The Black Sun. Short story of Bellamy Thoreau.
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2010, 2 months before Christmas.
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Bellamy tried to control the thoughts swirling in his head, a chaos of emotions. The purple-orange sky seemed to dim, just like his hopes. He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Apollo, though always composed, could read him better than anyone else. He didn’t need to ask for more—just a brief exchange of glances was enough.
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– Lazarus still has you in his grip, doesn’t he?-- Apollo muttered, not taking his eyes off the road. The words spread through the van like smoke from the cigarette he was holding between his fingers.
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– I can’t silence him – Bellamy replied – Maybe, after this concert... maybe then something will change.
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Apollo took a drag from his cigarette, then calmly exhaled the smoke. He was beautiful in a subtle, almost ethereal way, yet raw—like a sculpture the artist hesitated to finish, afraid of the final result. His soul had long been accustomed to the weight of conversations about hope and shattered expectations. In the background, music played, blending with the chaotic sounds of scuffling from the backseat.
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– Man, you know it’s not just about the concert. What’s going on here… – Apollo pointed to his chest– It won't be fixed by one performance.
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Bellamy sighed, resting his head against the window. The air in the van grew thick, and the tension between the band members began to rise. It was hard for them all, though each masked their worries in different ways—Vine with swearing, Dimitri with laughter, Bastian with complete chaos. But Bellamy? His method was different. He let what tormented him eat him up from the inside.
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Lazarus will always pull you down,” Apollo added, almost flatly. “But we’re here to protect you. To lift you up. Remember that.”
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Before Bellamy could respond, he felt Apollo gently taking his long, jet-black hair between his fingers. With a slow, deliberate confidence, he tucked it behind his ear. His fingers grazed the shape of the ear and the numerous piercings that adorned it. Then they focused on a patch of exotic skin on Bellamy’s neck. The small gesture held an intimate quality, as if with every touch, he was uncovering the depth of their souls. Apollo’s intentions were clearer now. The symphony, whose notes had begun to reveal themselves, yearned to finally resonate fully, ready for discovery. Unspoken but shown:
"I am."
In the silence, there was a promise—a longing that had long circled between them and bloomed during their performances. Every touch from Apollo was intense—piercing. They tempted each other, and their companions only waited for the breakthrough in their relationship.
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The speakers blared another verse of "Smalltown Boy," and Bellamy felt his angelic core resonate more deeply, syncing with the rhythm of the song. Though he longed for a normal life, he knew he would have to reveal who he truly was, accepting all the consequences that came with it. He looked at his best friend, wondering if he would ever escape the shadow of his father. Lazarus, a man whose approval had always seemed out of reach, had become his personal demon—a demon he had to defeat. But not today. Tonight was for music, for the concert at L'Abîme, for the hope that this would be their moment.
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The time of The Black Sun.
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They were entering the legendary suburbs of Lille. They had a few hours before the concert, plenty of time to set up and get everything ready. The van zipped through narrow streets, its crimson body glowing from the neon lights of numerous clubs, bars, and discos advertising their establishments. Every corner of the place pulsed with life, as though the city itself had been waiting for their arrival. Bastian glanced out the window—crowds of people streamed along the sidewalks, some rushing, others standing in small groups, animated by conversations, each at their own pace, each with their own story.
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But what caught his attention, what brightened his hazel eyes, were the details.
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Posters held by pedestrians, clearly announcing the name of the band: The Black Sun. Some faded, others brand new, as if the city had been living with this event for weeks. He noticed how everyone proudly wore t-shirts with the band’s logo and those with images of their favorite band members. Crowds shouted various verses of their songs—those same words that Bellamy had written in solitude. A hymn of hope, rebellion, and the desire for freedom, now echoed from the mouths of strangers.
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– We’re probably in for a big crowd, huh? – Vine said from the backseat, visibly excited by what she saw through the window. Her gaze wandered over the colorful lights and faces, as if she wanted to absorb the atmosphere of the city before the big performance.
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– Big audience…– Dimitri muttered, staring at the L'Abîme club—or rather, the building under which the gates to hell lay hidden. The lines at the entrance grew longer by the minute – This is gonna be something – he added, feeling Vine squeeze his hand in excitement. He didn’t plan to return the gesture, so he yanked his hand free and sat back down in his seat.
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Apollo felt a shift inside him. Adrenaline. The weight of responsibility and excitement. Emotions swirled inside the leader, creating a strange, overwhelming sensation.
The streets of Lille greeted them not only with noise and lights but with the promise of something bigger—something that was about to change their lives. The five of them could feel it in their bones—that maybe, just maybe, today they would cross all boundaries. Taking fate’s hand, seizing destiny.
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* One hour before the concert. Dressing Room No. 3
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The dressing room was enveloped in an atmosphere taken straight from a dark script. Vine, in a short white wedding dress with intricate lace, teetered on the edge of beauty and horror. She looked like a bride who had wed the prince of darkness. Each of her movements gave the veil a specific rhythm, swaying gently with every almost ritualistic gesture. The faint light leaked from an old lamp, casting half-light on her pale face, accentuating the dramatic shadows around her eyes and purple lips—a gothic makeup perfectly complementing terrifying elegance.
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She leaned toward the mirror, which bore the marks of time and neglect, covered with webs of corrosion and fogged black edges. She furrowed her brow slightly, noticing a small flaw in her makeup. She raised her hand to fix the smudged corner of her lips, but then something paralyzed her. Her hand froze halfway, and her breath caught in her throat. The mirror reflected the image of something that made all her senses flare with unease.
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Behind her, from the darkness of the wall, emerged a figure—a tall man in an elegant black suit from the 1950s. He appeared out of nowhere—a ghost. He sat on the old couch in a disturbingly confident posture. The blackness seemed to coil around his silhouette, absorbing every fragment of light around him. His eyes—yellow, unnaturally bright and sharp—pierced through Vine. An icy shiver crawled down her spine, brushing against her bones, causing pain. She wanted to scream, run, but fear held her body still.
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She groaned.
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The ghost leaned forward slowly, intertwining dead fingers on his knees. He waited for the right moment to reveal the full extent of his power. In the tense atmosphere, he basked in Vine’s fear, savoring the sweet nourishment it gave him. Over the course of a few seconds, the girl’s vision began to sharpen. She could discern shapes more clearly before her. The ghost’s pale face slowly formed familiar features—real yet lifeless. It was Dimitri, though not in the form she knew.
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He was ghostly. Unreal. His gaze, full of hunger and ruthlessness, was that of a predator who could unhesitatingly spot weakness in his victim. His lips stretched into a wide, unsettling grin, more like a grimace from a murderer or demon ready to devour its prey. For Vine, despite the surrounding horror, the scene seemed almost like a macabre attempt at a joke. Without finesse. She paled, trying to suppress the trembling of her hands. If this eerie joke was meant to scare her, Dimitri had to try harder.
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– Did you really fall in love with The Shining ? Right now? – she said flatly. She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head, not knowing who she was dealing with.
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Her lips curled into a defiant smile, revealing her fake vampire fangs that gleamed in the dim light.
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– You’ve got a shitty sense of humor – she whispered.
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The ghost remained silent, staring at her. A warning reverberated, though no words were spoken. The door handle rattled, twisting slowly as if someone’s hand was pressing on it from the other side. Vine swallowed, still trying to maintain her mask of fearlessness. Then, the real Dimitri entered the room, his white shirt unbuttoned, revealing a chest adorned with a tattoo of a Ouija board. Before Vine’s eyes, the doppelganger melted into nothingness as the main light flickered on.
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– Why are you sitting in the dark?-- he asked, then paused, realizing Vine wasn’t responding to him – Vine? Hello?
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– Where’s your suit? – she stared at the emptiness, repeatedly asking herself the same question.
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Sensing the rising tension, Dimitri stepped closer, placing his hand on her shoulder.
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– I wasn’t planning on wearing a suit, Vine. Is everything okay? – he asked, trying to bring her back to reality – What are you looking at?
