What The Eyes Don't See

15 | Cinema Hall Horror

Everyone in the cinema hall laughed loudly at some joke that played out in the movie. Anay took a sip from the water bottle he had wedged in the seat slot.

Trying to focus on the movie now, he remembered that he had the popcorn. He thrust his hand into it and grabbed a few. He wasn't drowsy anymore. He looked at the screen, trying to follow the movie. It was a romantic scene between the main characters. A man and a woman were out on the street on a rainy night for some reason. The screen was dark; he had to squint to see and follow.

He went a few times at the popcorn and then his hand brushed against another soft hand in the bucket.

He smiled.

Suddenly happy and aware of her lavender fragrance, he retreated. He allowed her to take some of the popcorn and then said, "I thought you didn't like popcorn."

She didn't say anything, concentrating too hard at the romantic scene. He did not want to break her concentration. Let her get into the mood, he said to himself.

He absorbed himself into the movie again then, continuing to have the popcorn along with, seeing how the woman on screen was reaching out for the man's lips. He waited for her hand to come into the popcorn bucket again. And when it did, he did not pull his hand out. Their hands wriggled in the bucket for a few seconds before she pulled it out. And then they did it again.

It was now a game that was more enjoyable to him than the movie on the screen. He played with those fingers, and at one point, he thrust his long finger into the gap between her fingers and stroked it suggestively. She did not flinch.

Then the game became a bit bolder.

Her hand moved away from the popcorn bucket and traveled a few inches upward. He didn't dare to look down, for what if he embarrassed her and she withdrew her hand? But he could almost not breathe now, conscious of every centimeter that her fingers were moving up, and then a huge grin erupted on his lips as the fingers brushed against the fabric of his jeans. He relaxed and stretched his legs. He had been bearing that agony for a while now. Her hand in the popcorn bucket wedged between his legs had been teasing him, arousing him, and he hadn't been so aroused in a while, and now it was happening. It was really happening!

"Shan," he breathed her name and shut his eyes as he felt her fingers squeezing his unbearable hardness and they did that for a while, almost persistently, and then those fingers pushed upwards along his zipper and slipped into his shirt to play with the hair under his navel. They groped in an attempt to locate the button of his jeans. The theater was absolutely dark, and the nearest person was sitting several rows away. Shamelessly grinning at the prospect of what was going to happen, Anay moved to assist those delicate fingers groping him. He unbuttoned his jeans and sat with his arms on the head of his seat, letting her do what she wanted to. What he wanted to.

Her hand went right through the waistband of his briefs. Oh fuck! Was this real? He thanked his stars, he thanked the darkness of the hall, he thanked the popcorn, he thanked everything! He wanted to touch her too, and he wanted to do it so bad, but he desisted. What if she became conscious and pulled away?

It was the first time that he was feeling her like this. It was a moment of great joy, a memorable moment to cherish. Perhaps it was the resumption of the good things in his life. One good thing can obliterate a chain of jinxes. That was what was happening. The cloud of doom over his head was lifting. And to think he had thought, even though fleetingly, that she was the bad luck in his life. If anything, she would remove any ill luck his fate had in store for him.

His eyes still shut, he groaned. She was good at it. Undoubtedly. Her fingers, comfortably cold with all the air-conditioning, were the right mix of gentle touch and firm pressure. But he wanted her too. He could not just take. He had to give as well. Hell, he wanted to give! The boyhood kiss jumped back into his memory and he wanted it again. He wanted those lips on his and his tongue in her mouth, and he thought of how their smooth tongues would lock with each other, sliding up and down, copulating of their own accord. All caution be damned, he had the tremendous urge to kiss her. And then do more. Maybe fuck the movie and take her home. She wouldn't refuse now, would she?

He leaned forward in her direction, his lips puckered, and was just about to hold her chin with his hand, when he opened his eyes.

And he froze.

Shanaya was watching the movie with great interest, completely immersed in it, her attention totally on what was going on there. Her hands—both her hands—were in a tight fold across her chest, and she was even mouthing the lines of dialog. Her attention was not on him at all!

Then...who was it? Whose hand was on his cock, which he could still feel? That touch, it was so alive, so real! Whose touch was it?

Horrified, he looked down at his crotch. There was nothing. No hands had been touching him. Only, his pants were shamelessly open, his thing hanging out, now gone limp all of a sudden. And the pleasurable feeling that he was just having was completely gone too; instead, he felt a clammy, squishy feeling down there. It was cold, cold as he had never felt before, but worse than that was the feeling of something wriggling inside there still. He jumped up at once, spraying his popcorn all over the place, and quickly zipping up, ran out of the hall.

"Where are you going, Anay?" he heard Shanaya ask him in an utterly shocked voice.

But he was out of the cinema hall already. The lobby was empty; all the screens were playing their respective movies. He ran all the way up to the nearest bathroom, and once there, he stood in front of the mirror and pulled up his shirt. The sight made him scream in horror.

Right from his navel to his groin, and creeping into the waistline of his boxers, were dozens of black fingermarks. They looked like scratches made all over his skin, but instead of being red with blood, they were made of some black, tarry substance. And he had that highly discomforting feeling that that was not all. Deep in there, he felt the cold clamminess of it all still. In terror, he slowly pulled his briefs down, and was beset with such nausea that made him faint. There, inside, on his inner thighs and—oh, Lord!—even on his penis, there was a deep black sludge. The goo dripped from him on the floor, and there was a copious amount of it, like he had been smeared profusely with that devil's bile. No, worse! It was as if someone had dipped their hands in it and fondled him. Over and over again. He rushed to the toilet, to wash away those infernal marks, shrieking, for there was now a freezing cold sensation down there that shot an ache up to his testicles, and then he realized—the pain wasn't just of the cold. Whatever had been sitting next to him in the dark movie hall had been trying to squeeze his manhood out of him.

Furiously, he threw water on himself, and cleaned whatever he could. The marks seemed to lighten, but he knew it would be a long time before they vanished. And he was in the toilet, locked inside, washing himself, when he was suddenly aware of the absolute silence the was around him, and then there was another hair-raising realization—that of a cold, cold breath falling upon the nape of his neck.

Did he dare turn behind and look?

No, he didn't.

For he knew what he would see—he would see the blazing blue eyes of the thing that was slowly taking him along to hell, and under those eyes, even in the absence of a mouth, there would be a wicked grin of triumph.

Pushing the door open as hard as he could, and nearly slipping on those slippery tiles, he ran out of that bathroom as fast as he could.