Samhain
Act VII. After the Last Strike
Supernatural Sex Story: Act VII. After the Last Strike - A Halloween concert in a deconsecrated church. A singer fills in for a sick friend, then returns for her own band’s set at midnight. Between the two, a stranger is watching her from the crowd. Some songs are written. Some are only remembered. And on Samhain, the line between the two grows thin.
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Mystery Paranormal Oral Sex Halloween
Marc hit the cymbals one last time, and the sound rolled across the hall, slowly dissolving into the thunder of applause. The musicians came to the edge of the stage and bowed. Veronica, smiling, waved to the audience with both hands, blew a few kisses into the crowd, and disappeared backstage.
Marc wiped his sweaty forehead with a towel and exhaled. A good concert. No, not just good — one of those evenings that keep ringing in your ears long afterwards, when your fingers go on playing imaginary rhythms even after you’ve put down your drumsticks. He packed up his equipment, helped the others stow their instruments, and soon the whole band had left the utility room behind the stage, still talking quietly among themselves.
The hall was still loud. The concert programme was scheduled to run until morning, but the musicians had no plans to stay for the whole night. Ahead lay the road, sleep, and ordinary life — which, for some reason, always seemed especially dull after a show like this. The guys decided to spend a little time with the fans, have a beer, discuss the concert, and wait for Veronica. Then they’d head home — unless, of course, someone decided to stay until the party ended.
‘Hey, did anyone see who she was singing to on stage?’ asked a girl from the front rows, scrolling through her phone. ‘There was this moment during “Samhain” — she was singing straight out into the hall, to one person. And the rose just appeared on her, right in the middle of the song. At first, I thought it had been there from the start, but then I rewatched the video — no. It wasn’t there. And then suddenly, it was.’ ‘Come on,’ Marc said. ‘You imagined it. The lights, the stage — you’re seeing things.’ ‘Maybe I am.’ She shrugged. ‘It looked beautiful, though.’ No one else brought it up. She was a performer — good for her. No one remembered the face of the person she’d been singing to. No one even tried.
At first, no one noticed that the singer was taking too long.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Someone peeked into the corridor and came back empty-handed. Veronica was nowhere to be seen. Her phone went unanswered, and the dressing-room door remained shut.
‘Maybe she’s changing?’ someone suggested.
‘Changing for half an hour?’ Marc said.
He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it fell flat. Nobody laughed.
Soon the conversation died away. The band members took turns going to the door, knocking and calling Veronica’s name. There was no answer. No footsteps, no voice, not even a rustle from behind the thin partition.
Within an hour, their unease had turned into quiet panic. Someone suggested calling security; someone else was already reaching for their phone to call the administration. In the end, they decided to stop waiting and break down the door.
Marc was among the first to enter.