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Her gaze still wandered over the empty space where the doppelganger had sat. Finally, after a moment, she managed to force out:
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– What does this mean? – She suddenly exploded with anger, disturbed by the strange behavior of the guy, and started hitting him with her fists – Are you joking? !
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Dimitri looked at her, intrigued, as her hands hit him with increasing force. He stopped the next blow, gripping her wrists.
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– I wasn’t here! – he snapped back, his voice just as angry – I was setting up the equipment! Have you lost it ?!
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– It must be just a figment of the imagination – she replied, but there was uncertainty in her voice. She yanked her hands away and buried them in Dimitri’s mahogany curls, touching his skin, his chest, just to make sure everything that had happened was just a dream.
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Right after that, Apollo entered the dressing room, and the pair immediately pulled apart. The frontman’s demeanor radiated calm. Noticing Vine, he saw that something was wrong.
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– What’s going on? – he asked, genuinely concerned – You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
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His long, light hair was tied in a loose bun. Some strands of his bangs fell freely over his face, framing his sharp features. He wore a simple cream sleeveless vest and black military pants, giving him a rugged look. His fingers were adorned with several silver rings, and a pendant around his neck—a gift from Bellamy—shone with a subtle glow.
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“Vine saw… someone,” Dimitri explained. “Someone who looked like me.”
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Apollo raised an eyebrow, his expression both surprised and intrigued. He thought for a moment.
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– Vin, there are many stories about lost souls around here, and maybe it was just a doppelgänger? – he continued in a calm tone – This dressing room, as the manager said, hasn’t been available to artists for years. It had renovations, I didn’t ask about the details.
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Vine, still uncertain, looked at both of the guys, seeking reassurance.
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– Maybe this has something to do with the concert? Maybe it’s... a warning? – she whispered.
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Apollo nodded, and Dimitri reacted in his own way, for the first time ever, wrapping his arm around the girl’s waist and pulling her toward him.
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– Don’t worry – he said, lightening the atmosphere — It’s just stress, it’s catching on to everyone.
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For a moment, silence fell, and each of them began to think about the challenge that awaited them.
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* At the same time,
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Bellamy was sitting on an uncomfortable chair with olive-green fabric upholstery—ugly, and likely a witness to unusual situations. Next to him, on a scratched coffee table from the seventies, lay his phone. Every now and then, he glanced at it, struggling with himself to dial the number and call his father. His intuition told him he should do it. Each time he reached for the device, his gaze was drawn to the deep scratches on his skin—reactions to mounting stress and anxiety. They weren’t just superficial red lines that would fade with time—these scratches were disturbingly deep. A voice full of doubt raged in his head:
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Should I call? Maybe not? Maybe . . . – Thoughts swirling in his mind quickened his heartbeat.
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Suddenly, the sound of an old wall-mounted telephone echoed through the room. Bellamy froze, his gaze finding the source of the sound, which had previously escaped his attention, even though he had spent quite a bit of time in the dressing room. He raised an eyebrow, and a whisper escaped his lips: “Does it work?”
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He slowly rose from the chair, carefully stepping on the vintage carpet laid on the wooden floor. The phone radiated an unsettling aura, and the feeling of dread intensified. He held his breath as he picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear. A rustle of static sounded, as if the broken silence itself didn’t know what should fill its space. It lasted for a minute or two. Finally, from that dead emptiness, someone’s heavy panting broke through.
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“Hello?” Bellamy managed to say, uncertainty trembling in his voice. “Hello!” he repeated, this time with more aggression.
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Nothing changed. Slowly, he pulled the receiver away from his ear. He was about to put it down when he heard a voice. Low and rough, coming from another dimension.
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“Raguel...” the voice whispered his accurate name, and then silence fell, seeming to last an eternity.
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A cold shiver ran down Bellamy’s body. He felt a chill, and sweat gathered on his temples.
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“How do you know... Who... who are you?” he gasped, trying to sound calm, unaffected.
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The response was a gentle, drawn-out giggle, which grew louder with each passing moment. It was hard to tell whether it was just laughter or more of a deathly moan—it didn’t belong to one person, but to hundreds who had suffered unimaginable torture.
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Bellamy clenched the receiver harder, almost painfully pressing it against his ear.
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Then the voices began to sing an old folk ballad:
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The trail led him, mist and sorrow.
Walking backward, walking in reverse,
The Black Lord, who stole children,
Gathered souls—such rhythm.
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Aaa, aaa, the specters don’t sleep, darkness and I,
Aaa, night’s evil.
What was—will be, what will be—was.
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You’ll never know if it was a tooth, a claw, or a knife,
Your blood will softly soak into the dust.
Madness bares sharp fangs,
Fear the open door.
Soon you’ll hear: It’s us!
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Beware, man!
The time will come:
You’ll hear the call,
You’ll feed us.
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Tell me, how do you like the game?
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Perhaps it was the voices of several hundred tormented souls, but their song held no innocence. It all sounded like a mockery of death, fear and God. Bellamy froze. The ballad, which had reminded of dark times in France for nearly six hundred years, was known by all, to varying degrees. It recalled mistakes, failures, and someone whom people had believed in, for whom they built churches and created doctrines.
The darkness in the dressing room began to thicken, as though the speaker was pouring their evil into the surroundings. Terrified, the twenty-year-old felt that someone was lurking in the shadows behind him—perhaps they had been there all along, but only now could he sense it. His breath grew shallow, and his heart beat so fast it felt like it was about to burst from his chest.
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“Answer me! How do you know my name?!” he shouted into the receiver pressed to his lips. Now, more than a rock star, he resembled a frantic meerkat.
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The prolonged giggles of hundreds of voices reached him—they seemed endless, carrying with them immeasurable suffering.
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“You can hide for eons, create new identities, but I know the truth. WE know it. You cannot escape fate!”
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The call was disconnected.
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Bellamy jerked, feeling cold, lifeless fingers touch his shoulders, thighs, and neck. He spun around—practically stumbling—but at the last moment, he regained his balance. The movement in his chest, the unease, the terror—everything built up within him like a tsunami from a horror movie. He was no longer the same confident rockmen.
Oh no.
He dropped the receiver, and it swung wildly on its cord, hitting the wall. Stepping back from the phone, he moved uncertainly. Fear gleamed in his eyes, and the thought growing in his mind was—what would happen when this psycho finally revealed his face? When would he strike? How much time did he have?
Every rustle, every shadow seemed like a promise of something macabre. He knew he was close to the edge of sanity, and it was as thin as a spider’s web.
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He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the giggles, which now formed a terrifying choir. He needed to gather his thoughts, to find a way out of this labyrinth of fear. In an instant, the silence became unbearable. Someone knew his true identity. He also knew there was no place left in this world where he could hide. The words echoed in his mind as if someone had carved them into his soul.
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He grabbed a small vintage-style lamp from the chaise longue and threw it against the wall—in the spot where he thought the formlessness had gathered.
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The porcelain shattered, splintering into tiny pieces, and the echo of the break spread across the empty dressing room. The lights flickered, turning off and on, controlled by surges of power. He clenched his fists, struggling against the sudden, all-encompassing helplessness, and collapsed to his knees. He curled up in a fetal position, seeking shelter in himself. Thoughts whirled in his head, one worse than the other. Fear, uncertainty—all of it intertwined into a painful awareness that he was now facing something far more terrifying than he could have imagined. Clearly, he was an obstacle, a threat, an element that needed to disappear. He had no idea who found him so troublesome that they had made a pact with the forces of darkness.
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Suddenly, the dressing room door opened quietly, almost soundlessly. Bellamy didn’t look up, thinking it was just another wave of irony from fate. Someone entered the room, their steps slow, measured, and firm. He felt a gentle touch on his back. Someone placed a kiss on his temple. They hugged him.
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“Bell ? Calm down, I’m here,” said a calm, deep voice.
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It was a deliverance—Apollo. Bellamy trembled in his arms. The more Apollo pulled him closer, the more he realized that his friend was on the edge. Without a doubt, he had been drawn into something that defied normal understanding.
