The Valentine Mask

 Title: The Valentine Mask

It started as a game. Every Valentine’s Day, the drama club hosted a “Masquerade Match” at school. Everyone wore masks, and if you found your “perfect match” by the end of the day, you’d win a prize. It was harmless fun—or so we thought.

This year, the club handed out masks like usual, each one decorated with hearts and glitter. But at the back of the pile was a single black mask, plain and smooth, with a glossy finish. It looked nothing like the others.

“No one’s wearing that,” said Sarah, the club president.

But when she turned around, it was gone.

The first person to notice the mask was Lily. She was in my science class, always bubbly and full of life. That morning, she whispered to me, “Did you see the guy in the black mask? He’s kind of… intense.”

I hadn’t.

By lunch, everyone was talking about him. The stories didn’t make sense.

“I saw him near the gym,” one kid said.

“No, he was in the library,” someone else argued.

“He’s everywhere,” Lily said, her voice low. “And he’s staring at people. Like, really staring.”

By the end of the day, Lily hadn’t shown up to her last two classes.

After school, the drama club did a headcount. It’s tradition—everyone has to turn in their masks. When Sarah asked for the black mask, no one spoke up.

“That’s impossible,” Sarah muttered. “It has to be here.”

She searched every bag, every desk, but the mask wasn’t anywhere.

That night, Lily’s parents called the school. She hadn’t come home.

The next morning, Lily’s locker was empty, and her name was wiped from the attendance sheet. The teachers didn’t say a word, but everyone noticed the black mask sitting on her desk.

No one touched it.

By lunchtime, another student had gone missing. And again, the mask reappeared.

It wasn’t random, either. The missing students all had one thing in common: they’d talked about the guy in the black mask.

That’s when I realized I’d made a mistake.

I’d seen him too.

He wasn’t like the other students. His mask was smooth and blank, but when you looked at it too long, you’d swear it wasn’t blank at all. Shadows seemed to twist and ripple across its surface. And his eyes—if they were eyes—were too bright, like car headlights cutting through the dark.

I tried to ignore him, but every time I glanced up, he was closer.

I’m writing this from my bedroom. It’s late, and my parents think I’m asleep. But I can hear footsteps outside my window. Slow, steady.

I haven’t turned around, but I know what I’ll see if I do.

The black mask.

And the face beneath it.

If you see him, don’t look too long. Don’t talk about him. Don’t even think about him.

Because once he notices you, he doesn’t stop.

Happy Valentine’s Day.