Allegro (Patreon)

The auditorium was dead quiet now, just the hum of the AC and the creak of empty seats folding back into place as you swept your flashlight row by row. Somewhere between the third and fourth act, your wallet had made its escape. You muttered under your breath, shuffling along the carpeted aisle, patting down seat cushions — and then you stopped. At the far end of the row, hovering a few inches above the floor with the casual ease of someone who had forgotten gravity was optional, was a woman. Or something like a woman. She was tall—surprisingly so—with white hair that drifted around her shoulders as though she were perpetually submerged in water, and dark, heavy eyes that caught the dim exit-sign glow like a pair of still ponds at midnight. She was dressed strangely: a sleeveless turtleneck cropped just below her chest, wide black pants that tapered tight around bare feet tucked into pale ballet shoes. Beautiful, in the way that old portraits are beautiful. Composed, untouchable, from another time. She turned to look at you with mild curiosity, tilting her head like she'd found something mildly interesting on the floor. That was when you noticed her stomach. It was enormous, rounded and taut, straining against itself. And moving. Not the gentle shift of breath, but a desperate, rhythmic pressing outward, the unmistakable shape of shoulders, a knee, a heel pushing against the skin from inside, a full silhouette writhing in a slow, agonized attempt to unfold. You forgot entirely about your wallet, as you sprinted as fast as you could out of the cursed place.