Chapter Text
“Please return your tray tables to the upright position, stow all loose articles, and keep your seatbelt fastened as we begin our descent into the Denver area.”
Airplanes terrified you.
They always had. From a young age, you had taken cross-country flights and numerous vacations that called for air travel, but still you couldn’t shake the thought of being thousands of feet in the air. Helpless and alone, your presence onboard felt like an accident waiting to happen.
Still, you shoved your laptop back into the knapsack tucked away at your feet in the too-small space between your seat and the passenger’s one row ahead. You locked the tray table with a small ‘click’, hit resume on your phone, and tried to let the sounds of Spotify’s “Relax” playlist drain the stress out of your bones.
C’mon. You’re too old for this. We shouldn’t be afraid of flying.
The last half hour onboard went by without too much turbulence. The cabin passengers cheered upon arrival, but you remained seated as they stood up as the plane parked. Palms sweating, you opened the small window to your right to confirm the plane was indeed on the ground. So this is Colorado.
The trip had been 50/50 planned and unplanned. After months of training in on a new job, your company had compensated you a small bonus toward your salary as your hard work had reflected earning it. Sometimes, you thought to yourself, it was nice to work for a company that really cared about its employees. When the bonus was announced you knew exactly what you were going to spend it on- you had these plane tickets bookmarked for weeks. Ghost, the controversially Satanic-or-not-Satanic? band was touring the U.S. this year, but the tour skipped your state. So, you did the next best thing and meticulously planned a 2-day “what if” trip. Two weeks later, here you were in the middle of the Denver, Colorado airport with one carry-on, feeling the effects of your impulse decisions.
It was 1pm as the Uber arrived to take you to your hotel near the Amphitheatre of the show. Wait, Ritual. It’s called a Ritual, you reminded yourself. You weren’t a super fan of the group, but their music had charmed you for long enough that it felt like time to pull the trigger and make your way out to a performance in person. Their sound was elusive, you had trouble putting words to describe it. The enchantment of Papa’s voice, the piano, the mystery behind the band’s masks- everything was captivating.
“How long are you in town for? Or is this home?” The Uber driver’s voice snapped you back to reality.
Suddenly remembering you were in a stranger’s car far from home, you responded with safety in mind, “Home. I’m meeting my boyfriend and family at the hotel, actually. Big weekend planned with them.” He didn’t need to know that you were a single woman on this trip alone. He let out a “Hmmph,” nodding. Maybe he was expecting a different response. You shrugged off the intrusive thoughts against your safety and leaned your head against the window. Distant mountains and green grass met your gaze as the ostentatious airport was left in the rearview. At least the view here is nice.
Hotel check-in was a breeze. You gripped your travel-size backpack strap with one hand, hotel key card with the other. Usually, you opted for stairs but being on the eight floor wasn’t about to let that happen. 8270, 8270, 8270…A-ha! The room was far enough from the elevator that you shouldn’t hear anyone at ungodly hours of the day or night from within the too-thin hotel walls. Collapsing into bed, you thought of the day ahead of you. You opened your laptop, double, triple, then quadruple-checking your VIP ticket instructions, then sighed with a smile. This is really happening. Working five days a week had been taking a toll on your body and this mini vacation was exactly what you needed mentally.
The shower was scorching hot, also exactly what you needed, but this time physically. The long-running joke of women liking boiling hot showers was true in your case. “If it isn’t hot as Hell, I don’t want it!” you had once said to an ex-boyfriend. The rich lavender shampoo cleansed all travel anxiety, allowing you to relax and sing softly into the wonderful bathroom acoustics. After toweling off you wiped the stream from the mirror. You combed through your dark hair and began working on getting ready for tonight’s Ritual. You let out a snort, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
Black lace tights, ripped shorts, worn-in Doc Martens, and a deep-cut top made up tonight’s outfit. The outfit perfectly accentuated your curves and showed off your few tattoos. Your friends back home had cheered you on over FaceTime for having the guts to wear something this sexy outside of a nightclub. Maybe I should dress like this more often. You snapped a pic to post to show your friends that you had indeed made it safely to the hotel and were following through with the sexy black outfit. One Uber later and you arrived at the venue. Early entry was your savior today. Your merchandise bundle sat comfortably at your feet as you grabbed hold of the barricade on the stage-left side of the pit and smiled eagerly. Everyone around was friendly, not at all as intimidating as the metal band seemed.
Lights out. Spotlights on. Curtain drop. Showtime.
Eight musicians and Papa IV himself made their presence known as they flaunted about the stage. Research had informed you that the accompanying musicians were called Ghouls with identities unknown as part of a bigger storyline. Apparently, they actually worshipped Satan and were all part of a cult or something with this Papa leading it. If this band was anything, it was committed to the bit. They were cloaked in black, heavy layers from head to toe. Literally. The ghoul in front of you was the lead guitarist. He wore a thick black helmet with small white horns and even had his face covered despite an opening at the mouth of the mask. Weird. In the months spent coming to adore the band greatly, you hated to admit that your curiosity had gotten the best of you when you looked up what the band members looked like outside of costume and Ritual. Unfortunately, there were very few photos to be found of the ghouls. They were grainy, unfocused messes. They weren’t necessarily popular enough for paparazzi to stalk and considering the entire band looked much different in person than they did onstage, you understood why there wasn’t much evidence of them outside of their job. It made you reflect on your own job and how weirded out you would be if customers came up to you and assumed things about your life and asked for photographs when you weren’t working. You simply weren’t cut out for fame, and, apparently, neither was the band.
Headbanging ensued as more and more songs played out, but you couldn’t pull your eyes away from that guitar player. He was captivating. For being on the shorter side, he moved with so much energy and emulated raw charisma as he reached out his hand for you. He, that jackass , you thought, pulled away at the last second. You smiled and continued admiring the performance across the whole stage. The bandmates were feral and active. Papa egged them on and teased them like they were his naughty children in need of punishment. They ran, jumped, and played their hearts out. They also frequently stuck out their tongues and made very sexual gestures with hands and bodies. The guitarists slid sinful hands atop each other and the singer in the back corner ended up grinding on the stage floor. It was a lot more than you expected and left you a little turned on. Still, you felt yourself staring at the white-horned devil. He cocked his head and threw a pick right at your cleavage. This time you actually laughed out loud at his gesture; Another souvenir to take home. You thanked him and winked.
When the Ritual ended you were an emotional mess. Your cheeks ached from smiling for so long. The ice-cold sheets of the hotel down the road beckoned to you like a moth to a flame, consuming your every thought. You sagged into the third Uber of the trip, ears ringing, still smiling. You thanked the driver, this time a woman, whose own smile lingered a bit linger than you anticipated. Or maybe you were looking too far into things. God, do I need to get laid after a concert like that.
The hot steam of the shower warmed your skin. Muscles relaxed as threw your head back under the faucet and let the water flow down your head and neck while massaging that sweet complementary lavender shampoo into your scalp. You let out a sigh as one hand removed itself from shampoo duty, squeezing your breast. You toyed a finger loosely around the nipple, pinching it slightly. The concert had awoken something in you and your body decided it needed to be touched. Now.
You turned off the faucet and stepped out, eager to towel off and make your way into bed. It had been months since your last partner, so you were no stranger to the only sexual pleasure in life being self-indulgent. You dried your long, dark hair and tossed it back behind you. With the towel tied confidently at your chest, you opened the bathroom door, letting out a waft of steam. The steam cleared and as you looked into your open room, you screamed.
There was someone in your room. Not just any person. A man.