The van rattled like it was held together by duct tape and determination. Nick had been cursing at the engine for the last forty miles, but the old beast still trundled down the deserted highway. Hub sat in the passenger seat, boots up on the dash, flipping through an old setlist while Rage and Joey slumped in the back, half-asleep, the sticky Louisiana heat thick in the air despite the whine of the overworked AC.

They hadn’t seen another car in miles.

“Tell me again why we’re playing some no-name club in the middle of nowhere?” Rage muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “This place ain’t even on Google Maps.”

“Because,” Hub sighed, “it was the only gig between Houston and Tallahassee that didn’t cancel on us.”

Joey yawned. “So what’s the deal with this place? The Rock? Sounds like every other dive we’ve played so far.”

Nick, gripping the wheel, gave a humorless chuckle. “More like The Ruin, if the pictures are right. I looked it up, place has been closed for years. But I called the guy who booked us, and he swore it’s open. Said we’d have a crowd.”

“You sure we’re not walking into a scam?” Rage asked.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Hub muttered.

Nick pointed ahead to a flickering neon sign just off the highway. The glow illuminated a battered wooden building, its windows lined with faded trinkets, animal bones, and old jars filled with murky liquid. The words Bayou Voodoo & Curios buzzed weakly in red light above the entrance.

“Hell yes,” Joey grinned. “A real Louisiana roadside voodoo shop. We gotta stop.”

“Dude,” Rage groaned. “We don’t have time to buy alligator skulls and fake shrunken heads.”

“Come on, we’re in Louisiana. Live a little,” Joey said, already unbuckling. “Besides, we need snacks.”

Nick sighed but pulled the van into the dusty lot. The second the engine cut off, the night seemed to press in on them, thick, unmoving.

The shop smelled of dried herbs, candle wax. Shelves overflowed with bizarre trinkets, dried chicken feet, rusted charms, faded tarot decks. A dark-eyed woman, her face lined with age but her posture upright and sharp, watched them from behind the counter. She wore a necklace of tiny bones and gold coins, and her fingers, heavy with rings, drummed slowly against the wood.

“You’re travelers,” she said, her voice low and smooth. “You’re looking for something you don’t know you need.”

Joey elbowed Hub, smirking. “See? This is exactly what I was hoping for.”

The woman’s gaze locked onto Nick. “You play music. You go to The Rock.”

The air in the shop seemed to tighten. Hub frowned. “How do you…”

“I know. And I know what waits there,” she said. “You play, you disappear. Like the others.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a small wooden box. Inside were four handmade gris-gris pendants, small cloth bundles tied with twine, stitched with strange sigils. “Take these. Wear them. Or don’t play at all.”

Rage scoffed. “Let me guess, they’re fifty bucks each?”

The woman didn’t blink. “No charge. Only warning.”

Joey picked one up, inspecting the delicate stitching. “Okay, but… if we don’t wear them, what happens?”

Her expression darkened. “Then by morning, you will be nothing but a name on the sign.”

Silence settled between them. The old wooden floor creaked beneath their feet as if the shop itself was holding its breath.

Hub exhaled sharply and set the gris-gris back into the box. “Appreciate the spooky vibes, but we’ll pass.”

Nick gave a nervous laugh, steering them toward the door. “Thanks for the warning, though. See you around.”

The woman didn’t stop them. But as they left, she called out one last thing:

“When the drinks turn, it’s already too late.”

The GPS took them down a narrow road lined with twisted oak trees, their branches curling like skeletal fingers in the dark. The air smelled different out here, thick, earthy, like something had been buried deep and left to rot. When the headlights finally caught the sign for The Rock, the band went silent.

The club sat at the edge of an empty lot, surrounded by weeds that had reclaimed the pavement. The marquee above the entrance hung crooked, its faded lettering barely legible except for one thing, THUNDER SLEDGE was scrawled across it. The letters were cracked and faded, as if they’d been there for decades.