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* Concert. 8:00 PM
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Reporters and bloggers prepared their tools as soon as the lights went out and the band Black Sun appeared on stage. The crowd stood frozen in anticipation.
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Dimitri, the master of the keys, glided like a phantom to his instrument, and his fingers began to dance across the keyboard. The sounds he created penetrated deep into the souls of those gathered. The piece "Marmoris" started with a delicate introduction, gradually stirring emotions, until it exploded into a powerful sound reminiscent of the first spring storm.
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Bellamy and Apollo moved toward the microphones with energy and enthusiasm, as if nothing that had happened in the dressing room mattered. For a moment, their eyes met, full of tension, as they began to sing together, harmonizing perfectly. The music pulsed, setting the crowd into a dancing rhythm, and the atmosphere became more and more electrifying. Soon, Vine joined on bass, and Bastian on drums, raising the energy on stage to its peak.
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As another song gained strength, Bellamy handed the lead to Vine and decided to take a risk—he pulled Apollo closer, their lips met. Camera flashes went off, and the club's lights shone in intense colors. The moment of a passionate kiss was captured.
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* 11 : 00 P.M
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When Bellamy was left alone, collecting gifts after the concert, all the spotlights—except the one shining above him—went out. Somewhere at the edge of the darkness, which had swallowed the rest of the room, a figure appeared—cold and unsettling.
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– The concert is over, autographs by the van! –he shouted toward the stranger.
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He watched as the figure descended from the top of the stairs with grace and elegance like he had never seen before.
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– Who the hell...? — he asked, walking cautiously toward the edge of the stage — I'll call security! – losing sight of the figure from eyes.
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The footsteps were only a few meters away when Bellamy snapped to attention, feeling the need to flee. He didn't make it. In an instant, he collided with a solid figure that blocked his way, and he fell onto his back.
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– Who are you...? – he began, feeling a fear clutch at his throat.
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The man—if he could even be called that—stood motionless before him. His black suit seemed to melt into the darkness. Vapors, of strange origin, rose from the fabric. Some kind of roots were growing up to the tips of his fingers—moving involuntarily. The face was submerged in thick blackness, lacking contours, but the eyes— devilish yellow—glowed against the background. In an instant,images from his past flooded Bellamy's mind, as if this being were ripping pieces of his soul, examining them with the calmness of a predator. Then he heard a whisper that seemed to emanate directly from the being.
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"It's today..." – the voice responded, with a dead tone.
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They stood there for a few seconds, until the spotlight lost power, and the young man felt a strong blow to his face.
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"Get up, psycho!" Dimitri shouted, standing up from his crouch. "Do we need to send a separate invitation for the princess?!" he added, clearly agitated.
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*
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Vagabond Motel; outskirts of Lille, 1:25 AM.
One hour until the disappearance of Bellamy Thoreau.
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The crimson van came to a halt on the gravel driveway, its tires scraping over the small stones before coming to a stop in front of a rather large motel. The group of five friends, still full of energy after their successful concert, got out of the vehicle, laughing and throwing jokes at each other, their voices echoing in the empty space. The place, though far from the luxuries of Paris or the style of Lille, had vacant rooms, and that was all that mattered to them now.
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In the parking lot, under the shadow of flickering lamps , were parked three cars – their purpose seemed clear: to attract attention with their flawless presentation and stand out against the neglected surroundings. These machines gleamed as though they had just rolled off the production line. They were polished to a shine, every detail meticulously refined, like automotive gems from a catalog—untouched by time and rare in today’s fashion.
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Dimitri stopped by one of them, peering through the window at the interior. He noticed the perfectly preserved, classic details that gave the vehicles a retro-luxury feel. They looked as though they'd just been carefully restored, ready to take their owners on a journey.
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"These cars..." he began, unable to hide his fascination. "Someone here’s a fan of the '80s," he whistled. "There aren’t many of these things left," he continued. "We’re not alone here; someone arrived just before us, maybe a few minutes ago," he added at the end.
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The others just shrugged, too tired to care about this odd detail. The fact that these brands had disappeared from the market three decades ago didn’t raise their suspicions; to them, it was just a quirky bauble.They passed by, unfazed, not bothering to investigate the detail. They ignored the first warning—a clue that could have helped them understand where they were and what awaited them. After all, it was just a place for one night, nothing more—that’s all they thought, at least.
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The two-story brick building, painted in a dull beige, seemed to drown in the darkness of the night, only lit by the faint beams of lamps above the room entrances and the greenish glow from the pool. The water in it was still, as if no one swim in it, in ages. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of damp earth and old chlorine, irritating their nostrils. Silence reigned, broken only by the rustling of leaves swaying in the light breeze.
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"Vagabond Motel," Bastien read aloud. The name itself fit the place—"A rundown slum, we'll be begging for death once we go in there," he added, shaking his head. "There’s not a soul in sight," he scoffed under his breath, looking around the parking lot.
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"Man, a little adrenaline never killed anyone," Dimitri laughed,raising their eyebrows tossing his backpack over his shoulder. "Well, maybe except in horror movies," he chuckled loudly.
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"Which I hope weren’t filmed here," Bellamy muttered, his gaze fixed on the rusted motel sign.
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They made their way toward the entrance, the gravel and sand lifting under their feet. The bold Apollo pushed open the glass doors, and the bell above the threshold rang ominously, ushering them into the dim interior.
When the five friends crossed the threshold, their steps echoed in the empty hall. The glow of yellowish lamps illuminated the panelled walls and the polished wood of the counter, casting a warm but somewhat oppressive atmosphere. In front of them was a small table with a heavy sofa behind it – a’like a waiting area.
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— This is... charming? — Apollo furrowed his brow, glancing at the rows of keys on the wall, each in its own compartment, as if in a hotel that had forgotten the existence of magnetic cards.
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On the reception desk lay a massive phone, adorned with intricate ornaments, as though it had been plucked straight from another world. Beside it stood an old typewriter. Just next to it were yellowed handwritten notes — some dates and names without connections.
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The interior had an old-fashioned vibe, as if it came from another era.
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— Everything looks like it was in my Grandmother's house — Dimitri replied thoughtfully, running his fingers over the polished wood. — I wonder who takes care of this... open-air museum?
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Despite his sarcasm, he had to admit the place had its bizarre charm — as if someone had deliberately stopped time so that this space looked just like this. Stopped closer to the spot where they should find the concierge. Touching the cool wood of the counter, he wanted to check if what he was seeing was real. Every element, from the board with hundreds of keys to the old-fashioned typewriter, seemed to have its own history, though none of them were eager to delve into it. The sound of a bell rang, though there was no bell on the counter, and the group started searching for it. Then, out of nowhere, an elderly man appeared. Almost silently, as if inserted by an observer. He wore a pastel sweater with a rabbit on it, in a somewhat outdated style — the collar of a white shirt rose from underneath. On his right hand was a white glove, the other one missing or lost. In the dim light, his pale, chalky complexion revealed skin changes, suggesting he had issues with several diseases. Numerous veins, discolorations, and dark circles under his eyes, which he tried to hide behind a pair of round glasses — too small for his face. The old man’s eyes gleamed in the half-light, seeming to pierce through them all.
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— Welcome — his voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it filled the entire hall with its resonance. — I’m glad we have guests, oh yes, guests — he said with a wide smile and empty eyes.
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The five friends froze, staring at the man as if he were just another element of this surreal scene. Apollo cleared his throat and took a step forward, surprised by the cold, damp breeze that seemed to emanate from deep inside the reception.
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— Are there still available rooms? Your sign doesn’t look like it’s been changed — his extraordinary confidence evaporated in this strange atmosphere.
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The elderly man nodded, a barely noticeable, slightly sinister smile appearing on his face.
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— We always have available rooms, you’ve come to the right place — he said slowly, emphasizing each word. — I understand there are five of you?
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Apollo cleared his throat and reached for his wallet, wanting to pay right away. The old man raised his hand in the air, signaling for the boy to stop.
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— For now, I’ll just need your IDs, payment is made at check-out — he added calmly. After receiving the ID, he helped the boy complete a few formalities. Finally, he added mechanically: Vagabond has everything you... need.
