He was young and he had money. Two characteristics that seemed to attract women like honey drew flies. Spring break. His friends chose the obvious places like Florida and Mexico. He had a desire to break free from the rut and spread his wings. Up until this point he felt as though his life had been just a series of clichés. His father was a surgeon. His mother was a model. Thus he had inherited both beauty and brains.

   In his senior year of high school, a few years ago now, the most prominent discussion in the household had been Harvard or Yale? Yale or Harvard? His father was a Harvard man. His mother had graduated Yale. He had decided it really didn’t matter.

   So, spring break. The world at his disposal, he had tried to talk a couple of friends into heading to Rio de Janeiro with him. He had a taste for the exotic, a taste for a bigger party.

   The masks and costumes provided him with an anonymous existence the he had longed for and never had. He bought a brightly colored purple tiger mask that was trimmed in silver glitter. Why a tiger should be portrayed in purple was a question he had pondered only momentarily, before he plunked down the exorbitant amount of cash and headed into the crowd, mask in hand.

   He bought a purple satin cape that made him feel like a purple tiger super hero – a feeling that proved surprisingly freeing. Donning his mask, he joined the throngs of gyrating, dancing people all masked, all hidden, all anonymous. His life had not prepared him to hide behind a mask however, and soon the heat built up beads of perspiration underneath and he had to push it back on top of his head to cool off.

   Screw his friends and their Mexican wet t-shirt contests. He wanted more out of his break then just a hangover and an empty wallet. He wanted an experience to last a lifetime.

   The drums beat and beckoned to tourists and natives alike. The mass of people swelled and filled the streets, spilling over into the walkways and sidewalks. The bars and shops were full of happy eager shoppers – revelers – partiers wooed by the age-old traditions. There were flowers and animals, trees and insects, if they could sew the costume, then someone was wearing it. The array of costumes was dazzling – boggling – completely fascinating. He spent the first afternoon simply seated at a street café watching the dancing swell of people. He shot a few rolls of film, never tiring of the spectacle.

   Around dinnertime, he decided to grab a bite to eat and then head back to his hotel room for a nap. He decided he’d sleep for a while and then head back out around nine to scope out the nightlife. Back at the hotel, he requested that he not be disturbed and promptly went to sleep. After a few hours he was jolted from his blissful slumber by the rhythmic beat of a drum. It seemed to beat on steadily, never wavering in its pitch or speed. Quietly, he tiptoed out into the hall and tried to isolate which room the drumbeat was pulsating from. He crept closer to the suspected door and listened. Not only did he hear the constant beating but- now - he could hear the low guttural sound of a growling chant – the same words – muttered and undecipherable – chanted repetitively – rolling on in one fluid rhythmic cadence.

   He frowned and hurriedly dashed back to his own room lest he be discovered spying. He called the front desk.

   "Yeah, hello. This is room 308. There’s someone chanting and beating a drum non-stop, two doors down. Could someone make it stop?"

   There was a pause. "Good evening, Sir. We’ve already sent someone up twice before. It seems our guest has sensed something evil is about to happen to someone near him and insists on chanting a protection spell throughout the night."

   "Voodoo?" he asked.

   "I don’t know, Sir. But, he seemed to get awfully upset when asked to stop," the clerk said.

   "Well, I’m going to get awfully upset if he doesn’t!" he said with more than a hint of annoyance in his voice.

   "Ah, yes. We completely understand, sir, but …"

   "No, I don’t think you do. As a business you cannot allow the wishes of one guest to disturb the wishes of the other patrons. If the drumming does not cease, I will be checking out promptly."

   The clerk was silent. Room 308 was one of the highest tipping guests that they had currently in the hotel, plus he ordered a lot of room service, and his accommodations were twice the amount that the other guest was paying.

   "Uh, yes, sir. I will send someone up immediately. We regret that you are unable to tolerate the religious practices of others."

   He sucked in a deep breath. Religious practices? A bunch of headache inducing noise was classified as religion now? "Good, god, just make it stop!" He slammed down the receiver.

