picture: the Red Death.

Doctors cannot stop this sickness. Its sign is blood. There is blood on the face, on the body, everywhere. People with the sickness die in thirty minutes. They are alone, and they are in pain. Their friends run away. Nobody can help them.

Half of the people in the country are already dead. But Prince Prospero is not afraid of it. He is a brave and happy man. He thinks, "Money and strong walls can keep death out."

He chooses a thousand healthy friends. He takes them to a big, strong building. They close the heavy gates and make them shut with iron. Nobody can come in. And nobody can go out.

Outside, the people of the country are dying. Inside, Prospero says, "Let's have music! Let's have wine! The people outside can help themselves."

Five or six months go by. In the building, Prospero has a big mask party. At this party, everyone wears a mask on the face.

The party is in seven rooms. Each room has a different color. Room one is blue. Then there are purple, green, orange, white and violet rooms. The last room is at the west end, and it is black. In this black room, the windows are dark red, like blood. The light through these windows is strange and scary. Most of the people are afraid to go in.

In the same black room, there is a very big black clock. Every hour, the clock rings. The sound is loud, deep and strange. Then the music stops. The people stop dancing. Everyone is very quiet, and they listen.

At last, the sound ends. The people laugh a little, but they are nervous. They say to each other, "Next time, we will not be afraid." But at the next hour, it is quiet again. And they are afraid again.

Something is coming closer and closer every hour.

It is almost midnight. The black clock rings twelve times. The music stops, and the dancers do not move.

In the quiet, the people see a new person. He is tall and thin. He is wrapped in cloth from head to foot, like a dead body. His mask looks just like the face of a dead man. This man died from the Red Death. The face is white, and it has red marks of blood.

Prospero is very angry. "How can this man laugh at the sickness in my house?" he thinks. He shouts to the people, "Catch him! In the morning, we will kill him!"

But nobody moves. So Prospero runs after the man himself. He goes through all the rooms: blue, purple, green, orange, white and violet. At last, he comes into the black room. There, he holds up his knife. The man in the mask turns around. Prospero screams, falls down and dies.

The other people run to the man. They pull off his mask and his clothes. But there is no body under them. There is nothing. Then, one by one, all the people start to die.

The Red Death came in quietly, like a thief at night. Now it is the king of everyone.

The Masque of the Red Death is a short story written by Edgar Allan Poe in 1842. It is one of the most famous horror stories in English literature — a dark fable about fear, pride, and death.

The story is set long ago in an imaginary country. A terrible disease known as the Red Death is spreading across the land. It kills people quickly and painfully. Blood appears on the victim's face and body, and within half an hour, the person is dead.

The country is ruled by Prince Prospero, a rich, bold man who seems to fear nothing. When half of his people have died, he comes up with a plan. He gathers a thousand healthy friends, knights and ladies from his court, and takes them to a strong abbey, a large old building that was built like a castle. They lock the heavy gates and seal them with iron.

Inside the abbey, there is plenty of food, wine, music, and beauty. Prospero believes that they are completely safe. The disease is outside, while they are inside. For months, they live without any fear.

After five or six months, Prospero holds a magnificent masquerade ball. All the guests wear strange and colorful costumes. On this particular night, however, a silent and terrible visitor will join the party — and no door can keep him out.

The story opens with a single image: the Red Death.

There is no cure for this disease. Its sign is blood, which appears on the face, on the body, and everywhere else. Anyone who catches it dies within thirty minutes, alone and suffering. Their friends run away from them, and nobody is able to help.

Half of the country has already died. Prince Prospero, however, is not afraid at all. He is a bold and cheerful man, and he is sure that his wealth and strong walls can keep death outside.

He selects a thousand of his healthy friends and takes them to a strong abbey. The heavy gates are shut and sealed with melted iron. Nobody can get in — and nobody can get out.

Outside, the country is dying. Inside, Prospero announces, "Bring the music! Bring the wine! The outside world can look after itself."

Five or six months go by. Inside the abbey, Prospero holds a grand masquerade ball, which is a party where every guest wears a mask.

The ball is held in seven rooms, and each one is a different color. The first room is blue, followed by purple, green, orange, white, and violet rooms. The final room, at the far western end, is black. In this black room, the windows are made of deep red glass, the color of blood. The light that comes through them is strange and frightening, so most of the guests are too scared to go in.

In the same black room stands an enormous clock made of black ebony wood. Every hour, it strikes with a loud, deep, and strange sound. Whenever this happens, the music stops and the dancers stand still. Everyone holds their breath and listens.

When the sound finally fades away, the guests laugh nervously and promise each other that they will not be afraid next time. However, when the next hour arrives, the same silence returns, along with the same fear.

It seems that something is coming closer with every hour that passes.

Shortly before midnight, the ebony clock strikes twelve. The music stops, and the dancers stand frozen.