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When he said this, he slowly turned toward the board and pulled out three keys — one of them he chose more carefully, paying attention to the number. He laid them on the counter, almost ceremoniously, wiping the dust with his finger.
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— The rooms are ready. I hope you all spend a... peaceful night here.
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His words sounded like a warning. The five friends exchanged glances.
Bastien stepped in front of Apollo and nervously pointed to the key with the number "17", which bothered him a lot.
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— You said there are plenty of free rooms — Bastien tried to calm his nerves — how come .. Otis, you’re only giving out three damn keys?!
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— No. I said we have free rooms, I didn’t specify how many. Young men,I prefer you call me Mr. Otis, like on the badge — the concierge added with a smile, unruffled — One person will spend the night alone, and the seventeenth room is our special one.
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Bastien pulled Apollo aside, feeling like someone had stabbed him between the eyes. He trusted his instincts, sometimes too much.
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— Something’s off here, this guy’s crazy! And you’re blind ! Let’s get the hell out of here! — he shook the frontman and pointed at the concierge.
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— Actually, we don’t have much of an option, we have to stay. You need to figure out who’s taking the room alone — Apollo moved away and adjusted his hoodie.
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Apollo was convinced that after the concert, he and Bellamy could level up, sealing their first night together. But then Bell, unexpectedly said:
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– You know, if Bas doesn't want to be alone, if he’s scared, I’ll take that special room, it’s not a big deal for me – He walked over to the blond guy and took his hand – Dear, you can still come by later – he added with a wink.
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Otis listened carefully to Bellamy's words, as if he himself was following an invisible storyline. When Bellamy stepped closer, the old man personally handed him the key, pressing it lightly into his hand. Bellamy looked at the white glove and feeling a strange, bony texture beneath the fabric, sending a chill down his spine. He took the opportunity to look into the man’s eyes, noting the yellowish tint in the whites and the three-colored irises.
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– To reach your rooms, you’ll need to exit the reception building and head toward the stairs you probably saw outside – Otis, explained with a barely perceptible smile – The bar and pool are open all night.
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His words hung in the air, creating an odd atmosphere of tension, as if behind those doors, all pretenses would vanish.
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*
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As the group of five left the reception and stepped outside, the same unsettlingly surreal scene unfolded before them. The turquoise surface of the pool reflected the cool neon lights flickering on its surface. Along the railing, lounge chairs were lined up in perfect order, empty and waiting, as if reserved for guests who would never arrive. The lights along the balconies cast a soft, muted glow, creating an eerie, almost spectral atmosphere.
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– It’s even stranger than before. And that water…– Bastien muttered, breaking the tense silence between them – It’s too clean here. Like it’s waiting for someone who will never show up.
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– Shut up. Maybe they just have excellent staff– Dimitri said, stepping closer to the pool and staring at its smooth surface.
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They felt the familiar mix of humidity and the intense smell of chlorine carried by a light breeze. Each room had red doors and windows adorned with curtains in the same deep shade. Bellamy glanced at the metal stairs, painted white, leading up. He already wanted to reach his room and finally rest after a long day. Apollo took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, then kissed it as they parted.
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– See ya later – he whispered softly to Bellamy's ear, before grabbing Bastien’s leather jacket and pulling him along – Come on, Grumpy, time to tuck you in – he chuckled.
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The others split up, choosing rooms on the lower floor, while Bellamy slowly made his way to the stairs leading up. The pool lights pulsed softly, and their reflections seemed to dance on the water’s surface, creating an illusion of a delicate ballet. Each step he took on the metal stairs echoed with a clear, unsettling sound that carried through the silence of their surroundings.
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When he finally reached the top step and walked along the row of closed rooms, he was struck by an intense feeling of being watched. Against his better judgment, he rested his hands on the cold, vintage railing and leaned out, looking around. He wasn’t afraid of jokes from his friends – that small evil – he felt that someone craftier, someone who knew his true identity and never took their eyes off him, was present.
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That someone might even have his brothers in their grasp, maybe even his father. He remembered the strange phone conversation and the man he had spotted in the crowd during the concert. At this moment, the line between reality and paranoia began to blur.
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– Damn bastard ! You won’t even leave me alone at the end of the world ! – he yelling.
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Finally reached the end of the hallway, where . . . green doors marked with the number seventeen awaited him. He hesitated for a moment, not opening them immediately. First, he checked the nearby rooms.
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– Is this one just green?” he paused – Maybe it’s some kind of VIP? – He asked himself a series of similar questions but returned to where he started.
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The old man wasn’t kidding – this room truly stood out. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. The metal creaked in the lock, and the door opened with slight resistance, revealing a pristine interior. As he crossed the threshold, he was met with the scent of sandalwood and vanilla – heavy, somewhat foreign.
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The room itself was both full and empty, not a trace of dust anywhere. He looked at the bed, potentially comfortable, positioned opposite a long dresser with a small television. The whole space seemed to close in on him, offering little comfort and casting a veil of claustrophobia.
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– Feels like something out of a sixties magazine or something – said, dropping his bag on the floor by the bed and testing the mattress – Not Bad, Not bad – he added, choking on the words halfway through, sending a text to Apollo before setting his phone on the nightstand.
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*
He cautiously opened the bathroom door, taking a deep breath as if he wanted to hold onto the moment. Muttered a curse under his breath, sensing that whatever happened here wouldn't be ordinary. He knew this place would summon something, he couldn’t ignore.
“Damn, it’s like some kind of hospital isolation room,” he laughed, though the sound was forced, as if even he didn’t believe his own words. Looking around, he felt that something was... off. “Maybe Bas was right,” he added uncertainly.
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White and pale green tiles stretched up to the ceiling, as if someone had tried to trap the space in a box. A round mirror, spattered with oil paint. A tiny sink where even a smurf’s hand wouldn’t fit. And further in, something that was supposed to resemble a shower, but didn’t quite serve its purpose. Nearby, tucked in the shadows, a toilet, as if the designer wanted even the simplest relief to induce fear. The finishing touch: a light bulb dangling from a cable on the ceiling – utterly useless.
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– Well, that’s about it, its end – closing the door.
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He stepped in reluctantly, shutting the door behind him like an intruder. He approached the shower, pulled back the hospital-style curtain, and placed a bottle of gel on the shelf—a “three-in ” as he always called it sarcastically. He crossed himself, not knowing why at that moment. He undressed—quickly—avoiding his reflection in the mirror. With a single flicker of light, his reflection stood waiting, motionless, with a strange, unnatural expression. It stared at him, its gaze not following his movements.
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Maybe five minutes passed. Bellamy had his eyes closed, letting the streams of cold water dull his senses. He felt a piercing chill, as though something stood next to him. His eyes snapped open, panic beginning to rise.
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– No way, someone was definitely here – muttered, leaning out for just a moment, but no one was there.
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The water continued to flow relentlessly, but with every stream, he thought he heard something whispering in the silence, repeating softly :
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“Raguel.”
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In the mirror, his reflection remained, now turned in profile toward the shower. Its gaze was almost mocking, murderous.
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The door to his room opened soundlessly, letting in a cold, red light that seemed to seep from another dimension. It was a prelude to the arrival of someone he’d already encountered today.
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Behind him, almost imperceptibly, a figure emerged. Darkness coiled around it like a shadow, blurring its shape. It looked like pure, materialized darkness. Instead of eyes, it had two pale points, cold like stars in the night sky – devoid of any trace of emotion.
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Strong hands closed around his neck, leaving him no chance to move. Bellamy tried to fight, but his body felt paralyzed, unable to resist. With unexpected force, the shower curtain was pulled open, revealing the space in front of him.
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The one holding him forcibly turned his head toward the door.
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He heard footsteps – heavy, deliberate, as if they belonged to someone in no hurry. In that moment, the door vanished, and in its place, an intensity filled the room, swallowing him whole.
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Irretrievably.
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2:30 a.m. became the moment of his disappearance, with the clock display frozen on that exact time
The Black Sun. Short story of Bellamy Thoreau.
