The Demon in First Class

Flight 217 took off like any other—a late-night flight from New York to Los Angeles. The first-class cabin buzzed with quiet conversation, the rich and privileged lounging in plush leather seats, sipping champagne as they ascended into the night. But beneath the luxury, something sinister lurked, and soon, no one would be safe.

At the front of the cabin, a man sat alone. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, his skin was unnervingly pale, like wax left too long in the cold. His eyes, though barely visible beneath the brim of his black hat, glowed faintly, like embers smoldering in a dying fire. Those who glanced his way felt an inexplicable chill creep down their spines, but they quickly looked away, pretending everything was normal. They had no idea that nothing was.

As the plane climbed higher into the dark sky, the air inside the cabin began to shift. It wasn’t just colder—it was wrong. The lights flickered, and the hum of the engines seemed to grow distant, as if the plane were drifting through some forgotten corner of the world. A strange pressure built in the air, pressing down on the passengers, making it hard to breathe.

Then, the first scream.

It came from a woman seated near the middle of the cabin, her voice sharp and piercing, cutting through the low murmur of conversation. Her eyes were wide, her face pale as she clutched her seat, staring in horror at something no one else could see.

“My baby!” she shrieked. “Where’s my baby?!”

But there was no baby. There had never been a baby with her. The flight attendants rushed to her side, whispering soothing words, but the woman continued to scream, her face contorting into a mask of grief and terror.

The lights flickered again, and when they came back on, the woman was gone. Her seatbelt hung limp, as if she had simply evaporated into thin air. The attendants looked around in confusion, but none of them spoke.

At first, the other passengers whispered, trying to rationalize what had just happened. Maybe she’d gone to the restroom, or perhaps it was some kind of emergency. But deep down, they all knew something was terribly wrong. They could feel it.

Then, it happened again.

The businessman in the front row, the one who had been engrossed in his laptop since takeoff, suddenly sat bolt upright. His face twisted in agony, his hands clawing at his throat as if something invisible was choking the life out of him. His lips turned blue as he gasped for air, his eyes bulging in their sockets.

And just like that, he vanished.

The passengers watched, frozen in disbelief. One moment he was there, struggling, and the next he was gone, leaving only his laptop—its screen cracked and flickering with static.

Panic set in. People rushed toward the exits, but the doors were sealed. No one could leave. The flight attendants tried to calm the chaos, but their faces betrayed their own terror. The whispers spread, too quiet at first to be heard, but growing louder with each passing second: "We’re not alone."

And they weren’t.

The man in black—the one at the front of the cabin—slowly stood. His movements were unnaturally smooth, almost inhuman. His eyes burned brighter now, glowing a deep, blood-red. As he walked down the aisle, the air around him grew colder, and the lights flickered with each step he took. The passengers recoiled in horror, but they could not look away. It was as if something forced them to watch.

“Fear,” he whispered, his voice slithering through the cabin like a serpent. “It’s delicious.”

The lights flickered again, plunging the cabin into total darkness. The screams that followed were gut-wrenching—screams of pure, primal terror, as if the very essence of fear had taken hold of their souls and twisted it into something unspeakable.

One by one, the passengers disappeared. Some screamed as they were dragged into the void by unseen hands, their fingers clawing at the seats, leaving bloody streaks in the fabric. Others simply blinked out of existence, their faces frozen in silent horror.

A mother clutched her young son, whispering desperate prayers, but the boy was yanked from her arms, his cries cutting through the darkness before being silenced forever. The mother’s anguished sobs echoed in the now nearly empty cabin as she too vanished, leaving nothing but the lingering sound of her grief.

By the time the lights flickered back on, only a handful of passengers remained. They huddled together, trembling, their eyes darting around the cabin, searching for the man in black. But he was gone. Or so they thought.

Suddenly, the overhead bins began to rattle violently, slamming open and shut with deafening force. The windows creaked, the glass warping and bending as if something outside was pressing against it, trying to get in.

But it wasn’t outside. It was inside—in the very air they were breathing, in the darkness that now seemed alive, pulsating and hungry.

And then the voice came. Low, guttural, a voice that crawled into their ears and burrowed into their minds.

“I’m not finished.”

The last of the passengers screamed, but no one could hear them. Their bodies twisted, contorted, as if something unseen was tearing them apart from the inside. Blood poured from their eyes, their ears, their mouths, but still, they did not die. They could not die. They were trapped, suspended in a state of endless agony, their souls stretched to the breaking point, but never released.

The man in black appeared again, watching from the shadows, his eyes burning with sadistic delight. “You will stay with me,” he whispered, “for eternity.”

And then the plane was empty.

When Flight 217 landed in Los Angeles, the cabin crew and ground staff were greeted with a scene of perfect order. There was no blood, no signs of struggle—just neatly folded blankets and untouched meals. The passengers were simply gone, as if they had never existed.

The authorities searched, of course. Investigations were launched, news reports ran nonstop, but no trace of the passengers or crew was ever found. Families grieved for their loved ones, but they never received closure. Only silence.

But those who were on the plane—they are not at peace. They are trapped in the shadows, their souls locked in an eternal nightmare, where the man in black waits, feeding on their fear, forever.

And somewhere, in the endless dark, their whispers still linger:

"Help us... please... help..."

But no one can. No one will.

And the demon waits for his next flight, where more souls will vanish into the abyss, never to return.