   So good for his peaceful nap. Well, at least he got in a couple of hours of sleep and it was almost nine now anyway. He dug through his suitcase and retrieved some clothes. He’d take a shower, dress and then head out. He had a list of great night spots to visit and he hoped to see more than just one of them. He was getting ready to shower when he heard the commotion out in the hall. Shouting from two or more sources filled the air with angry overtones and violent cursing. He pressed his ear to the crack between his door and the doorframe. He could hear the hotel personnel instructing the drumming offender to leave the hotel.

   "Hmm," he thought, and then said quietly to himself, "The drummer must have refused to quit."

   He suddenly heard the very loud shouts of the drummer. "Heed me! This night a soul shall perish because you have ceased my drumming and broken my spell! I could have saved this man!"

   Some scuffling and more yelling erupted, then the familiar ‘Bing’ of the elevator, and then silence. He breathed a sigh of relief and then got into the shower – glad for the silence once again. He headed out into the streets, careful to keep his wallet out of the reach of the local pickpockets. The local street urchins seemed to never sleep – always on the prowl for an unsuspecting tourist or incoherent partier to rob – or a sympathetic sucker who would just hand over the money on their own free will with one look of need from the pathetic street kids.

   He went in and out of a few bars. Most were current disco types with pulsing strobe lights and heart-quickening music. The masked revelers were out in force tonight. A few of the places he visited were old and located in the historical part of the city. He much preferred these quaint locations to the sterile chrome and strobe lighted discos with their American imports and blaring music. There seemed to be no safety codes in some of these places as they allowed in as many people that could jam into the building. At one such place, he could barely turn around on the dance floor lest he get an elbow in the back or a hand in the face. It was ludicrous. No one could really dance. It was more like a bunch of people standing around sort of shaking in place and moving their feet around as that was all there was room to do. Getting back outside was a feat. He literally had to shove his way back out the one open door, stumbling out into the street, gasping for air.

   He leaned against the outside wall of the building breathing deep and then looked around to decide what he would do next. He spotted a tall, wispy woman also leaning against a building wall. He couldn’t decide if she was waiting to get into that sardine can or if she had recently escaped it as he had. He watched her for a few minutes and then strolled through the crowd to where she was standing.

   "Hello," he said flashing his most charming grin,

   "Waiting to get into the club?"

   She laughed and waved a hand through the air. "I just got out of there – awful!"

   He laughed too. "You’re not from here?"

   "Oh, no. But, I’ve been here for a long time now."

   She pushed her long hair away from her masked face and over her shoulder.

   He leaned against the wall next to her, thumbs in his jean pockets. "Where’s a good place to go around here?" he asked.

   She sighed. "There are a lot of great places. I like the older places myself – don’t seem to attract so many wildly dancing people!" she said and then adjusted her mask without giving him a glimpse of the face inside.

   He tried to catch a glimpse of her face, but she didn’t move the mask enough to reveal anything. He looked down at the mask he held in his hand. She noticed him looking at his mask and laughed and said, "Put it on! It’s fun!"

   He shrugged. "Too hot. My face gets all sweaty."

   "Aw, you’ll get used to it!"

   "Maybe later," he laughed and said holding it up in front of his face for a second.

   "Okay, your loss!" she said and shoved him gently.

   She had long purple satin gloves that covered her arms and hands making her look rather theatrical.

   "How can you stand those gloves? Aren’t you just boiling?" He pointed.

   "Part of the creative get-up. I love the drama of it all! All of the trappings! The gloves give me an elegant touch, I think."

   He laughed. "You’re nuts! I’d burn up!"

   "Well, Mr.-it’s-so-hot, why don’t we go find something cold to drink then!" She grabbed him by the shirt and started pulling him through the throngs of people.

   "How ‘bout here?" He pointed to one jazzy-looking joint.

   She observed the crush of the masses and kept walking. "Too many people."

   "Where are we going then?" he asked again.

   "Let’s get something to drink in here, then I’ll take you to a favorite place of mine." She ducked into an open door. Big ceiling fans swirled around up in the high naked rafters of the old tan bricked place.

