The Gala

Accept party invitations at your own risk

Everyone had a glass of champagne in his or her hand, standing in little groups, just like any other cocktail party. People came and went up and down the grand curved staircase. It was like every other cocktail party except for one aspect: no one made a sound.

Dresses rustled, and glasses clinked, but no one said a word. They only stood in groups of four or five, staring at each other, sipping their champagne.

Ophelia leaned over and whispered in her father's ear, "To say this is a strange place is to make an understatement, Papa."

The entire room froze, then turned toward her as one, glaring at her.

Her father didn't answer, and when she looked down at him in his wheelchair, he was glaring up at her, as well.

Ophelia couldn't speak or move. In the mere seconds she had looked down at her father, the entire gathering of people in the ballroom had crowded up to her. They were not just staring; they were pointing. "Papa...!"

The older man didn't even blink.

Ophelia noticed there were fewer partygoers now, and when she turned to leave, she understood why. The balance of the crowd stood beside and all around her, silent as sentinels, accusing as judges.

Ophelia began to faint.

The world grayed, darkened, became black. But an instant later, the world came back. She was on the road, just outside the car, cowering against the front door.

She was beyond relieved. "Oh thank you, Gelbert! Thank God you've waited. Please, take me home at once!" She was relieved as she climbed in the car, but her blood chilled again as she looked forward and saw the eyes of the chauffeur boring into hers in the rear-view mirror.

As car pulled away, Ophelia began to scream.

NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 298
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the phrase "This is a strange place"