Dark Ballerina

Eleanor hadn't meant to go into the attic.

She told herself she was looking for candles, or maybe an old heater. The truth was simpler: the house was guiding her.

Every time she passed the narrow stairwell near the linen closet, the air turned cold. The floorboard creaked, even when she wasn't standing on it. Finally, one night, after hearing a faint scratch above her ceiling, she gave in.

The attic door groaned open with effort. The stairs were steep and narrow, coated in dust. At the top, she had to duck beneath the cobwebbed beams. There was barely enough light from her flickering flashlight.

She coughed once, the air thick with old things and older secrets.

The attic was full of trunks. A few broken chairs. A cracked mirror leaning against the wall. Moths scattered as she moved.

And then—near the back—a chest. Small, cedar, wrapped in a faded pink ribbon.

It wasn't locked.

Inside were ballet slippers, yellowed with age. Costumes too small for grown women, but beautiful—hand-stitched lace, pearl buttons, delicate tulle.

She lifted one, and a note slipped from its folds.

A child's handwriting:

For Annabel. My perfect ballerina.

The flashlight flickered. Something clinked against the bottom of the chest.

Eleanor pushed aside a slipper—and there it was.

A journal.

The cover was cracked leather. A corner of it was blackened, as if it had survived a fire. She opened it, gently.

The first few pages were innocent.

I danced again today. Mama said I float like air. But the girls laughed at me after class. They said my legs are fat. I hate them.

I asked the lady in the woods about a wish. She gave me the box. She said: "It takes what it's owed."

I bled on it tonight. My finger. I said the words. I want to be light. I want to be beautiful. I want to dance forever.

Eleanor froze.

A dark rust stain spread across the next page. She touched it before thinking.

It was dry blood.

She flipped further.

My waist is thinner now. The girls stopped laughing. I danced lead in Swan Lake. I didn't get tired. The box plays longer now.

Mama says I don't eat anymore. I don't have to. I am becoming grace itself.

And then, in shaky script:

I think the box watches me.

I heard it say my name when I tried to sleep. It wants something. More.

The final page was torn out.

Eleanor sat back, heart pounding. Her hand brushed the inside of the lid—and felt something taped underneath.

Another note, brittle and stained:

If no one gives, it takes. The line must not end. One girl, always one.

She dropped the journal and stood, knocking the chest over. The flashlight hit the floor and went out.

In the dark, a soft music began playing.

Not from the music box downstairs.

This time, it was above her.

A ballerina spinning in the air beams of the attic. Silent. Smiling.

Eleanor didn't wait. She ran down the stairs barefoot, journal clutched to her chest, ribbon dragging behind her like a trail of breath.