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2010, 2 months before Christmas.
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Bellamy tried to control the thoughts swirling in his head, a chaos of emotions. The purple-orange sky seemed to dim, just like his hopes. He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Apollo, though always composed, could read him better than anyone else. He didn’t need to ask for more—just a brief exchange of glances was enough.
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– Lazarus still has you in his grip, doesn’t he?-- Apollo muttered, not taking his eyes off the road. The words spread through the van like smoke from the cigarette he was holding between his fingers.
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– I can’t silence him – Bellamy replied – Maybe, after this concert... maybe then something will change.
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Apollo took a drag from his cigarette, then calmly exhaled the smoke. He was beautiful in a subtle, almost ethereal way, yet raw—like a sculpture the artist hesitated to finish, afraid of the final result. His soul had long been accustomed to the weight of conversations about hope and shattered expectations. In the background, music played, blending with the chaotic sounds of scuffling from the backseat.
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– Man, you know it’s not just about the concert. What’s going on here… – Apollo pointed to his chest– It won't be fixed by one performance.
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Bellamy sighed, resting his head against the window. The air in the van grew thick, and the tension between the band members began to rise. It was hard for them all, though each masked their worries in different ways—Vine with swearing, Dimitri with laughter, Bastian with complete chaos. But Bellamy? His method was different. He let what tormented him eat him up from the inside.
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Lazarus will always pull you down,” Apollo added, almost flatly. “But we’re here to protect you. To lift you up. Remember that.”
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Before Bellamy could respond, he felt Apollo gently taking his long, jet-black hair between his fingers. With a slow, deliberate confidence, he tucked it behind his ear. His fingers grazed the shape of the ear and the numerous piercings that adorned it. Then they focused on a patch of exotic skin on Bellamy’s neck. The small gesture held an intimate quality, as if with every touch, he was uncovering the depth of their souls. Apollo’s intentions were clearer now. The symphony, whose notes had begun to reveal themselves, yearned to finally resonate fully, ready for discovery. Unspoken but shown:
"I am."
In the silence, there was a promise—a longing that had long circled between them and bloomed during their performances. Every touch from Apollo was intense—piercing. They tempted each other, and their companions only waited for the breakthrough in their relationship.
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The speakers blared another verse of "Smalltown Boy," and Bellamy felt his angelic core resonate more deeply, syncing with the rhythm of the song. Though he longed for a normal life, he knew he would have to reveal who he truly was, accepting all the consequences that came with it. He looked at his best friend, wondering if he would ever escape the shadow of his father. Lazarus, a man whose approval had always seemed out of reach, had become his personal demon—a demon he had to defeat. But not today. Tonight was for music, for the concert at L'Abîme, for the hope that this would be their moment.
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The time of The Black Sun.
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They were entering the legendary suburbs of Lille. They had a few hours before the concert, plenty of time to set up and get everything ready. The van zipped through narrow streets, its crimson body glowing from the neon lights of numerous clubs, bars, and discos advertising their establishments. Every corner of the place pulsed with life, as though the city itself had been waiting for their arrival. Bastian glanced out the window—crowds of people streamed along the sidewalks, some rushing, others standing in small groups, animated by conversations, each at their own pace, each with their own story.
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But what caught his attention, what brightened his hazel eyes, were the details.
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Posters held by pedestrians, clearly announcing the name of the band: The Black Sun. Some faded, others brand new, as if the city had been living with this event for weeks. He noticed how everyone proudly wore t-shirts with the band’s logo and those with images of their favorite band members. Crowds shouted various verses of their songs—those same words that Bellamy had written in solitude. A hymn of hope, rebellion, and the desire for freedom, now echoed from the mouths of strangers.
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– We’re probably in for a big crowd, huh? – Vine said from the backseat, visibly excited by what she saw through the window. Her gaze wandered over the colorful lights and faces, as if she wanted to absorb the atmosphere of the city before the big performance.
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– Big audience…– Dimitri muttered, staring at the L'Abîme club—or rather, the building under which the gates to hell lay hidden. The lines at the entrance grew longer by the minute – This is gonna be something – he added, feeling Vine squeeze his hand in excitement. He didn’t plan to return the gesture, so he yanked his hand free and sat back down in his seat.
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Apollo felt a shift inside him. Adrenaline. The weight of responsibility and excitement. Emotions swirled inside the leader, creating a strange, overwhelming sensation.
The streets of Lille greeted them not only with noise and lights but with the promise of something bigger—something that was about to change their lives. The five of them could feel it in their bones—that maybe, just maybe, today they would cross all boundaries. Taking fate’s hand, seizing destiny.
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* One hour before the concert. Dressing Room No. 3
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The dressing room was enveloped in an atmosphere taken straight from a dark script. Vine, in a short white wedding dress with intricate lace, teetered on the edge of beauty and horror. She looked like a bride who had wed the prince of darkness. Each of her movements gave the veil a specific rhythm, swaying gently with every almost ritualistic gesture. The faint light leaked from an old lamp, casting half-light on her pale face, accentuating the dramatic shadows around her eyes and purple lips—a gothic makeup perfectly complementing terrifying elegance.
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She leaned toward the mirror, which bore the marks of time and neglect, covered with webs of corrosion and fogged black edges. She furrowed her brow slightly, noticing a small flaw in her makeup. She raised her hand to fix the smudged corner of her lips, but then something paralyzed her. Her hand froze halfway, and her breath caught in her throat. The mirror reflected the image of something that made all her senses flare with unease.
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Behind her, from the darkness of the wall, emerged a figure—a tall man in an elegant black suit from the 1950s. He appeared out of nowhere—a ghost. He sat on the old couch in a disturbingly confident posture. The blackness seemed to coil around his silhouette, absorbing every fragment of light around him. His eyes—yellow, unnaturally bright and sharp—pierced through Vine. An icy shiver crawled down her spine, brushing against her bones, causing pain. She wanted to scream, run, but fear held her body still.
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She groaned.
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The ghost leaned forward slowly, intertwining dead fingers on his knees. He waited for the right moment to reveal the full extent of his power. In the tense atmosphere, he basked in Vine’s fear, savoring the sweet nourishment it gave him. Over the course of a few seconds, the girl’s vision began to sharpen. She could discern shapes more clearly before her. The ghost’s pale face slowly formed familiar features—real yet lifeless. It was Dimitri, though not in the form she knew.
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He was ghostly. Unreal. His gaze, full of hunger and ruthlessness, was that of a predator who could unhesitatingly spot weakness in his victim. His lips stretched into a wide, unsettling grin, more like a grimace from a murderer or demon ready to devour its prey. For Vine, despite the surrounding horror, the scene seemed almost like a macabre attempt at a joke. Without finesse. She paled, trying to suppress the trembling of her hands. If this eerie joke was meant to scare her, Dimitri had to try harder.
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– Did you really fall in love with The Shining ? Right now? – she said flatly. She raised an eyebrow, shaking her head, not knowing who she was dealing with.
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Her lips curled into a defiant smile, revealing her fake vampire fangs that gleamed in the dim light.
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– You’ve got a shitty sense of humor – she whispered.
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The ghost remained silent, staring at her. A warning reverberated, though no words were spoken. The door handle rattled, twisting slowly as if someone’s hand was pressing on it from the other side. Vine swallowed, still trying to maintain her mask of fearlessness. Then, the real Dimitri entered the room, his white shirt unbuttoned, revealing a chest adorned with a tattoo of a Ouija board. Before Vine’s eyes, the doppelganger melted into nothingness as the main light flickered on.
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– Why are you sitting in the dark?-- he asked, then paused, realizing Vine wasn’t responding to him – Vine? Hello?
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– Where’s your suit? – she stared at the emptiness, repeatedly asking herself the same question.
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Sensing the rising tension, Dimitri stepped closer, placing his hand on her shoulder.
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– I wasn’t planning on wearing a suit, Vine. Is everything okay? – he asked, trying to bring her back to reality – What are you looking at?
