Dark Ballerina

The box hadn't moved again.

For hours, Eleanor sat across from it, back against the wall, legs pulled to her chest like a kid waiting out a storm. The ballerina stayed locked away.

She didn't sleep. She didn't eat.

She watched.

And when the sun shifted and threw light across the hallway floorboards, she saw something.

A faint seam in the wood.

She got up slowly and crossed the room. Knelt. Ran her fingers along the edge.

A hatch.

It blended perfectly into the floor—but now that she knew it was there, she could see it. A small ring of rusted iron. No dust on it at all.

Like it had been used.

She hesitated.

Then pulled.

It groaned open.

Below was a short, dark staircase. Not stone, not dirt. Wood. Polished. Too clean.

She grabbed a flashlight and descended.

The steps led to a small chamber—a hidden room beneath the house. The walls were lined with mirrors, all cracked at strange angles, as if they'd been shattered by movement, not time.

In the center stood a mannequin.

It wore a ballet costume. Lace. Pale blue.

Bloodstains around the waist.

Eleanor stepped closer. There was something beneath the mannequin's feet.

A nameplate.

Annabel Graye

Pas de Deux, Final Performance

Cancelled.

And behind it—a map. Hand-drawn. Faded. Showing the property as it once was.

There was the house.

But also: a smaller building near the woods. Circled in red.

Labeled:

"The First School."

She stared at it. Something stirred in her—curiosity mixed with nausea.

A voice whispered behind her ear.

Not imagined.

Real.

"That's where she practiced the final dance."

Eleanor turned.

No one there.

But the flashlight flickered. And in the cracked mirror across the room—

She saw her own reflection.

Only, her reflection was still dancing.