   "Two beers," she said and plunked down some money on the counter. The bar keeper pushed two beers across the polished wood counter and resumed whatever it was he had been doing. She passed him a beer. He gulped it down, the frosty coolness seeping through his body providing a welcome chill. He sat on a tall bar stool and observed the people drinking at little tables scattered here and there across the battered wood floor. Most were older couples, some locals.

   "Not much business here," he said in a whisper.

   "Yeah, it’s more of a local bar, no flashy lights or gimmicks or bands to lure in the tourists."

   He nodded. It was a nice break from the constant motion of the night.

   "But where we’re going, we can dance there, right? We aren’t calling it a night yet, are we?" He laughed. He’d like to get to know her. She seemed great. Maybe he could even persuade her to give up her name before the night was out…maybe at least get her phone number.

   Pushing her mask up just enough to drink, she drained her mug and watched through the small windows of the bar as people passed outside on the street. "It’s nice to have a moment of quiet – then we’ll party!" she laughed charmingly.

   He drank his beer and waited for her to decide when they would leave.

   "Where are we going?" he asked inquisitively.

   "It’s a surprise! It’s a little far, you up for the walk?" she said and while standing up.

   "We could take a taxi."

   "Taxi! Are you kidding? The drivers will rob you blind around here. You look like a big strong guy, can’t handle the walk?"

   He laughed. She was pretty persuasive. "Okay! Just a suggestion. Lead the way!"

   She pointed to her mask. "Not putting yours on?"

   "Naw, maybe later."

   "You know some people around here get sort of offended if someone shows up at a party maskless!" She laughed.

   "They’ll get over it."

   "Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you then," she said and reached out a purple satin hand and took his arm pulling him along the street through the mass of rowdy people. They walked about three blocks among the pushing crowds. After a bit, the crowds began to thin and the neighborhood began to look a little shabby.

   "You sure you know where you’re going?" he asked looking around apprehensively. A passed out homeless man lay sprawled in a darkened doorway near where they passed.

   She laughed again. She had an alluring laugh, the kind that made you want to hear more of it. "Yes, don’t worry! It’s not as bad as it looks."

   They passed an alley where a hooker and her John were going at it against the graffiti scrawled wall.

   "Uh, looks pretty bad to me."

   "Do I look afraid to you?" she asked.

   He saw his chance here. "Uh, I don’t know. Maybe if you’d take off your mask I could tell."

   "Good try, Mister. Mask stays on. It’s tradition!"

   He shook his head and picked up the pace. "Well, let’s walk a little faster. This part of town doesn’t look too safe."

   She tugged him along faster. Soon they came to a crumbling, neglected cemetery. The rusty gate hung lopsided from one hinge, creaking eerily in the soft night’s breeze. She stopped.

   "Almost there!" she said and began to enter through the cemetery gate.

   "Whoa! A cemetery? I thought you were taking me to a dance joint, or a bar…"

   "Come on, chicken! It’s cool!" She led him to a large crypt that was situated towards the back of the rundown cemetery. He shivered as they passed turned over gravestones and cracked and broken markers – most of the religious statues were missing their heads. The place was really in poor shape.

   "Someone needs to take care of this place," he said nervously.

   "Won’t happen. The locals are terrified of this place. They say it’s cursed."

   "Cursed?" he said, his voice quaking.

   "Don’t know why exactly. Lots of speculations. Superstitious people. Most of them poor, uneducated – hold to local legends that sort of thing," she stopped in front of an angel statue that was missing its wings that marked a grave topped in white marble.

   "This is posh for this grave yard." He stooped down and in the light of the full moon and the one dim streetlight tried to make out the engraved words.

   She ran her hands gently over the marble angel.

   "Yeah. Back in the fifties, a foreign diplomat’s daughter was found mutilated and strangled – heart ripped clean out of her chest. This cemetery was nice then. They buried her here," she said softly.

   "Hmm. The marble slab over the top is an interesting addition."

   She laughed. "Story behind that says that the daughter had been the victim of some sort of voodoo or something of that sort and her corpse kept crawling out of its grave. So, they put the marble slab down to keep her in."

   "That’s pretty horrifying," he said casting a glance into the darkness behind him.