In the silence, the guests notice a stranger among them. He is tall and thin, and he is wrapped from head to toe like a dead body ready for burial. His mask looks exactly like the face of someone who has died of the Red Death: pale and covered with red bloodstains.

Prospero is furious. How can this stranger dare to make fun of the plague inside his own palace? He shouts at his guests, ordering them to grab the figure and hang him at sunrise.

However, nobody moves. So Prospero himself chases the figure through the rooms — from blue to purple, green, orange, white, and violet — and at last into the black room. There, he raises his dagger. The masked figure turns around. Prospero lets out a scream and falls to the floor, dead.

The other guests rush forward and pull off the stranger's mask and costume. To their horror, there is no body underneath. There is nothing at all. Then, one after another, they all begin to die.

The Red Death had come like a thief in the night, and now it ruled over everything.

The Masque of the Red Death, a short story Edgar Allan Poe published in 1842, ranks among the most renowned tales of terror in English literature — a sombre allegory of dread, hubris, and mortality.

The tale unfolds in an unnamed, imaginary realm in some distant age. A ghastly pestilence known as the Red Death is ravaging the land, dispatching its victims with appalling speed and agony. Blood erupts across the face and body, and within half an hour the sufferer has expired.

The realm is ruled by Prince Prospero, a man of immense wealth, audacity, and apparent fearlessness. When the plague has carried off half his subjects, he devises a scheme of breathtaking callousness. Summoning a thousand hale companions from among the knights and ladies of his court, he retreats with them into a fortified abbey, where they bolt the massive gates and weld them shut with iron.

Within its walls, the revellers want for nothing: there are provisions, wine, music, and every kind of beauty. Prospero is convinced of their invulnerability; the pestilence rages outside while they remain sequestered within. For months, they live untroubled by fear.

Towards the close of the fifth or sixth month, Prospero stages a lavish masquerade ball at which the guests parade in bizarre and flamboyant costumes. On this night, however, a silent and dreadful visitor will intrude upon the festivities — one whom no barricade can exclude.

The narrative is inaugurated by a solitary, indelible image: the Red Death.

The pestilence is impervious to any remedy. Its unmistakable emblem is blood, which suffuses the face, the body, every inch of its victim. Those afflicted succumb within thirty minutes, forsaken and in torment, for their companions flee from them and no succour can be rendered.

Half the population has already perished. Prince Prospero, however, remains wholly unperturbed. A man of audacious and buoyant temperament, he is persuaded that riches and impregnable walls can hold death at bay.

He handpicks a thousand of his healthiest companions and spirits them away to a fortified abbey, whose ponderous gates are closed and welded fast with iron. Entry is impossible — and so, ominously, is escape.

Beyond the walls, the country is expiring. Within them, Prospero commands music and wine to flow without cease, serenely declaring that the external world can take care of itself.

Five or six months elapse, and within the abbey Prospero stages a sumptuous masquerade ball — a revel at which every guest is disguised behind a mask.

The festivities sprawl across a suite of seven chambers, each draped in its own distinctive hue. The first is blue, succeeded in turn by purple, green, orange, white, and violet. The seventh and final chamber, at the westernmost extremity, is shrouded in black, and its panes are fashioned from glass of a deep crimson — the very colour of blood. The lurid glow that filters through them is so eerie and disquieting that few of the revellers summon the courage to set foot inside.

Within this same sable chamber looms a gigantic clock of black ebony. On the stroke of each hour, it emits a peal so loud, so sonorous, and so peculiar that the musicians falter and the dancers are arrested mid-step, the entire company holding its breath to listen.

Once the reverberations have finally subsided, the guests titter uneasily and vow to one another that they will not succumb to such trepidation again. Yet with the arrival of the next hour, the same hush descends, and with it the same unspoken terror.

Something, it would appear, draws ever nearer with each passing hour.

As midnight approaches, the ebony clock tolls twelve. The music falls silent, and the dancers are transfixed where they stand.

Amid that hush, the revellers become aware of an interloper in their midst: a gaunt, towering figure swathed from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. His mask is so faithful a counterfeit of a Red Death victim's countenance, ashen and blotched with gore, that even the closest scrutiny could scarcely detect the deception.

Prospero is incensed. That anyone should have the effrontery to mock the pestilence within the confines of his own palace strikes him as an intolerable affront, and he commands his courtiers to seize the intruder and hang him at dawn.

Yet not a soul stirs. Prospero therefore pursues the apparition single-handed — through the blue, purple, green, orange, white, and violet chambers in succession — until he bursts at last into the black one. There he brandishes his dagger aloft. The masked figure wheels round to face him, and with a piercing shriek Prospero collapses, lifeless.

The remaining guests surge forward and wrench away the mask and grave-clothes, only to find, to their unutterable horror, that no tangible form lies beneath. There is nothing there at all. And one by one, the revellers start to perish.

The Red Death had crept in like a thief in the night, and now it held illimitable dominion over all.