Joey let out a low whistle. “Holy shit. Thunder Sledge. You guys ever hear of them?”

Rage frowned. “Yeah… I think so. Weren’t they some underground metal band from the ’80s? There was some weird rumor about them.”

Nick nodded slowly. “Yeah. They played a show and just… vanished. No one ever saw them again.”

Hub scoffed, “Creepy as hell, but come on. We’ve got a gig to play.”

He cast one last glance at the marquee, a knot forming in his stomach.

Joey leaned towards Rage; “Jesus. This place looks like it’s been abandoned since the ‘80s.”

“Pretty sure it has,” Rage muttered.

There was a single light on, a red neon glow bleeding through the dust-coated windows. The front door stood slightly ajar, as if waiting.

They climbed out, stretching sore muscles, their footsteps crunching on gravel and broken glass. The humid air clung to them as they circled to the back of the van, hauling out cases and cables. As they did, Hub glanced at the entrance again.

For a moment, just a flicker, he thought he saw something move inside. A shape standing just beyond the doorway, watching.

Then it was gone.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and cigarettes. The lighting was dim, a mix of flickering neon signs and low-hanging bulbs casting long shadows along the bar.

Hub set his bass case down and made his way to the bar, where a figure stood polishing a glass with slow, deliberate movements. The bartender was tall, wiry, with dark eyes that reflected the low light unnaturally, he didn’t look up when Hub approached.

“Hey,” Hub said, leaning on the bar. “I’m Hub. This is our band, Obsidian Casket. We’re booked to play tonight.”

The bartender finally looked up, his expression unreadable. “I know who you are.”

Hub frowned. “Uh… cool. So, who do we talk to about setup?”

The man smirked, setting the glass down. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”

Something about the way he said it made Hub uneasy. He nodded slowly and turned back toward the stage, where Nick and Joey were setting up. A few patrons were scattered across the club, their faces shadowed, expressions blank. As the band sound checked, more people filtered in, emerging from the dim corners of the club until, by the time they were ready to play, the place was packed with metal heads, far more than seemed possible for a place that had looked abandoned an hour ago.

The crowd pressed close to the stage, their faces expectant. The lights dimmed further, and a hush fell over the room as Hub stepped up to the microphone.

He towered over the audience at 6’4”, his muscular frame clad in a faded green t-shirt, black pants, and worn biker boots. The dim light caught the elongated vampire tooth caps he wore over his canines, adding an eerie touch to his presence.

Nick counted them in with a slow, thunderous drumbeat, and the band launched into their first song. The heavy distortion of Rage’s guitar intertwined with the mournful wail of Joey’s church organ, creating a dirge-like, hypnotic melody. The sound rolled through the club, thick and oppressive, like a funeral procession through mist.

Hub’s voice rose above the instruments, deep and commanding, dripping with vampiric allure. The crowd swayed, entranced, the flickering neon casting elongated shadows across their faces. Something about the way they moved felt… unnatural.

A waitress brought the band a round of beers and whiskey shots. The beer was frosty and smooth, a stark contrast to the thick, swampy air outside. Hub lifted the shot glass first, throwing it back before taking a long swig from his mug. The cold drink was shockingly crisp, cutting through the residual burn of the whiskey.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned into the mic. “How’s everybody doing tonight?”

A cheer rose from the crowd, scattered voices calling out in approval. The energy in the room buzzed like static, thick with excitement and something else, something less tangible, but no less present.

Hub grinned. “Damn, this beer is good. Maybe too good.”

The audience responded with laughter and shouts of agreement, lifting their drinks in his direction. With a smirk, he nodded to Nick, and the band launched into the next song.

As they played, Hub’s eyes drifted toward the back of the room. Near the soundboard, just beyond the shifting shadows, a lone figure stood, dark and indistinct, watching.

Then, without warning, the house lights flared, a blinding flash searing into Hub’s vision. He squeezed his eyes shut for a split second, the afterimage burning his retinas. When he blinked them clear, the figure was gone.

