There is no escape from the pestilence that ravages the land, spreading the incurable disease marked indelibly as The Red Death. In the abbey tower, high above the stench-filled pestilence, Prince Prospero plans a masquerade ball for the knights and ladies of the royal court - a glittering divertissement he hopes will delight and amuse his guests during the eradication of ⅓ of the European population. Based on Edgar Allan Poe’s immortal short story, this immersive theatrical experience will gladden guests through feast, dance and performance in the face of a living horror.

Shirtless and ridden with a sort of fatigued despair, leagues of pus-peppered chests and reddened faces plead for their lives outside the closely-guarded rampart. A mass of beggars’ breath swarms through the air harboring the risen evil the protected Prospero hopes to outwit.

As if trapped in the mind of an insatiable terror, the bedroom of a young, melancholy Poe suddenly emerges. He is kneeling at the bedside of his beloved step-mother, Mrs. Allan. Once kind and energetic, she stares blankly at the ceiling through sunken-eyes. When she coughs up insuppressible amounts of blood, a crimson symbol that will spawn a dream within a dream is conceived.

Deeper into the dimly-lit halls of the abbey, pages of nightmare after terrifying nightmare permeates the walls. These words, doubtlessly remembered conjure up demons that lie awake in the dark of night, watching.

The room spins and Poe, now 33, is in his writing room, while his young wife Virginia is beautifully singing. At the height of a most angelic sound, the snap of a blood vessel rupturing in her throat seems to decelerate time. The sight of blood on her pink lips penetrates the mind of the tortured genius and so begins a slow, leaden agony over her death.

A cautious step into this tale of the Masque of the Red Death, signals Prospero to welcome you to this fortress far from the cries of besieging phantoms.

Like a conductor ceremoniously taking his place before an orchestra, the ball begins with a celebratory triple-tap on Prospero's wine goblet.

Through seven shades of damnation, the deafening music seems to invite one to indulge in a decadent, forbidden feast and revel in entertainment that mocks the looming afterlife with dances and performances that echo the tenacious and avenging tone of Poe’s haunted imagination.

Will he see his dear Virginia in the next world?

The raven speaks: “Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore!”

3 Course Pre-Fixe Menu