Hidden between the modern glass buildings and busy markets in the narrow streets of old Beijing, there's an opera house. It's small, forgotten by time, and shrouded in a haze of incense and memory. The locals call it The Red Lotus Theatre, though few dare speak of it openly. They say it's cursed, that the performers who once graced its stage were more than human.
Of course, no one truly believes in such things anymore. At least, that's what Li Mei thought as she wandered through the alleyways late one evening, looking for a place to rest. She was a student, studying traditional Chinese opera for her final performance, and she had been searching for inspiration. Her teacher had told her about the Red Lotus Theatre—a legendary place where the most skilled performers once brought entire audiences to tears with the beauty of their art. Mei, always curious, had decided to seek it out.
It wasn't on any map. People shrugged when she asked for directions. Some warned her away. But eventually, after hours of wandering, she found it—a small, crumbling building with faded red lanterns swaying in the cold wind. The door, weathered by time, creaked open with a soft push, and inside, the dim light of flickering candles greeted her.
The stage was small, intimate, with a backdrop painted in gold and black, showing scenes of mountains and rivers. There were no chairs, just dusty rows of wooden benches. The air felt thick, as if it was trapped in time, and the faint smell of incense clung to everything.
Mei stood in the center of the room, her eyes drawn to the stage. In her mind, she imagined the great performers who must have once stood there, their voices rising in powerful melodies, their faces painted in the elaborate style of the Peking opera. She could almost hear the sharp clang of cymbals and the mournful wail of the erhu.
As she turned to leave, something caught her eye—a costume, hanging backstage, as if it had been waiting for her.
It was exquisite. The robes were vibrant red, trimmed with gold, and embroidered with delicate lotus flowers. The face mask that hung beside it was stunning—a pale white mask with a fierce, red slash across the mouth and black markings around the eyes. Without thinking, Mei reached for it, the fabric soft and cool to the touch. The mask, however, was something else. Cold. Like porcelain but heavier.
A strange compulsion overtook her.
She hadn't planned to stay, but suddenly, the idea of trying on the costume seemed… right. Mei found herself stepping into the robe, tying it around her waist, the silks whispering as they moved. She lifted the mask and placed it over her face.
The moment it touched her skin, a sharp chill raced through her body.
Mei stumbled back, her heart pounding in her chest. Something felt… off. The room around her began to blur, the flickering candlelight growing dim. She could hear it now—faint music, soft at first but growing louder. The high-pitched singing of a woman, accompanied by the slow beat of a drum.
It was coming from the stage.
Her breath quickened as she turned, and there, standing under the dim light, was a figure. A woman, dressed in the same red robes, her face painted in the same eerie mask Mei now wore. She was performing—a slow, haunting dance, her movements fluid and deliberate, like a shadow slipping through the air.
But the woman's eyes… they were black. Empty. Cold.
Mei's legs felt frozen, her feet rooted to the floor. She tried to move, but it was as if the costume was holding her in place, wrapping tighter around her, refusing to let go.
Then, the woman on the stage stopped. Slowly, she turned to face Mei, her head tilting unnaturally to the side, her eyes locking onto hers. Behind the mask, Mei's breath grew shallow, and the woman smiled—an impossibly wide smile that split across her painted face, revealing sharp, blackened teeth.
The music swelled, louder and louder, the sound crashing against Mei's skull like a storm. She wanted to scream, to tear off the mask, but her hands wouldn't obey. The figure on the stage stepped closer, moving with an unnatural grace, her eyes gleaming with a sinister hunger.
And then, the whispering started.
It filled Mei's head, voices in a language she couldn't understand. The mask, cold and suffocating, began to tighten, molding to her skin. She could feel it now, fusing with her, becoming part of her face. The pressure built, a searing pain behind her eyes, as the voices grew louder, faster, demanding.
The woman on the stage was right in front of her now, her breath cold on Mei's face. The smile never wavered.
"Join us," the woman whispered, her voice low and inhuman.
The world spun around her, the music rising to a deafening pitch. Mei's vision blurred as her mind was flooded with images—faces painted in vivid colors, all watching her, all trapped behind masks that couldn't be removed. Her body trembled, her knees buckling, but she couldn't scream. She couldn't breathe.
Then, as suddenly as it had started, everything went silent.
Mei collapsed onto the stage, the mask falling from her face with a soft clatter. Gasping for air, she scrambled back, her eyes wide with terror. But the woman was gone. The stage was empty, and the theater was silent once again.
The costume lay in a heap beside her, and the mask… the mask stared back, its painted eyes hollow and endless.
Mei ran.
She never spoke of what happened that night. But those who pass the Red Lotus Theatre in the dead of night sometimes hear the faint strains of opera music drifting through the air, carried on the wind.
And if you're unlucky enough to glance through the dusty windows, you might see her—a new performer, painted and masked, forever dancing in the shadows of the cursed stage.