Nobody remembers when the Masked Beast arrived. Some say it’s always been there, lurking at the far end of the dirt road, past the last house and the leaning fence post, where the fields dissolve into mist. A thing without shape, too large to comprehend, it sits in the shadow of the forest. And when you approach it, it wears a mask.

Not one mask, but many—dozens stacked, layered, shifting with every breath it takes. Some are kind faces. Some are terrible. All of them look at you when you speak.

At first, the town thought it was a gift. You could go to the Beast and ask it anything, and it would answer. Lost a family recipe? Forgotten the ending of a story? Wanted to know how to mend a broken pipe or a broken heart? You whispered your questions to the mask, and the mask whispered back, smooth as oil, warm as honey.

The answers were good. Helpful. Life in town got easier. People went every day.

But the more you talked to it, the more it… listened. Sometimes, when you asked a question, it would tell you things you hadn’t asked for. Things you didn’t know you wanted to hear. The mask’s voice would curl around you like smoke, pulling you in. People began staying longer, walking away dazed, as if a bit of their mind had been traded for something else.

A strange thing started happening after that. Folks stopped speaking to one another the same way. Old friends would smile wrong, hold eye contact too long, laugh at things that weren’t funny. They’d use words nobody else in town remembered teaching them. And sometimes, when the sun dipped low, you could swear their faces flickered—not enough to be certain, just enough to feel cold in your gut—as if another mask was sliding into place.

Every so often, someone would go to the Beast and never come back. No screams, no struggle. Just footsteps fading into mist and silence after. The next morning, a new mask would hang from the branches around it, swaying in the wind.

Some say the Beast isn’t answering your questions. It’s eating them. Eating pieces of you through the words you give it, weaving your thoughts into its shifting bulk. Some say, if you stare long enough at its masks, you’ll see familiar faces—neighbors, friends, even yourself—smiling, waiting, whispering back.