They were about halfway through their setlist when it started happening. Nick, locked into the rhythm of the song, blinked hard and swore he saw a couple of people near the front vanish. Just, gone. The space where they had been standing was empty, like they had never existed. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked around, scanning the crowd. The music pulsed through him, but his grip on the sticks faltered.

“Joey!” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the heavy distortion of the guitars and the rolling organ melody. Joey, positioned at the keyboard in front and to Nick’s left, turned his head slightly but kept playing.

“What?” Joey called back.

“Did you see that? Some people just….”

Another flicker, another person gone. Nick’s stomach dropped.

Rage, oblivious, was in his own world, completely immersed in his solo, fingers flying over the fretboard. Hub, headbanging toward Rage, didn’t notice either. The crowd was still moving, still swaying, but there were fewer of them now.

As Hub turned back to the mic after the solo, his gaze swept over the audience. His stomach twisted. People were vanishing. Not all at once, not in an obvious, dramatic way, just slowly, subtly, like smoke dissipating into the air. One moment someone was there, nodding along to the music, beer in hand, and the next, gone without a sound.

He kept singing, but his voice faltered slightly. His mind raced. What the hell was happening?

As the song ended, Rage, sweaty and satisfied from his solo, grabbed his beer from the amp next to him and took a long swig. The second it hit his tongue, he gagged, choking as he immediately spat it out onto the floor.

“Jesus, what the hell?” Rage wiped his mouth, his face contorted in disgust. “This was ice-cold five minutes ago. Now it tastes like it’s been sitting in a goddamn tomb for a hundred years. Warm, stale, bitter as hell.”

Joey glanced at his own drink, hesitated, then picked it up. He sniffed it, his expression darkening. Something was wrong.

Joey’s fingers hovered over the keys, but his mind raced back to the voodoo shop. The old woman’s warning echoed in his skull. “When the drinks turn, it’s already too late.”

His breath caught in his throat as he turned to Hub, his face pale under the dim lights. “Guys… the drinks. She warned us about this.”

Hub’s brows furrowed. “What are you talking about?”

Joey swallowed hard and gestured to Rage’s discarded beer, still foaming slightly from where it had been spat onto the stage floor. “The woman at the shop. She said when the drinks turn, it’s too late.”

Nick’s drumsticks hovered over his snare, “Too late for what?”

Joey didn’t have an answer. But as he looked out at the crowd, at the spaces where people had once stood, his stomach knotted. More were missing now. The packed venue was thinning out, but no one was leaving. No movement toward the door, no rush to the bar. They were just… vanishing.

A low voice cut through the hum of amplifiers and the distant murmur of the dwindling crowd. “If you want to live, you have to leave you’re gear behind and go. Now.”

Hub snapped his head toward the sound. In the shadows near the soundboard stood a figure, barely visible under the dim lights. His clothes were tattered, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow yet burning with urgency. And across his chest, stretched over his torn shirt, was a faded, cracked logo, THUNDER SLEDGE.

Hub’s breath hitched. “No way…”

“Who the hell?” Nick started, but the figure cut him off.

“You don’t have time! The bartender, he’s coming. If he touches you, you’re done. You’ll never leave this place.”

Hub’s heart pounded in his chest. “What do you mean, never leave? Who are you?”

“I was in a band, just like you,” the figure rasped. “We played here. We ignored the warnings. And now?” He shook his head. “Now, I’m nothing but a whisper in this place.”

A sudden, inhuman growl rumbled from across the room.

They turned toward the bar. The bartender stood unnaturally still, his hands resting on the counter. His face began to shift, his features twisting into something monstrous, his mouth stretching too wide, his eyes sinking into black pits, his skin warping
like melting wax.

Then he moved. Leaping over the bar in one unnatural motion, sprinting toward them.

“RUN!” the shadowed figure roared.

Hub didn’t hesitate. “Drop the gear! Now!”