   "Some say that when they laid the slab, she wasn’t in the grave, so instead of keeping her in, the slab keeps her out."

   "That’s sort of sad," he said seriously.

   "Yeah. Whole thing is sad," she said her voice sounding far away as she caressed the mutilated statue.

   He looked up from where he squatted. "She was only twenty-one."

   "She loved life. Loved parties. Loved the color purple. Loved Carnival."

   "Well, it’s good that her folks buried her here then. Although most of Carnival’s festivities have moved away now," he said and stood up.

   "Not all of them!" She laughed. "Come on!" She pulled him along again.

   The crypt was illuminated by candles – music pounding, making the soil beneath his feet vibrate and jump. The very ground seemed to be dancing under him.

   She pushed the door open all of the way. The place was full of masked revelers – dancing – laughing – drinking.

   "Wow!" he said. "Who would have guessed all this was out here?"

   He seemed to be the only one without a mask and suddenly felt out of place. He lifted his mask up to put it on when someone bumped into him and it flew from his grasp to the marble floor in peril of being crushed by dancing feet. He spotted it and dove between the dancers to retrieve the mask, but it seemed to get kicked around and stomped on the more he attempted to get it. He finally came up from the floor empty-handed.

   "Damn," he muttered and the realized he had gotten separated from his new acquaintance. He searched the masks for one like hers but they all seemed to look alike as if they had all bought the same mask from the same store.

   He looked for her frantically. He wasn’t sure if he could find his way back to the main part of town without her and didn’t want to be stumbling around this part of town lost.

   The music seemed to grow louder. The drum seemed to beat more erratically. People gyrated and throbbed all around him, dancing, dancing, their feet pounding the vibrating marble beneath them. Thousands of candles, or so it seemed, lit up the alcove at the end of the crypt where a woman sat on a wrought iron throne with her back to the dancing hoard. He found her curious.

   He cast a worried look around him and tried to note some differences in the masks in his search for his friend. The masks were the same, but the clothes were different. Very different. He frowned. Most of the ensembles were very outdated, more like fifties and sixties styles and even a few seventies leisure suits in grubby powder blue and olive green were mixed in amidst the crowd. One masked woman seemed to be wearing a Marilyn Monroe type dress. Another had on a thirties style glamorous ball gown – but all of their masks were the same – and all of the people weredancing, dancing, in one fluid movement. The crowd seemed to all move in unison like a pounding wave. It was dizzying, mesmerizing, and hypnotic.

   He shook his head trying to break the spell. He didn’t know her name so he couldn’t call out for her. He made his way back to where she was last standing. He went to the bartender and shouted over the din of the crypt, "Did you see a lady with purple satin gloves?" He motioned to his arms to indicate how high the gloves went on her arms.

   The bartender, masked like the patrons, leaned in closer. His breath smelled bad, like rotted teeth and poor dental hygiene. "Purple gloves, you say?" he asked.

   "Yes, yes! She had on purple gloves…"

   The bartender laughed and asked, "She bring you here tonight?"

   "Yes. I can’t find her now though."

   The bartender started to laugh loudly.

   He shook his head not finding anything very amusing.

"Do you know where she is?"

   The bartender kept laughing but stretched out his arm and pointed towards the woman now standing in the illuminated alcove. He watched the woman swaying back and forth, her back to the dance floor, her arms slowly stretching above her head, her purple gloved arms.

   He sighed. There she was.

   Slowly she turned around dancing in a dreamy state, in the same fluid hypnotic way that the other people in the crowd danced. She sexily stretched and weaved, swayed and moved her hips from side to side. Then she spoke above the din of the music and the beat of the drums.

   "This is our time. You wait patiently each year for the thrill and seduction of Carnival!"

   The crowd continued to sway and gyrate but now a low murmur rushed through the room like a rush of air escaping from a suddenly opened door.

   "Every year, the sacrifice is demanded to allow us the glory and freedom to live! As your Queen it is my duty to bring you the lamb!" she spoke in a velvet voice that beckoned him and caused him to envision erotic images. The crowd seemed to vibrate with an electric feeling of anticipation.

