Dark Ballerina

Eleanor followed the map at sunrise.

The fog was thinner than usual. The trees were quiet. Too quiet. Like they were holding their breath.

She'd packed a flashlight, the old journal (just in case), and salt. Margaret's voice still echoed in her mind: "Salt the doorways. Don't look in the mirrors after dark."

The walk wasn't long, but it felt endless. The path twisted more than it should have, doubling back on itself like it didn't want to let her go forward.

But eventually, she found it.

A small building—almost a shed, but taller. With big, cracked windows and a pointed roof like a chapel.

The First School.

Its door hung half-open, crooked on its hinges.

She pushed inside.

Dust danced in the light. The floorboards were warped, covered in old scuff marks—dance shoes, maybe. Or something dragged.

Mirrors lined one wall. All broken.

A rusted barre still clung to the other.

She stepped inside slowly, the wooden floor creaking under her boots.

Then—a voice.

Clear. Young. Right behind her.

"You shouldn't be here."

Eleanor spun.

A girl stood in the corner.

Maybe fifteen. Pale, with sharp eyes and long dark hair pulled back in a braid. She wore a threadbare leotard and a skirt that shimmered in places where the dust hadn't stuck. Her feet were bare.

Eleanor swallowed. "Who are you?"

The girl tilted her head slightly.

"Christabel."

She stepped forward, just once. Her movements were precise. Controlled. Too controlled.

Eleanor backed up.

"You live here?"

Christabel shook her head. "No one lives here."

She walked to the shattered mirror wall and looked at herself.

Or—tried to.

There was no reflection.

Just Eleanor's, standing alone in the center of the room.

"I'm looking for answers," Eleanor said softly. "I found a journal. The music box. Annabel. She—she did something to it. Made a deal."

Christabel turned slowly.

"She didn't make the deal. She was the deal."

Eleanor's stomach turned.

"What does that mean?"

But Christabel was already drifting toward the barre, fingers trailing along the wood like she remembered it from another life.

"It chooses a girl. One every generation. Someone who aches to be seen. The music listens. Then it takes. Shape. Control. Blood. Whatever it needs."

Eleanor whispered, "So why not you?"

Christabel smiled faintly.

"I danced too well."

Then she looked at Eleanor—finally, fully.

"But you? You're just right."

And in the mirror—

Christabel's reflection appeared at last.

But she was smiling with blood in her teeth.