A story by David Norden. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The night dripped neon and sweat at Club Incognito.
Pavel sat in the corner booth with the two Russians — Mikhail and Vadim — both in black suits that looked expensive but smelled like they’d been worn three days too long. The table was a battlefield of half-empty vodka bottles, smeared lines of cocaine, and lipstick-stained glasses.
The music throbbed, bass rattling the ribs. A dancer with a porcelain mask on — eerily blank, like a mannequin’s face — slid by, her movements hypnotic. Pavel noticed her eyes: empty, but watching. Always watching.
Vadim, slurring:
“We were supposed to meet… what’s his name, the antiques man… Norden. Buy the three pieces, eh?”
Mikhail laughed, blowing a cloud of smoke.
“Picasso’s mask, Modigliani’s freak doll, and the Chanel ghost. I remember. But… look at us now.” He gestured at the powdered table. “Priorities.”
Pavel’s eyes twitched. Something felt wrong — not just the missed appointment, not just the woman who would now take the objects instead. It was the way the Russians spoke about the masks. Not like collectors, not like art lovers. Like… code.
The dancer in the mask leaned close to Pavel, whispered in his ear without moving her lips:
“The lady already has them. You’re too late.”
Pavel froze. He hadn’t told anyone about the lady.
Mikhail slammed a glass to the floor.
“Tomorrow we fix everything. Tomorrow we take them.”
The word take hung in the air, heavier than the music, heavier than the drugs.
And just then, the lights flickered. For a moment, the club dissolved into silence, and in the dark Pavel thought he saw the three objects — the Goli Glin Baule mask, the Bozo figure, the Ibibio mask — glowing faintly on the stage, like they were alive, like they were watching him back.
The lights snapped on.
The masks were gone. Only the dancer, still moving.
Pavel rubbed his eyes. Mikhail and Vadim laughed, unaware.
But Pavel knew: something bigger was moving in Antwerp tonight.
INT. HOTEL ROOM – EARLY MORNING
Mikhail and Vadim lie passed out in a tangle of sheets and clothes. The curtains glow with sickly yellow light, like the sun is poisoned. Empty bottles rattle when the tram outside screeches by.
Pavel is not in the room. But something else is.
On the dresser sits the Ibibio mask with the Chanel logo. Impossible, since they never bought it. Its glossy surface catches the light, the interlocking C’s pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat.
Vadim stirs, his eyes bloodshot. He sees it.
“Misha… Misha, look.”
Mikhail sits up groggy, rubs his face. Then freezes.
The mask is no longer on the dresser.
It’s on his face.
He claws at it, but his hands pass through. The mask doesn’t weigh him down — it possesses him. His voice distorts, echoing unnaturally:
“The woman will own you. Unless you own her first.”
Vadim recoils. His nose bleeds. He blinks, and now all three objects are in the room:
-
The Baule mask hangs on the wall, its long face watching like a silent judge.
-
The Bozo figure slouches in a chair, its head tilted unnaturally, as if listening.
-
The Ibibio mask speaks through Mikhail, its Chanel logo flashing like neon.
“Art is not art,” the distorted voice continues. “It is power. The same power that made kings, that made revolutions, that made fortunes vanish.”
Vadim falls to his knees, coked-out panic turning to religious awe.
“We should have gone yesterday…”
The masks shimmer, their outlines vibrating, almost alive. The Baule mask whispers now, a woman’s voice, low and seductive:
“She already knows what you desire. She will pay in flesh what you cannot in rubles.”
Mikhail jerks violently, collapsing back onto the bed. The mask slips away — vanishes. The room is normal again. Empty bottles. Cigarette smoke. Sunlight.
Vadim crawls to the dresser. Nothing there. But in the mirror above it, for just a second, all three objects stand behind him, silent, waiting.
INT. DAVID’S SHOP – LATE MORNING
Sunlight filters through the old Antwerp windows, catching the dust motes that float in the air. African masks and figures stand silently in rows, their shadows long and watchful.
David (you) is arranging a display when the bell above the door almost rings — but doesn’t. A gust of cold air moves through the shop, though the door never opened.
You pause, uneasy.
Then the phone rings.
On the other end, a woman’s voice. Calm, precise, with an accent you can’t place:
“Your Russian buyers… they will not come. They saw too much. The objects already chose their path.”
You grip the receiver tighter.
“Who is this?”
A silence. Then the faintest echo of laughter. Feminine. Familiar. It reminds you of the mysterious lady who had taken the option.
The line clicks.
You glance around your shop. Something feels… different. The Baule mask you set aside yesterday — its expression has changed. Subtle, but undeniable. The lips curve, as if smirking.
A shadow crosses your window. You look — no one there.
Then, in the quiet, you hear footsteps upstairs. Slow. Deliberate. But you live alone.