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Her gaze still wandered over the empty space where the doppelganger had sat. Finally, after a moment, she managed to force out:
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– What does this mean? – She suddenly exploded with anger, disturbed by the strange behavior of the guy, and started hitting him with her fists – Are you joking? !
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Dimitri looked at her, intrigued, as her hands hit him with increasing force. He stopped the next blow, gripping her wrists.
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– I wasn’t here! – he snapped back, his voice just as angry – I was setting up the equipment! Have you lost it ?!
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– It must be just a figment of the imagination – she replied, but there was uncertainty in her voice. She yanked her hands away and buried them in Dimitri’s mahogany curls, touching his skin, his chest, just to make sure everything that had happened was just a dream.
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Right after that, Apollo entered the dressing room, and the pair immediately pulled apart. The frontman’s demeanor radiated calm. Noticing Vine, he saw that something was wrong.
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– What’s going on? – he asked, genuinely concerned – You look like you’ve seen a ghost.
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His long, light hair was tied in a loose bun. Some strands of his bangs fell freely over his face, framing his sharp features. He wore a simple cream sleeveless vest and black military pants, giving him a rugged look. His fingers were adorned with several silver rings, and a pendant around his neck—a gift from Bellamy—shone with a subtle glow.
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“Vine saw… someone,” Dimitri explained. “Someone who looked like me.”
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Apollo raised an eyebrow, his expression both surprised and intrigued. He thought for a moment.
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– Vin, there are many stories about lost souls around here, and maybe it was just a doppelgänger? – he continued in a calm tone – This dressing room, as the manager said, hasn’t been available to artists for years. It had renovations, I didn’t ask about the details.
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Vine, still uncertain, looked at both of the guys, seeking reassurance.
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– Maybe this has something to do with the concert? Maybe it’s... a warning? – she whispered.
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Apollo nodded, and Dimitri reacted in his own way, for the first time ever, wrapping his arm around the girl’s waist and pulling her toward him.
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– Don’t worry – he said, lightening the atmosphere — It’s just stress, it’s catching on to everyone.
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For a moment, silence fell, and each of them began to think about the challenge that awaited them.
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* At the same time,
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Bellamy was sitting on an uncomfortable chair with olive-green fabric upholstery—ugly, and likely a witness to unusual situations. Next to him, on a scratched coffee table from the seventies, lay his phone. Every now and then, he glanced at it, struggling with himself to dial the number and call his father. His intuition told him he should do it. Each time he reached for the device, his gaze was drawn to the deep scratches on his skin—reactions to mounting stress and anxiety. They weren’t just superficial red lines that would fade with time—these scratches were disturbingly deep. A voice full of doubt raged in his head:
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Should I call? Maybe not? Maybe . . . – Thoughts swirling in his mind quickened his heartbeat.
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Suddenly, the sound of an old wall-mounted telephone echoed through the room. Bellamy froze, his gaze finding the source of the sound, which had previously escaped his attention, even though he had spent quite a bit of time in the dressing room. He raised an eyebrow, and a whisper escaped his lips: “Does it work?”
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He slowly rose from the chair, carefully stepping on the vintage carpet laid on the wooden floor. The phone radiated an unsettling aura, and the feeling of dread intensified. He held his breath as he picked up the receiver and placed it to his ear. A rustle of static sounded, as if the broken silence itself didn’t know what should fill its space. It lasted for a minute or two. Finally, from that dead emptiness, someone’s heavy panting broke through.
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-- Hello? -- Bellamy managed to say, uncertainty trembling in his voice -- Hello! -- he repeated, this time with more aggression.
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Nothing changed. Slowly, he pulled the receiver away from his ear. He was about to put it down when he heard a voice. Low and rough, coming from another dimension.
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“Raguel...” the voice whispered his accurate name, and then silence fell, seeming to last an eternity.
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A cold shiver ran down Bellamy’s body. He felt a chill, and sweat gathered on his temples.
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-- How do you know... Who... who are you? -- he gasped, trying to sound calm, unaffected.
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The response was a gentle, drawn-out giggle, which grew louder with each passing moment. It was hard to tell whether it was just laughter or more of a deathly moan—it didn’t belong to one person, but to hundreds who had suffered unimaginable torture.
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Bellamy clenched the receiver harder, almost painfully pressing it against his ear.
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Then the voices began to sing an old folk ballad:
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The trail led him, mist and sorrow.
Walking backward, walking in reverse,
The Black Lord, who stole children,
Gathered souls—such rhythm.
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Aaa, aaa, the specters don’t sleep, darkness and I,
Aaa, night’s evil.
What was—will be, what will be—was.
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You’ll never know if it was a tooth, a claw, or a knife,
Your blood will softly soak into the dust.
Madness bares sharp fangs,
Fear the open door.
Soon you’ll hear: It’s us!
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Beware, man!
The time will come:
You’ll hear the call,
You’ll feed us.
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Tell me, how do you like the game?
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Perhaps it was the voices of several hundred tormented souls, but their song held no innocence. It all sounded like a mockery of death, fear and God. Bellamy froze. The ballad, which had reminded of dark times in France for nearly six hundred years, was known by all, to varying degrees. It recalled mistakes, failures, and someone whom people had believed in, for whom they built churches and created doctrines.
The darkness in the dressing room began to thicken, as though the speaker was pouring their evil into the surroundings. Terrified, the twenty-year-old felt that someone was lurking in the shadows behind him—perhaps they had been there all along, but only now could he sense it. His breath grew shallow, and his heart beat so fast it felt like it was about to burst from his chest.
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- Answer me! How do you know my name?!” -- he shouted into the receiver pressed to his lips. Now, more than a rock star, he resembled a frantic meerkat.
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The prolonged giggles of hundreds of voices reached him—they seemed endless, carrying with them immeasurable suffering.
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-- You can hide for eons, create new identities, but I know the truth. WE know it. You cannot escape fate!
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The call was disconnected.
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Bellamy jerked, feeling cold, lifeless fingers touch his shoulders, thighs, and neck. He spun around—practically stumbling—but at the last moment, he regained his balance. The movement in his chest, the unease, the terror—everything built up within him like a tsunami from a horror movie. He was no longer the same confident rockmen.
Oh no.
He dropped the receiver, and it swung wildly on its cord, hitting the wall. Stepping back from the phone, he moved uncertainly. Fear gleamed in his eyes, and the thought growing in his mind was—what would happen when this psycho finally revealed his face? When would he strike? How much time did he have?
Every rustle, every shadow seemed like a promise of something macabre. He knew he was close to the edge of sanity, and it was as thin as a spider’s web.
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He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the giggles, which now formed a terrifying choir. He needed to gather his thoughts, to find a way out of this labyrinth of fear. In an instant, the silence became unbearable. Someone knew his true identity. He also knew there was no place left in this world where he could hide. The words echoed in his mind as if someone had carved them into his soul.
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He grabbed a small vintage-style lamp from the chaise longue and threw it against the wall—in the spot where he thought the formlessness had gathered.
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The porcelain shattered, splintering into tiny pieces, and the echo of the break spread across the empty dressing room. The lights flickered, turning off and on, controlled by surges of power. He clenched his fists, struggling against the sudden, all-encompassing helplessness, and collapsed to his knees. He curled up in a fetal position, seeking shelter in himself. Thoughts whirled in his head, one worse than the other. Fear, uncertainty—all of it intertwined into a painful awareness that he was now facing something far more terrifying than he could have imagined. Clearly, he was an obstacle, a threat, an element that needed to disappear. He had no idea who found him so troublesome that they had made a pact with the forces of darkness.
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Suddenly, the dressing room door opened quietly, almost soundlessly. Bellamy didn’t look up, thinking it was just another wave of irony from fate. Someone entered the room, their steps slow, measured, and firm. He felt a gentle touch on his back. Someone placed a kiss on his temple. They hugged him.
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“Bell ? Calm down, I’m here,” said a calm, deep voice.
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It was a deliverance—Apollo. Bellamy trembled in his arms. The more Apollo pulled him closer, the more he realized that his friend was on the edge. Without a doubt, he had been drawn into something that defied normal understanding.
