As you wander round the party, you smile with pride. Even behind the masks, you can tell that only the most elite of the country are here tonight. On your left, you’re pretty sure that the man in the green frog mask, sitting on the couch, is the top musical talent scout in most of Eastern Europe. To your right, you think you recognize the gesturing of a minor but well connected political official, concealed in a jester’s costume. Only a few people’s identities elude you. This fact doesn’t bother you, though, until you notice him.

Your eyes are first drawn to his grotesque mask. Clearly very delicately created, it inspires dread on a level equal to no other face in the crowd. In an appalling modification of tragedy and comedy, the mask features two sides. The first appears to be that of pure horror, imminent death, and complete loss of hope. Its mate is no less frightening, though, reflecting emotions of unabashed joy, ecstatic passion, and unequivocal insanity. Yet despite the unpleasant feelings the mask alone invokes, it is some how the eyes of the man himself that truly frighten you.

The Japanese call it “sanpaku”, or “three whites”. You recall it was discussed in a Japanese cultural appreciation function you attended recently at the modern art museum. Though you didn’t think much of it at the time, seeing the man’s eyes brought the concept back to the forefront of your mind.

“Eyes that are held wide, showing more sclera that iris, are called ‘sanpaku gan’.” The words of the lesson drifted back into your mind like smoke through a bright light. “Commonly featured in Japanese art, especially on samurai warriors, there seems to be a mix of meanings the use of sanpaku. Sources disagree as to whether or not the feature is a positive sign or a negative sign of the personality of the character in a piece. While it can be a sign of beauty and confidence, it can also be a sign of violence and mental instability. Regardless, the effect is often disquieting to the observer.”

Indeed it is, you say to yourself, stifling new worries that have surfaced in your mind. These new concerns refuse to be ignored, and you find your mind wondering who might own this disgusting mask, and the even more dreadful eyes. Finding yourself drawn to his direction, you run down a short list of who’s who, picking out prospective candidates as you go. Suddenly it dawns on you who it must be – the newest “it” name in the local industrial/electronic rock scene. Much comforted, you continue in his direction, attempting to grasp his name on your tongue.

You wait until he is alone, then approach him.

“Where did you get that…enchanting mask?” you questioned the guest.

“You must be the host,” he responded, offering his hand. “What a wonderful party you have orchestrated.”

Cautiously, you take his hand in yours. Its temperature shocks you, and you wonder if he perhaps only just arrived in from the cold. He grasps your hand with a startlingly strong grip, and for a moment, you don’t think he’ll let go. Finally, he releases your hand, his haunting eyes locking onto yours, freezing your thoughts and actions.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” you mutter, trying to break the spell. “Just a trifle event to amuse some friends. I am glad you are enjoying yourself.”

“Magnificently,” he replies, his voice muffled behind the mask.

With out another word, he turns from you and heads towards the balcony. You intend to follow, but are stopped in your journey by the minor politician. Resigning yourself for a boring debate on the merits of the current factions actions, you let the mystery man fade from your mind.

As the night progresses, the excitement builds. The approach of midnight is followed by the traditional revelation of the true face behind the mask. As each new face is shown, you search unintentionally for the man in the split mask, but can’t seem to locate him. Convincing yourself that you had missed his exposure, you again wander the crowd.

Time flies, and all too soon you are arranging for cabs and tactfully arguing with the few of your guest who are far too intoxicated to find their vehicles, much less drive them. When you’ve finally emptied the house, you lock the door behind you and head to the balcony. You don’t even let the idea of clean up cross your mind – there are people that get paid to worry about those things, and you have already paid those people good money.

As you take your seat under the stars, you are reminded that this time, you didn’t seek a companion for yourself from the visitors that had surrounded you only moments ago. There was one person that had caught your interest, but they seemed to be already quite attached to their entourage, and not interested in you. Disappointed but not really that let down, you tap your cigarette into the ash tray nearest you.

