章 129: Chapter 129
The wind cut through the empty streets, its icy fingers slipping between cracked buildings and rusting metal. The city was asleep—its people lost in their dreams, unaware of the danger lurking just beneath the surface. It was that hour again. The hour when everything grew quiet, and the shadows stretched long and deep. When the clock struck 1 a.m., it was as though the city itself held its breath, waiting.
David shuffled down the street, hands jammed deep into his pockets. His mind was elsewhere, as it had been for the past few weeks. He had heard the rumors, the stories whispered in dark corners of dive bars and greasy diners.
People spoke of a jazz group, not just any band, but a group of ghosts—spirits who roamed the streets after midnight, playing their haunting tunes. Anyone unlucky enough to hear their music was never seen again.
Some claimed the group had been killed in a car crash years ago. Others said they had died in some brutal way. No one really knew, and no one had seen them. Or, at least, no one had lived to tell the tale.
David didn't believe in ghosts. He never had. He scoffed at the idea of spirits wandering the earth, trapped in an eternal performance. But something had been gnawing at him lately—a feeling. A feeling that maybe, just maybe, there was something to the stories. He tried to ignore it, but the more he thought about it, the harder it became to shake off.
He glanced at his watch. 1:12 a.m.
He muttered a curse under his breath and quickened his pace, walking faster through the quiet streets. The air was thick with silence, suffocating in its emptiness. He hated this time of night—the time when everything felt wrong. The time when everything seemed... off. The shadows seemed darker, the quiet deeper, and the world felt more fragile. David had always been a night owl, but this particular stretch of the night unsettled him. It was as though the world had changed after midnight, slipping into something he couldn't explain.
As he rounded the corner, he heard it—the soft, distant sound of music. The faintest scrape of a trumpet, followed by a slow, methodical drumbeat. David froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He had been expecting this, but hearing it was something entirely different.
He thought maybe it was a late-night street performer or some drunk with a horn, but the sound was different. It was too smooth, too familiar, like the music had been playing for centuries, drifting through the night air with ease.
The sound drew him in. Before he knew it, his feet moved against his will, following the music as it twisted through the empty streets, reverberating off the abandoned buildings. The trumpet wailed in the distance, rising and falling in perfect harmony with the rhythm of the drums. The singer's voice soared in the background, joining the melody like a whisper carried on the wind. David's skin prickled. The sound felt wrong, too deep, too powerful.
He stopped, his chest tightening with unease. What the hell was this? His eyes darted around, looking for any sign of where the music could be coming from. But there was nothing. No streetlight flickered. No figure appeared in the darkness. It was just him, alone in the silent night with the music and the shadows.
Then, a voice.
Soft. Melancholy.
It was a woman's voice, low and beautiful, but tainted with an undertone of something dark. Her voice fluttered through the air like a moth caught in a web. "Come dance, come dance, lost soul," she sang, the words drifting on the wind like smoke. David felt his breath catch in his throat. He tried to turn around and leave, but his feet refused to obey. His body was frozen, rooted to the spot.
The music grew louder, now full of life. The trumpet blared again, sharp and jarring. A saxophone joined in, its smooth notes weaving through the rhythm of the drums. The singer's voice soared higher, calling out to him, beckoning him closer. "You're ours, you're ours, lost in the tune."
David didn't know why he couldn't move. He had heard the stories, the warnings from the others. People said you had to get away before the music caught you, before the voices pulled you in. But somehow, it didn't matter. His body moved of its own accord, drawn toward the music as if something in the sound had taken hold of him.
"Don't," he whispered to himself, but the words felt weak, lost in the growing melody. His feet carried him forward, step by step, down the empty street, following the haunting sound. He couldn't see anyone. No band members. No figures in the night. But the music—God, the music was everywhere.
The shadows at the end of the street began to form into shapes. At first, they were indistinct, like smudges in the dark, but as he got closer, he saw them—figures standing still in the center of the road. They were dressed in old-fashioned clothing, their faces obscured by the darkness, but their eyes... their eyes were like black holes, sucking in everything around them.
David's heart slammed against his ribcage. He tried to turn, to run, but his feet remained planted to the pavement. The music wrapped around him, suffocating him, pulling him toward the figures. The trumpet blared, louder now, filling his ears with its mournful wail.
One of the figures stepped forward, and David felt a coldness hit him, like ice running through his veins. It was a man—a tall, thin figure dressed in a tattered suit, his face hidden under a shadowed brim of his hat. His hands rested on a trumpet, worn and chipped with age. The man raised the trumpet to his lips, and with a long, low note, the sound broke through the air, sending a shiver down David's spine.
Another figure, a woman, stepped into view. Her lips curled into a smile that never reached her eyes. She held a saxophone, its brass surface gleaming in the dim light. Her voice rang out again, high and clear. "We wait for you, lost soul. We wait for you to join the dance."
David opened his mouth to scream, to run, but his voice was gone. His body wouldn't respond. It felt as though the music was inside him now, beating in time with his heart, stealing his breath.
The drummer raised his sticks, tapping them gently on the snare. His movements were slow and methodical, but the sound was sharp, slicing through the air with an intensity that made David's ears ring. The band—this ghostly band—was real. It was them. The ones who had taken the others. And now, they were going to take him too.
David tried to fight it. He tried to scream, tried to tear his body away from the circle, but his limbs were heavy, like they had been filled with cement. He could barely lift his arms. He felt as though his soul was being pulled from him, piece by piece, through the very music itself.
The figures began to close in around him. The trumpet played louder, the saxophone shrieked, and the drummer's beat grew faster, more frenzied. David's heart raced, his pulse pounding in his ears, but his body refused to obey. He could feel the cold hands of the band reaching for him, pulling him into their circle.
"You will dance with us," the woman whispered. Her breath was cold against his ear. "You will dance forever."
And then, in a final, sickening moment, the music reached its peak. The drums hit one final, crushing blow, and the world around David seemed to collapse. His body went rigid. His chest heaved in desperate gasps for air, but it was no use. The last thing he heard was the woman's voice, soft and cruel:
"We are your song now."
The next morning, the street was empty. No signs of struggle. No hint of David's presence. The wind blew the fallen leaves across the sidewalk, and the city carried on like it always did. Like nothing had happened. Like David had never been there. He was gone. Just another lost soul, swallowed by the night, his name never to be spoken again.
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