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* Concert. 8:00 PM
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Reporters and bloggers prepared their tools as soon as the lights went out and the band Black Sun appeared on stage. The crowd stood frozen in anticipation.
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Dimitri, the master of the keys, glided like a phantom to his instrument, and his fingers began to dance across the keyboard. The sounds he created penetrated deep into the souls of those gathered. The piece "Marmoris" started with a delicate introduction, gradually stirring emotions, until it exploded into a powerful sound reminiscent of the first spring storm.
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Bellamy and Apollo moved toward the microphones with energy and enthusiasm, as if nothing that had happened in the dressing room mattered. For a moment, their eyes met, full of tension, as they began to sing together, harmonizing perfectly. The music pulsed, setting the crowd into a dancing rhythm, and the atmosphere became more and more electrifying. Soon, Vine joined on bass, and Bastian on drums, raising the energy on stage to its peak.
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As another song gained strength, Bellamy handed the lead to Vine and decided to take a risk—he pulled Apollo closer, their lips met. Camera flashes went off, and the club's lights shone in intense colors. The moment of a passionate kiss was captured.
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* 11 : 00 P.M
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When Bellamy was left alone, collecting gifts after the concert, all the spotlights—except the one shining above him—went out. Somewhere at the edge of the darkness, which had swallowed the rest of the room, a figure appeared—cold and unsettling.
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– The concert is over, autographs by the van! –he shouted toward the stranger.
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He watched as the figure descended from the top of the stairs with grace and elegance like he had never seen before.
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– Who the hell...? — he asked, walking cautiously toward the edge of the stage — I'll call security! – losing sight of the figure from eyes.
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The footsteps were only a few meters away when Bellamy snapped to attention, feeling the need to flee. He didn't make it. In an instant, he collided with a solid figure that blocked his way, and he fell onto his back.
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– Who are you...? – he began, feeling a fear clutch at his throat.
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The man—if he could even be called that—stood motionless before him. His black suit seemed to melt into the darkness. Vapors, of strange origin, rose from the fabric. Some kind of roots were growing up to the tips of his fingers—moving involuntarily. The face was submerged in thick blackness, lacking contours, but the eyes— devilish yellow—glowed against the background. In an instant,images from his past flooded Bellamy's mind, as if this being were ripping pieces of his soul, examining them with the calmness of a predator. Then he heard a whisper that seemed to emanate directly from the being.
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"It's today..." – the voice responded, with a dead tone.
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They stood there for a few seconds, until the spotlight lost power, and the young man felt a strong blow to his face.
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-- Get up, psycho!" Dimitri shouted, standing up from his crouch. -- Do we need to send a separate invitation for the princess?! -- he added, clearly agitated.
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*
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Vagabond Motel; outskirts of Lille, 1:25 AM.
One hour until the disappearance of Bellamy Thoreau.
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The crimson van came to a halt on the gravel driveway, its tires scraping over the small stones before coming to a stop in front of a rather large motel. The group of five friends, still full of energy after their successful concert, got out of the vehicle, laughing and throwing jokes at each other, their voices echoing in the empty space. The place, though far from the luxuries of Paris or the style of Lille, had vacant rooms, and that was all that mattered to them now.
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In the parking lot, under the shadow of flickering lamps , were parked three cars – their purpose seemed clear: to attract attention with their flawless presentation and stand out against the neglected surroundings. These machines gleamed as though they had just rolled off the production line. They were polished to a shine, every detail meticulously refined, like automotive gems from a catalog—untouched by time and rare in today’s fashion.
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Dimitri stopped by one of them, peering through the window at the interior. He noticed the perfectly preserved, classic details that gave the vehicles a retro-luxury feel. They looked as though they'd just been carefully restored, ready to take their owners on a journey.
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"These cars..." he began, unable to hide his fascination. "Someone here’s a fan of the '80s," he whistled. "There aren’t many of these things left," he continued. "We’re not alone here; someone arrived just before us, maybe a few minutes ago," he added at the end.
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The others just shrugged, too tired to care about this odd detail. The fact that these brands had disappeared from the market three decades ago didn’t raise their suspicions; to them, it was just a quirky bauble.They passed by, unfazed, not bothering to investigate the detail. They ignored the first warning—a clue that could have helped them understand where they were and what awaited them. After all, it was just a place for one night, nothing more—that’s all they thought, at least.
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The two-story brick building, painted in a dull beige, seemed to drown in the darkness of the night, only lit by the faint beams of lamps above the room entrances and the greenish glow from the pool. The water in it was still, as if no one swim in it, in ages. The air was heavy, saturated with the scent of damp earth and old chlorine, irritating their nostrils. Silence reigned, broken only by the rustling of leaves swaying in the light breeze.
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"Vagabond Motel," Bastien read aloud. The name itself fit the place—"A rundown slum, we'll be begging for death once we go in there," he added, shaking his head. "There’s not a soul in sight," he scoffed under his breath, looking around the parking lot.
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"Man, a little adrenaline never killed anyone," Dimitri laughed,raising their eyebrows tossing his backpack over his shoulder. "Well, maybe except in horror movies," he chuckled loudly.
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"Which I hope weren’t filmed here," Bellamy muttered, his gaze fixed on the rusted motel sign.
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They made their way toward the entrance, the gravel and sand lifting under their feet. The bold Apollo pushed open the glass doors, and the bell above the threshold rang ominously, ushering them into the dim interior.
When the five friends crossed the threshold, their steps echoed in the empty hall. The glow of yellowish lamps illuminated the panelled walls and the polished wood of the counter, casting a warm but somewhat oppressive atmosphere. In front of them was a small table with a heavy sofa behind it – a’like a waiting area.
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— This is... charming? — Apollo furrowed his brow, glancing at the rows of keys on the wall, each in its own compartment, as if in a hotel that had forgotten the existence of magnetic cards.
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On the reception desk lay a massive phone, adorned with intricate ornaments, as though it had been plucked straight from another world. Beside it stood an old typewriter. Just next to it were yellowed handwritten notes — some dates and names without connections.
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The interior had an old-fashioned vibe, as if it came from another era.
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— Everything looks like it was in my Grandmother's house — Dimitri replied thoughtfully, running his fingers over the polished wood. — I wonder who takes care of this... open-air museum?
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Despite his sarcasm, he had to admit the place had its bizarre charm — as if someone had deliberately stopped time so that this space looked just like this. Stopped closer to the spot where they should find the concierge. Touching the cool wood of the counter, he wanted to check if what he was seeing was real. Every element, from the board with hundreds of keys to the old-fashioned typewriter, seemed to have its own history, though none of them were eager to delve into it. The sound of a bell rang, though there was no bell on the counter, and the group started searching for it. Then, out of nowhere, an elderly man appeared. Almost silently, as if inserted by an observer. He wore a pastel sweater with a rabbit on it, in a somewhat outdated style — the collar of a white shirt rose from underneath. On his right hand was a white glove, the other one missing or lost. In the dim light, his pale, chalky complexion revealed skin changes, suggesting he had issues with several diseases. Numerous veins, discolorations, and dark circles under his eyes, which he tried to hide behind a pair of round glasses — too small for his face. The old man’s eyes gleamed in the half-light, seeming to pierce through them all.
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— Welcome — his voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it filled the entire hall with its resonance. — I’m glad we have guests, oh yes, guests — he said with a wide smile and empty eyes.
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The five friends froze, staring at the man as if he were just another element of this surreal scene. Apollo cleared his throat and took a step forward, surprised by the cold, damp breeze that seemed to emanate from deep inside the reception.
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— Are there still available rooms? Your sign doesn’t look like it’s been changed — his extraordinary confidence evaporated in this strange atmosphere.
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The elderly man nodded, a barely noticeable, slightly sinister smile appearing on his face.
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— We always have available rooms, you’ve come to the right place — he said slowly, emphasizing each word. — I understand there are five of you?
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Apollo cleared his throat and reached for his wallet, wanting to pay right away. The old man raised his hand in the air, signaling for the boy to stop.