Looking again, you realize that it isn’t an ash tray, but the grotesque mask that had bothered you much earlier in the evening. Blowing the ashes out of its reverse, you turn the mask to face you. It’s very heavy, you notice, and you wonder what it is made up. The paint you know to be on its surface doesn’t show up well in the darkness of the night, but the recesses of its clay stand out, invoking memories of youthful nightmares. Ice shifts in a glass nearby you. The sound startles you, causing you to drop the mask. Hitting the floor, it shatters as if it was made of crystal, not clay and paper.

“A little edgy tonight,” a voice behind you says. “There is no need for that.”

Before you can turn to the speaker, you feel cold hands placed on your shoulder. Slowly, these death-like hands begin to attempt to soothe the tension out of your neck and shoulders. Balancing the perfect amount of force and gentleness, the stranger’s hands massage your tight muscles. You fail to relax.

“Who are you?” you start, trying to move your head to catch a glimpse of the stranger.

“Everyone,” he states simply, placing his ice cold hands on either side of your face, effectively preventing you from looking toward him.

The cold from his hands seems to seep into your skin, chilling while immobilizing you. Fighting against it, you struggle to your feet, breaking his contact with you. Turning to examine your unexcused guest, you lock eyes with him. Those eyes again, the sanpaku eyes. Stifling a scream, you begin to back away.

“Ah,” he savors, drawing in a ragged breath. “I love the pursuit.”

As he lunges toward you, you break into a run, fleeing the balcony for the warmth of the house. He keeps pace with you, but you realize that he’s doing this as a tease, that he could easily outrun you if he wished to. Terrified, you race for the door of the flat. Grappling with the lock on the door, you hear heaving breathing behind you.

Opening the door with a jerk, it doesn’t open all the way. Glancing around in haste as to the reason, your hair stands on end and a cold chill runs down your spine. In vain, you notice that you had missed the chain lock on the door. It’s too late now, though. You know that. Your chance to run is over.

“Such an interesting reaction,” the man lectures. “Flight or fight. If one fails, we fall back onto the other. I can tell you that neither will work in this case, however. But you are more than welcome to try.

Slowly bringing yourself to face him, he is now sitting in the hallway near the door, with his back to the floor while his feet are propped into the air, laying flat against the wall. His position gives you a sense of security. It would take him some time to rise from that awkward angle, or so you determine. You renew your intentions on opening the door.

Putting your back to him wasn’t the best idea, however. Too quickly, you feel his body pressed against your back. While one of his hands snakes around your arms, the other covers your face, smothering your scream.

“You know,” the stranger began, “I shouldn’t even have been at your party. I wasn’t exactly invited. You invited Roman Sokolov, but he was… unable to attend. So I took his place.”

Strangely, you heard another voice behind you, where the stranger should have been.

“Actually,” this new voice interrupted, “I am here. In mind, just not in body.”

“STOP THAT!” screamed the stranger. “I’M IN CONTROL HERE.”

Confused, you wondered where the second voice came from. Was there someone else here? Why didn’t they help you? Where was this other person?

“I’m sorry,” the stranger apologized. “Where were we before we were so rudely interrupted. Oh yes… I remember. I was about to kill you.”

Before you could consider anything further, a strange sensation manifests itself. Seemingly initiated by the presence of the stranger’s lips on your throat, it started at your neck, before rippling down your chest to between your legs. For a moment, you understand how a predator can entrance his prey, weave a web of illusion around them, and make them crave their own destruction.

Only for a moment, though.

The sensation is replaced by indescribable pain, as if your entire body imploded. You try to scream, but the sound of laughter is all you hear. Wicked laughter. Wet laughter. Gurgling laughter.

After what seems like an eternity, you slump to the ground, no longer hearing, no longer feeling, merely waiting to be no more.

“Now I know you better,” you think you hear, but you aren’t sure. “My name is Malkovich, but many more than just one. And now, I am you.”