Dark Ballerina

Eleanor didn't run.

Not right away.

Christabel's reflection—smiling with blood in her teeth—held her in place. Not physically. Not with any force.

Just knowing.

Like Christabel knew something about her.

Eleanor blinked. The smile in the mirror was gone.

The room was empty.

No mirrors. No barre. Just Eleanor, standing alone in the abandoned school.

She turned and ran.

Back through the woods. Breath ragged. The map clenched in her fist like a weapon.

But when she reached the house…

The door was open.

And inside… music.

The same waltz.

Playing low. Distorted. A needle dragging on a record.

Eleanor stepped into the hallway. The music grew louder, coming from upstairs.

From her room.

She climbed the steps slowly. One by one.

Inside her room, the music box was open. The ballerina spun.

But she wasn't alone.

There was a costume laid out on the bed.

A tutu.

Pale blue. Nearly identical to the one worn by the mannequin beneath the house. Tiny silver ribbons stitched into the bodice.

It smelled like old perfume and blood.

A note lay on top.

"Rehearsal at midnight. Wear it.

Don't make us come down there."

Her heart thudded in her throat.

Suddenly—her arms moved. On their own.

She slapped them down, shaking. "No—no no no no—"

But her fingers were already undoing her shirt buttons.

A faint laugh echoed from behind the mirror.

She rushed to it. Covered it with a towel.

The music stopped.

But the costume was still there.

Waiting.

Like it always had been.