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— For now, I’ll just need your IDs, payment is made at check-out — he added calmly. After receiving the ID, he helped the boy complete a few formalities. Finally, he added mechanically: Vagabond has everything you... need.
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When he said this, he slowly turned toward the board and pulled out three keys — one of them he chose more carefully, paying attention to the number. He laid them on the counter, almost ceremoniously, wiping the dust with his finger.
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— The rooms are ready. I hope you all spend a... peaceful night here.
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His words sounded like a warning. The five friends exchanged glances.
Bastien stepped in front of Apollo and nervously pointed to the key with the number "17", which bothered him a lot.
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— You said there are plenty of free rooms — Bastien tried to calm his nerves — how come .. Otis, you’re only giving out three damn keys?!
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— No. I said we have free rooms, I didn’t specify how many. Young men,I prefer you call me Mr. Otis, like on the badge — the concierge added with a smile, unruffled — One person will spend the night alone, and the seventeenth room is our special one.
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Bastien pulled Apollo aside, feeling like someone had stabbed him between the eyes. He trusted his instincts, sometimes too much.
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— Something’s off here, this guy’s crazy! And you’re blind ! Let’s get the hell out of here! — he shook the frontman and pointed at the concierge.
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— Actually, we don’t have much of an option, we have to stay. You need to figure out who’s taking the room alone — Apollo moved away and adjusted his hoodie.
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Apollo was convinced that after the concert, he and Bellamy could level up, sealing their first night together. But then Bell, unexpectedly said:
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– You know, if Bas doesn't want to be alone, if he’s scared, I’ll take that special room, it’s not a big deal for me – He walked over to the blond guy and took his hand – Dear, you can still come by later – he added with a wink.
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Otis listened carefully to Bellamy's words, as if he himself was following an invisible storyline. When Bellamy stepped closer, the old man personally handed him the key, pressing it lightly into his hand. Bellamy looked at the white glove and feeling a strange, bony texture beneath the fabric, sending a chill down his spine. He took the opportunity to look into the man’s eyes, noting the yellowish tint in the whites and the three-colored irises.
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– To reach your rooms, you’ll need to exit the reception building and head toward the stairs you probably saw outside – Otis, explained with a barely perceptible smile – The bar and pool are open all night.
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His words hung in the air, creating an odd atmosphere of tension, as if behind those doors, all pretenses would vanish.
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*
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As the group of five left the reception and stepped outside, the same unsettlingly surreal scene unfolded before them. The turquoise surface of the pool reflected the cool neon lights flickering on its surface. Along the railing, lounge chairs were lined up in perfect order, empty and waiting, as if reserved for guests who would never arrive. The lights along the balconies cast a soft, muted glow, creating an eerie, almost spectral atmosphere.
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– It’s even stranger than before. And that water…– Bastien muttered, breaking the tense silence between them – It’s too clean here. Like it’s waiting for someone who will never show up.
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– Shut up. Maybe they just have excellent staff– Dimitri said, stepping closer to the pool and staring at its smooth surface.
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They felt the familiar mix of humidity and the intense smell of chlorine carried by a light breeze. Each room had red doors and windows adorned with curtains in the same deep shade. Bellamy glanced at the metal stairs, painted white, leading up. He already wanted to reach his room and finally rest after a long day. Apollo took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, then kissed it as they parted.
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– See ya later – he whispered softly to Bellamy's ear, before grabbing Bastien’s leather jacket and pulling him along – Come on, Grumpy, time to tuck you in – he chuckled.
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The others split up, choosing rooms on the lower floor, while Bellamy slowly made his way to the stairs leading up. The pool lights pulsed softly, and their reflections seemed to dance on the water’s surface, creating an illusion of a delicate ballet. Each step he took on the metal stairs echoed with a clear, unsettling sound that carried through the silence of their surroundings.
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When he finally reached the top step and walked along the row of closed rooms, he was struck by an intense feeling of being watched. Against his better judgment, he rested his hands on the cold, vintage railing and leaned out, looking around. He wasn’t afraid of jokes from his friends – that small evil – he felt that someone craftier, someone who knew his true identity and never took their eyes off him, was present.
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That someone might even have his brothers in their grasp, maybe even his father. He remembered the strange phone conversation and the man he had spotted in the crowd during the concert. At this moment, the line between reality and paranoia began to blur.
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– Damn bastard ! You won’t even leave me alone at the end of the world ! – he yelling.
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Finally reached the end of the hallway, where . . . green doors marked with the number seventeen awaited him. He hesitated for a moment, not opening them immediately. First, he checked the nearby rooms.
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– Is this one just green?” he paused – Maybe it’s some kind of VIP? – He asked himself a series of similar questions but returned to where he started.
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The old man wasn’t kidding – this room truly stood out. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. The metal creaked in the lock, and the door opened with slight resistance, revealing a pristine interior. As he crossed the threshold, he was met with the scent of sandalwood and vanilla – heavy, somewhat foreign.
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The room itself was both full and empty, not a trace of dust anywhere. He looked at the bed, potentially comfortable, positioned opposite a long dresser with a small television. The whole space seemed to close in on him, offering little comfort and casting a veil of claustrophobia.
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– Feels like something out of a sixties magazine or something – said, dropping his bag on the floor by the bed and testing the mattress – Not Bad, Not bad – he added, choking on the words halfway through, sending a text to Apollo before setting his phone on the nightstand.
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*
He cautiously opened the bathroom door, taking a deep breath as if he wanted to hold onto the moment. Muttered a curse under his breath, sensing that whatever happened here wouldn't be ordinary. He knew this place would summon something, he couldn’t ignore.
“Damn, it’s like some kind of hospital isolation room,” he laughed, though the sound was forced, as if even he didn’t believe his own words. Looking around, he felt that something was... off. “Maybe Bas was right,” he added uncertainly.
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White and pale green tiles stretched up to the ceiling, as if someone had tried to trap the space in a box. A round mirror, spattered with oil paint. A tiny sink where even a smurf’s hand wouldn’t fit. And further in, something that was supposed to resemble a shower, but didn’t quite serve its purpose. Nearby, tucked in the shadows, a toilet, as if the designer wanted even the simplest relief to induce fear. The finishing touch: a light bulb dangling from a cable on the ceiling – utterly useless.
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– Well, that’s about it, its end – closing the door.
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He stepped in reluctantly, shutting the door behind him like an intruder. He approached the shower, pulled back the hospital-style curtain, and placed a bottle of gel on the shelf—a “three-in ” as he always called it sarcastically. He crossed himself, not knowing why at that moment. He undressed—quickly—avoiding his reflection in the mirror. With a single flicker of light, his reflection stood waiting, motionless, with a strange, unnatural expression. It stared at him, its gaze not following his movements.
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Maybe five minutes passed. Bellamy had his eyes closed, letting the streams of cold water dull his senses. He felt a piercing chill, as though something stood next to him. His eyes snapped open, panic beginning to rise.
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– No way, someone was definitely here – muttered, leaning out for just a moment, but no one was there.
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The water continued to flow relentlessly, but with every stream, he thought he heard something whispering in the silence, repeating softly :
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“Raguel.”
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In the mirror, his reflection remained, now turned in profile toward the shower. Its gaze was almost mocking, murderous.
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The door to his room opened soundlessly, letting in a cold, red light that seemed to seep from another dimension. It was a prelude to the arrival of someone he’d already encountered today.
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Behind him, almost imperceptibly, a figure emerged. Darkness coiled around it like a shadow, blurring its shape. It looked like pure, materialized darkness. Instead of eyes, it had two pale points, cold like stars in the night sky – devoid of any trace of emotion.
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Strong hands closed around his neck, leaving him no chance to move. Bellamy tried to fight, but his body felt paralyzed, unable to resist. With unexpected force, the shower curtain was pulled open, revealing the space in front of him.
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The one holding him forcibly turned his head toward the door.
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He heard footsteps – heavy, deliberate, as if they belonged to someone in no hurry. In that moment, the door vanished, and in its place, an intensity filled the room, swallowing him whole.
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Irretrievably.
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2:30 a.m. became the moment of his disappearance, with the clock display frozen on that exact time
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