Certainly! Here is a rewritten version of the end of "The Masque of the Red Death" by Edgar Allan Poe:
As Prince Prospero and his masked companions reveled in their blissful ignorance, relishing the grandeur of their luxurious and secluded castle, the figure of the Red Death slowly inched its way through the chambers. Unseen and silent, it swept past revelers lost in their mirth, beguiled by the illusion of safety and invincibility.
Within the ebony and blood-red colored room, Prince Prospero, adorned in his princely attire, captivated the crowd with his spirited dance. Yet, amid the ceaseless music and laughter, a distinct shift in the atmosphere seized the revelers. A hushed whisper began to permeate the room, spreading like a haunting echo. The brilliant panes of the stained-glass windows shattered into a thousand fragmented shards, unleashing the wrathful, crimson glow of sunlight into the room.
With a gasp, Prince Prospero turned to see the masked figure—the embodiment of the Red Death—standing before him, its skeletal frame swathed in a tattered cloak. The revelers froze in terror, their masks slipping from trembling hands.
Time seemed to stand still as the Prince and the figure locked eyes. The room lay silent except for the pounding hearts of those who had dared to believe they were untouchable. The Red Death extended a skeletal arm, pointing a bony finger towards Prospero, as if passing a judgement upon his decadent and carefree existence.
In a final, desperate act of defiance, Prince Prospero lunged at the figure, his princely facade crumbling away, revealing the reflection of his own mortality. But his efforts were in vain, as the Red Death swiftly side-stepped his attack, leaving Prospero clutching at empty air.
And then, one by one, the revelers, overcome by a paralyzing dread, fell to the ground, their vibrancy extinguished. Their masks, now mere remnants of forgotten identities, lay scattered across the cold marble floors. The once vibrant halls of the castle echoed with the sounds of harrowing silence.
As the Red Death retreated into the shadows, it cast a remorseless gaze upon the decaying remnants of humanity, confirming the irrevocable nature of fate. In its wake, the halls of the castle stood as hollow reminders of mankind's hubris. The Masque of the Red Death had ended, leaving behind only the perverse knowledge that true safety and everlasting life were fleeting illusions, so easily shattered by the unforgiving hands of death.