Nightmare Gallery: A Treasury of Twisted Terror Tales

The Last Flight

Lena had never been afraid of flying. As a child, she'd watched in awe as planes soared above, believing that the clouds held magical secrets. Now, in her thirties, she was still that dreamer, captivated by the mystery of the sky. That's why, when she found a last-minute ticket to a rare non-stop flight to Paris, she didn't hesitate to book it. A weekend getaway—just for herself.

The flight was smooth at first, the kind of calm, serene journey that lulled passengers into a sense of comfort. Lena settled into her seat by the window, peering out at the vast expanse of clouds beneath them. Her fellow passengers seemed at ease, a mix of tired businesspeople and vacationers, all caught in their own little worlds.

But there was something strange about this flight. The longer Lena stared out the window, the more she realized that the clouds weren't just clouds—they were moving, swirling in ways that didn't make sense. They seemed to twist, almost alive, and the colors shifted between brilliant whites and unsettling shades of gray, like something was about to break free from the sky.

Lena pulled the armrest up and turned her attention to the aisle. That's when she noticed the man sitting directly across from her. His eyes were fixed on her with a cold, unblinking stare, and his face seemed out of place—too pale, too perfect. His hair, a glossy black, was perfectly combed, and his suit looked expensive.

She tried to ignore him, dismissing it as her imagination running wild. It wasn't uncommon for people to make her feel uneasy. But this man... this man was different.

He didn't blink once.

She shifted in her seat, feeling an inexplicable chill, and glanced out the window again. The clouds now seemed to have an unnatural stillness, like something was pushing them into place. The plane jolted slightly, a sudden shift that rattled the air, but nothing seemed wrong.

Until the lights flickered.

A cold shiver ran down Lena's spine as the lights dimmed, then came back on with an unsettling buzz. The hum of the engines grew louder, a low thrum that made her feel trapped, claustrophobic. The stewardess, a young woman with an overly polite smile, came down the aisle and stopped by her row.

"Would you care for something to drink?" she asked, but there was something wrong with her voice—too rehearsed, too vacant.

"No, thank you," Lena said, her voice trembling slightly.

The stewardess nodded and moved on. But Lena couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, not just by the man across from her but by something more. The air in the cabin had thickened, and she could feel it in her lungs as if she were breathing in something other than oxygen.

The man across from her finally spoke.

"Do you know where you're going?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, though his lips didn't move much.

Lena's heart skipped a beat. She nodded, trying to act as if nothing was wrong, but she could feel her pulse racing.

"Paris," she replied, her voice sounding too loud in the stillness of the cabin.

The man smiled then, but it was empty, like a grin painted on a mask. His eyes never wavered.

"Paris is beautiful this time of year," he said, his voice like a whisper that seemed to come from inside her head, as though the words weren't his own.

Lena felt herself shiver. Something was terribly wrong. The air in the cabin was suffocating now, the walls closing in on her as if the plane itself were shrinking. She turned to look out the window again, but the view was gone. Instead of clouds, there was a void, a blackness that stretched endlessly into nothing. The horizon had disappeared, and all that remained was an overwhelming sense of isolation.

Her heart pounded as she looked around. Everyone else on the plane was eerily still. No one moved, no one spoke. The stewardess had stopped, mid-step, her face frozen in a strange, vacant expression. It was as if time itself had stopped.

The man across from her leaned forward, his face now inches from hers. His breath was cold against her skin, like the air of a tomb.

"You don't belong here, Lena," he said softly, his voice now so deep it seemed to vibrate through her chest. "This place... is not for you."

Lena could barely breathe. Panic rose in her chest, and her mind raced to make sense of what was happening. She reached for her seatbelt but found that her hands weren't working. The straps were no longer there. The seat was gone. She was floating in the empty air of the cabin.

"Where am I?" she gasped, her voice breaking.

"You're in the last place you'll ever be," the man whispered, his eyes darkening into endless pits. "And you're never leaving."

The cabin was silent, the hum of the engines now a dull roar, vibrating the very bones of the plane. The walls of the cabin seemed to stretch and contract, folding in on themselves, and the windows were no longer glass—they were as opaque as the void that surrounded them. Lena's hands pressed against the seat, but there was no seat. No floor beneath her feet.

The man's face twisted into something inhuman. His skin seemed to ripple, like an illusion, and beneath it, something darker and far more ancient writhed. He reached out with long, skeletal fingers, and Lena couldn't move, couldn't scream.

"You'll be with me now," he said.

And then, in a rush, everything went black.

When the plane finally landed, there were no announcements, no noise. The seatbelt signs flickered back to life, and the passengers, suddenly aware again, began to stir.

Lena's seat was empty. There was no sign of her, no trace left behind. Not even a bag.

The man sat in his seat, staring out the window at the night sky, his pale fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. He gave a thin smile.

"Just another soul to join the collection," he muttered.