The Masquerade Key: Brass Key

A brass key, a black mask and one house rule: nobody upstairs says their name.

How it works: read, then choose what you do. Only the right choices earn the happy ending.

I’m Ben, I’m thirty-three, I fix lifts for a living, and until that Saturday night I had never been to a party with a dress code stricter than “no flip-flops”.

Tom’s Halloween masquerade was a different animal. Hartley House was a huge crumbling Victorian pile with every window lit orange, and a hundred guests in velvet and feathers and sequins drifted through its ballrooms by candlelight. I had come as a highwayman: tailcoat from Tom’s old drama cupboard, tricorn hat, black half mask that itched like mad. I was single, three weeks out from a spectacularly dull date, and fully expecting to spend the night guarding the sausage rolls.

I got as far as the foot of the grand staircase before a woman stepped into my path.

Black velvet cat mask, pointed ears, silver whiskers painted across the cheeks. Black satin dress slit to the hip, long black gloves. She opened one hand. A brass key lay on a loop of black ribbon.

“Highwayman,” she said, low and amused. “You’re on the list. Upstairs is for invited guests only, and you’ve been invited.”

“To what, exactly?”

“Three rules.” She held up gloved fingers. “Masks stay on. Names stay secret. And everyone up there has said yes, so you only ever do what somebody has said yes to.” She tied a thin black ribbon round my left wrist, neat and snug. “That’s your yes. The key opens any door with a ribbon on the handle. Say no anywhere and nobody asks why.”

She tilted her head. The ears tilted too.

“Well?”

→ I follow her up the stairs

→ I pocket the key and go and find a drink first