   "Smell the lamb! See the lamb! He is here among you – alive, blood pulsing in his veins – heart pumping, lungs breathing. He is alive!"

   What the hell was she going on about? He looked around but didn’t see any evidence of drugs, but she sure sounded like she was smoking something. The crowd began to move more erratically, as if they had lost the beat. They began to turn their heads upwards as if they were sniffing the air through their masks. He felt uncomfortable and out of place. Was this some sort of a Carnival re-enactment? But a re-enactment of what? Voodoo? Something cursed? He remembered her story about the diplomat’s daughter, and frowned.

   Her purple-gloved arms weaved in and out of each other over her head as she sashayed back and forth – her long lavender skirt billowing around her ankles. His mind came to a crashing halt. Her fifties style dress – her glamorous purple gown. She had said that the diplomat’s daughter liked purple. He scratched his head in confusion. This was nuts. He had had way too much to drink. He decided to go outside and get some fresh air to clear his head. He turned to leave, but the dancing crowd seemed to move in front of him, barring his way. He stepped forward and the crowd moved with him. He turned back to his friend. She was still dancing and swaying.

   "The blood is yours! Feed the beasts within you!" she shouted.

   Blood? Beasts? What the hell? What, were they under the impression that they were vampires? This was absolutely ludicrous. Someone should be playing the old song, "Monster Mash". He laughed out loud. And, where was all this blood? All he saw were dancing people and beer.

   Slowly, the people around him began to peel off their masks and toss them to the floor—in the corner he spotted a large cardboard box full of the masks that everyone was wearing. He looked back up. Their faces!

   He backed instinctively into the bar with a jolting thud. He had nowhere else to go. His back was against the bar and those faces – My god! They were crowding closer. She parted the hoard and stood before him – maskless at last. Her hideous, decayed flesh sagged on her skull. Her eyes seemed hollow, staring, empty, but they were there, dead and yellow. He looked from face to face. They were all disfigured, decaying, rotted. Their hands were dirty as if they had clawed their way from their own graves.

   "My god!" he gasped loudly.

   She laughed, throwing her head back, her hair falling back into a puddle of silky tresses on the floor – a wig. Her bald skull snapped back and laughed again.

   The realization hit him. They were all dead!

   "You’re, you’re…" he began.

   "Dead?" She laughed. "Yes, all dead."

   He looked around him still trying to understand.

   "This place is cursed!" he hissed.

   "Cursed to you. Freedom to us."

   He grabbed the hair on each side of his own head. "This is insane! I don’t know what kind of a joke this is, but I’m leaving!"

   The mass of bodies moved in closer around him.

   "Sorry. Can’t let you do that, my friend," She shook her grotesque head.

   The drums beat louder. The dancing began again in a frenzied pulsating rhythm. He put his hands in front of himself defensively as if to ward off any imminent blows.

   "Come on! We’ll see you again next Carnival! It’ll be fun!" She laughed musically, seductively and the mass of bodies swarmed him, crushing him in their forward rush. He felt hands tearing at his clothes, grabbing his hair, ripping at his flesh.

   He screamed, "Vampires!"

   She laughed again somewhere in the crowd, loud and clear. "Vampires? Child’s stories! We don’t want just your blood!" She laughed again. Searing pain pierced his side as he cried out for help that would not be granted.

   "It is your heart and soul that we want. That is what let’s us live!"

   A burning sensation plunged into his chest as hands, dozens of rotting, fleshy hands clawed at him – crushed him – suffocated him. He screamed his last scream. All went black.

    Post note: The body of an unidentified male was found by locals near the gate of the old cemetery. The body had been mutilated; the heart torn from the man’s chest leaving behind a gaping mangled cavity. Not wanting trouble from the authorities or an influx of snooping foreigners, the locals hastily buried him in a vacant lot under the cover of night. They hung a Carnival mask from a homemade wooden cross to mark the time of his death and place of his burial. Dozens of the masks had been found blowing on the breeze over and through the cemetery and out into the street earlier that morning. It seemed like a pleasant touch. They even hung one on the statue next to his grave – the statue of the angel with the broken wings.