31-08-2025, 06:19 PM
Part 7 – The Final Vanish
When the lights finally surged back, the auditorium seemed to inhale as one. The glare was almost blinding after the suffocating blackness, and for a few seconds no one could process what they were seeing.
The veteran actor stood there alone. His hands clutched the golden statuette as though it were an anchor keeping him from collapsing. His smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of bewilderment that twisted slowly into fear.
But Rhea…
Rhea Malhotra was gone.
Not just missing, not merely hidden.
Gone.
The Grand Podium stood empty, a gleaming island of polished wood bathed in cruel white light. No trace of her emerald gown, no shadow lingering behind the podium, no flutter of fabric in retreat. Only absence. A hole carved into reality where she had stood just moments before.
A low murmur rippled through the audience, rising into frantic whispers. Some insisted it was an elaborate trick. Others swore they saw her dissolve, flicker, disintegrate into the darkness. A woman sobbed uncontrollably in the back rows. Someone shouted, “Check the wings!” and a handful of security guards rushed toward the stage.
But there was nothing.
The cameras, relentless and pitiless, kept flashing. One captured only the veteran actor’s trembling hand holding the award aloft. Another caught the podium, stark and empty, the microphone tilted ever so slightly, as if she had left mid-sentence.
And then, one final frame: a shimmering pool of emerald silk lying at the base of the podium, as though her gown had collapsed without her. The image froze in time, eerie and inexplicable.
Gasps turned to panic. People stood, some trying to push toward the exits, others craning their necks to see the stage. The hall swelled with chaotic noise—questions, demands, frightened voices tangled with desperate speculation.
Above it all, the veteran actor’s voice broke through, hoarse and trembling:
“She was right here… right here beside me.”
Stagehands clambered across the floorboards, running their palms over the polished surface, searching for trapdoors or mechanisms. But the wood was flawless, unbroken, seamless. One young stagehand bent low, eyes widening as he whispered:
“There’s… there’s an indentation.”
He traced it with his fingertips—so faint it could have been an illusion. A shallow impression, like the memory of a footprint pressed into the stage itself.
The hum returned.
That same mechanical vibration, subtle but undeniable, thrumming beneath the Grand Podium. Louder now, more deliberate, like a hidden heartbeat pulsing in the floor. Those standing closest felt it in their shoes, rattling faintly through the soles.
“It’s still going,” someone muttered, pale with dread.
Security barked orders, sealing the exits, locking the vast hall into a prison of confusion. The crowd swelled with unease, their movements restless, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of disbelief.
By the time order was restored, the truth was undeniable:
Rhea Malhotra had vanished in full view of thousands, under lights and cameras, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
She was not merely absent.
She was erased.
Somewhere in the balcony shadows, the saffron-robed figure leaned forward. His eyes gleamed, fixed on the empty podium, and his lips curved into the faintest smile.
A smile of recognition.
A smile of satisfaction.
As though this was the moment he had been waiting for all along.
The hall remained frozen in silence, the weight of absence pressing heavier than any sound. Even the air felt different, thinner, colder, hollow.
And then, at the very back of the auditorium, a child’s voice broke the stillness with a trembling whisper:
“She’s not coming back.”
The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to dismiss, chilling everyone who heard them.
Someone whispered, almost too softly to be heard:
“She didn’t leave. She was taken.”
The saffron-robed figure’s smile deepened.
And high above, in the rafters where no one thought to look, a single spotlight bulb gave a final sharp crack, and went dark.
When the lights finally surged back, the auditorium seemed to inhale as one. The glare was almost blinding after the suffocating blackness, and for a few seconds no one could process what they were seeing.
The veteran actor stood there alone. His hands clutched the golden statuette as though it were an anchor keeping him from collapsing. His smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of bewilderment that twisted slowly into fear.
But Rhea…
Rhea Malhotra was gone.
Not just missing, not merely hidden.
Gone.
The Grand Podium stood empty, a gleaming island of polished wood bathed in cruel white light. No trace of her emerald gown, no shadow lingering behind the podium, no flutter of fabric in retreat. Only absence. A hole carved into reality where she had stood just moments before.
A low murmur rippled through the audience, rising into frantic whispers. Some insisted it was an elaborate trick. Others swore they saw her dissolve, flicker, disintegrate into the darkness. A woman sobbed uncontrollably in the back rows. Someone shouted, “Check the wings!” and a handful of security guards rushed toward the stage.
But there was nothing.
The cameras, relentless and pitiless, kept flashing. One captured only the veteran actor’s trembling hand holding the award aloft. Another caught the podium, stark and empty, the microphone tilted ever so slightly, as if she had left mid-sentence.
And then, one final frame: a shimmering pool of emerald silk lying at the base of the podium, as though her gown had collapsed without her. The image froze in time, eerie and inexplicable.
Gasps turned to panic. People stood, some trying to push toward the exits, others craning their necks to see the stage. The hall swelled with chaotic noise—questions, demands, frightened voices tangled with desperate speculation.
Above it all, the veteran actor’s voice broke through, hoarse and trembling:
“She was right here… right here beside me.”
Stagehands clambered across the floorboards, running their palms over the polished surface, searching for trapdoors or mechanisms. But the wood was flawless, unbroken, seamless. One young stagehand bent low, eyes widening as he whispered:
“There’s… there’s an indentation.”
He traced it with his fingertips—so faint it could have been an illusion. A shallow impression, like the memory of a footprint pressed into the stage itself.
The hum returned.
That same mechanical vibration, subtle but undeniable, thrumming beneath the Grand Podium. Louder now, more deliberate, like a hidden heartbeat pulsing in the floor. Those standing closest felt it in their shoes, rattling faintly through the soles.
“It’s still going,” someone muttered, pale with dread.
Security barked orders, sealing the exits, locking the vast hall into a prison of confusion. The crowd swelled with unease, their movements restless, their voices overlapping in a rising tide of disbelief.
By the time order was restored, the truth was undeniable:
Rhea Malhotra had vanished in full view of thousands, under lights and cameras, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.
She was not merely absent.
She was erased.
Somewhere in the balcony shadows, the saffron-robed figure leaned forward. His eyes gleamed, fixed on the empty podium, and his lips curved into the faintest smile.
A smile of recognition.
A smile of satisfaction.
As though this was the moment he had been waiting for all along.
The hall remained frozen in silence, the weight of absence pressing heavier than any sound. Even the air felt different, thinner, colder, hollow.
And then, at the very back of the auditorium, a child’s voice broke the stillness with a trembling whisper:
“She’s not coming back.”
The words hung in the air like smoke, impossible to dismiss, chilling everyone who heard them.
Someone whispered, almost too softly to be heard:
“She didn’t leave. She was taken.”
The saffron-robed figure’s smile deepened.
And high above, in the rafters where no one thought to look, a single spotlight bulb gave a final sharp crack, and went dark.
-- oOo --
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