“Horror is the removal of masks.”

--Robert Bloch

The jet-black piece of finely hewn wood rested upon a plain, roughly cut wooden head.

The reflective blackness caught the light-- bringing life to the figures engraved on its surface.

Light danced across the edges, creating the illusion of the figures moving across the dark wood.

The figures seemed anxious in their movements-- scrutinized by the men standing before them.

“So... what do you think?” said a man in a black suit-- adjusting a crooked gold cuff-link.

“Well... it’s remarkably crafted-- that’s clear” said a man in a grey suit-- transfixed by the mask.

The man in grey peered closer, nose nearly pressed against the pristine glass case.

“You say you bought this from a street merchant while you were in Africa?”

The man in black nodded, “Yes, a market in Gabon specifically-- from a man on a street corner.”

“He claimed it was an authentic Gabonese tribal mask-- carved from pure ebony.”

The man in grey finally broke the mask’s gaze, a look of incredulity on his face.

“Gabonese? He didn’t say it was something from a more ancient tribe-- or maybe an art piece?”

The man in black furrowed his brow, “Don’t look at me like that-- are you saying I was grifted?”

The man in grey laughed, “No-- Well... Yes, but in a good way-- you came out on top.”

He raised his brow quizzically, “What? If it isn’t real, how can it be worth anything?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t ‘real,’” the other returned, “I implied it wasn’t a Gabonese tribal piece.”

“Well,” he started, “then what kind of piece is it?”

“Frankly, I don’t know.” the other said, returning his gaze to the mask’s smooth surface.

“What I do know, is that it’s old, finely crafted, and in amazing condition-- so it has some value.”

He moved to the back of the case, examining the wooden head the mask was affixed to.

“What about this? Did you put the mask on this?”

“No,” he said “it was on that when I bought it.”

The man in grey squinted at the imperceptible space between the head and the mask.

“Is it part of the mask itself? Perhaps it isn’t a mask, but some sort of ceremonial icon or--”

Looking at his watch, the man in black tapped the man in grey on the shoulder.

“I have to go, but I’ll  leave the piece is in your hands for as long as it takes to be appraised.”

The man in grey kept his eyes locked on the piece, waving at him dismissively.

“Yes, yes-- I’ll let you know as soon as I learn anything else.”

As the man in the black suit left the room, the man in the grey suit opened the display case.
He gingerly set the wooden head and mask upon the lacquered surface of a nearby table.

He moved slowly around the piece--
as though there might be a hidden history printed somewhere in the wood’s grain.

He then returned to the figures etched into the mask’s lustrous surface.

Most appeared to be dancing-- either in ritual or celebration.

That’s when he noticed-- a group of figures seemed to be facing towards a single point.

At said point, was a depiction of what seemed to be the mask and paired head.

Is it some sort of idol? Maybe it’s supposed to be a bust or representation of some kind of deity.

Another group of figures were depicted facing away from the mask and head--

except in this carving the mask was depicted removed from the head,

and some kind of energy, in the form of twisting tendrils, was escaping towards the figures.

Ah! It looks like they believed it kept some evil force or entity locked away.

The man reached towards the mask, but stopped himself.

He felt a rising heat in his chest, something that told him he shouldn’t be doing this.

He paused, hand trembling inches away from the mask.

Shaking himself, he laughed at the absurdity of his misgivings.

What? Am I going to give in to the forgotten superstition of some long dead tradition?

He placed his hands on the mask-- the surface was cool to the touch.

Removing the mask proved simple, as it came away in one swift motion.

He stared into the inside of the mask, and saw something remarkable-- more carvings.

However, these weren’t more depictions of figures-- but writing.

He recognized the words “eyes,” in Swahili-- then again in Somali.

It looked like it was the same phrase written in many languages.

His eyes crawled slowly down, until he saw languages he didn’t expect. 
French, German, and even English.

DO NOT LOOK AT THE EYES

At first all he could think was that the mask wasn’t as old as he thought it was--

then he began to actually process the phrase.

Eyes? What eyes?

Then, he remembered the wooden head, and turned to face it.

The face was beautifully carved-- unlike the surrounding wood of the bust.

The features were remarkably lifelike, but lacked humanity, as if it were carved by a machine. 
The mouth was full of thin needle-like teeth, seemingly carved out of a blood-red mineral.

As the man in grey was wondering which art house would pay the most for such a unique piece--

he finally noticed the eyes.

In place of carved wood, the area had been filled with two stones that glimmered magnificently.

He looked into the eyes, transfixed by the intricate cut-- but more so by the remarkable color.

He stared into them-- his mind had trouble deciding what color they were.

A reddish green? No. A yellowish blue? No. Somewhere in-between...  

The gems were Stygian in darkness, yet impossibly vibrant.

His mind swam, and all other thoughts left him.

It’s familiar... I know this color-- but from where? From when?

The eyes radiated light-- yet were the darkest points in the room.

I can almost see it... Yes! The eyes are the color of--

He felt a cold hand on his shoulder. Then on his back. Then on his leg. Then on his arms.

He tried to move, but they were holding him in place.

Something placed the mask over his face.

His eyes were covered by the frigid black embrace of the ebony.

He couldn't see anything at first, then-- he could see the eyes again.

The eyes slowly crept towards him-- the hands held him firmly in place.

The eyes grew closer, and closer--

until all he could see was the glittering darkness of the eyes.
The hands tightened-- he heard the crunching, cracking, and breaking of bones.

He felt nothing, only the burning familiarity of the eyes.

Before he could even think if the bones were his, he finally realized--

The eyes were the color of death.