Rage clutched his guitar instinctively but saw the terror in Hub’s eyes and let it go. Joey shoved the keyboard off its stand, the crash lost in the chaos as they all bolted for the side door.

Behind them, the bartender’s claws raked across the stage, tearing into the wood where they had stood just seconds before.

They burst through the backstage door. But instead of the small storage space they expected, they found themselves in a corridor. A long, twisting hallway that stretched into impossible directions.

Nick skidded to a stop. “What the hell? This can’t be real.”

The hall pulsed, shifting as if alive. The walls were lined with faded show posters of bands no one recognized, names scrawled across them in peeling ink. The air was thick, suffocating, filled with whispers that seemed to come from nowhere.

“Keep moving!” Hub yelled, shoving them forward. “There has to be a way out!”

Behind them, the bartender’s footsteps thundered into the hallway, too close.

“This way!” The voice cut through the chaos, sharp and urgent.

Hub turned toward the sound and saw the shadowed figure further down one of the corridors, his form barely distinguishable against the dim flickering lights. Without hesitation, Hub bolted toward him, motioning for the others to follow.

The hallway twisted unnaturally, the walls seeming to bend inward as if the entire place was alive and suffocating them. The bartender’s guttural growl echoed through the corridor, the sound vibrating in their chests like a deep, rattling snarl.

Nick risked a glance back. The bartender was gaining. His limbs moved too fast, too fluid, his distorted face stretched into a hideous sneer. His hands clawed the walls, leaving behind jagged gouges as he propelled himself forward, his speed almost inhuman.

“MOVE!” Hub bellowed, nearly shoving Joey ahead of him. The air around them grew thick, heavy, as if the hallway itself was resisting their escape.

“Faster!” The shadowed figure urged. “You’re close! Just keep running!”

Rage gasped for breath, his heartbeat hammering in his skull. The walls warped as they ran, shifting and twisting like a maze rearranging itself in real time. The lights overhead pulsed and dimmed, casting erratic shadows that made the corridor seem even more infinite.

Then, a light. A red EXIT sign.

“There!” Joey shouted.

The bartender let out a roar of fury, a sound that sent an electric jolt of terror down Hub’s spine. They were almost there but would they make it in time?

The bartender’s roar turned into a piercing shriek, the walls around them shuddering and distorting, as if the entire place was collapsing in on itself. The EXIT sign flickered violently, the red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

The shadowed figure reached the door first, slamming into it and throwing it open. A gust of frigid air rushed through, pulling them forward like an unseen force. “Go! Now!”

Hub didn’t hesitate, he lunged through the doorway, feeling the unnatural heat of the bartender’s breath right behind him. Nick and Joey dived after him, Rage stumbling but catching himself at the last second.

The moment the last of them crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang.

They were outside.

The morning sun had barely begun to rise, casting a dull gray light over the desolate lot where The Rock had once stood.

Hub gasped, his chest heaving. The others sprawled across the cracked pavement, their breaths ragged, hearts hammering.

Nick was the first to speak. “Did we…?”

Joey turned, staring at the empty space where the club had been. Nothing remained. No door. No walls. No building. Only the rusted, half-collapsed marquee, barely standing in the overgrown lot.

Hub swallowed hard and looked up.

Their name was on the sign.

OBSIDIAN CASKET

Faded, cracked paint. As if it had been there for decades.

A suffocating silence settled over them. Their instruments were gone. Their gear, their merch, everything they’d brought inside, erased along with the club.

Nick let out a hollow laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Jesus.”

Rage ran a shaking hand through his hair. “We were never supposed to make it out.”

Joey’s voice was barely a whisper. “That shadow guy… he saved us.”

Hub exhaled, still staring at the marquee. “Yeah. But he didn’t save himself.”

The van sat untouched where they had left it, the only proof that any of it had been real.

Hub finally tore his gaze away from the sign, pushing himself up. “Let’s go.”

No one argued. No one looked back.