Dark Ballerina

Eleanor waited until daylight before she touched the journal again.

It sat on the vanity like a sleeping animal. The ink on the open page had dried, but the words lingered in her mind like a fever dream: You don't destroy the story. You become it.

She opened her laptop and searched the name written under the peeling wallpaper: Annabel Graye. Nothing came up.

No ballet competitions. No family records. Not even an obituary.

She tried again, this time adding the name of the town and the year she guessed Annabel might've been alive.

One result.

A scan of an old newspaper. Headline:

LOCAL GIRL VANISHES DAYS BEFORE DANCE RECITAL

The article was brief. Annabel Graye, age 14. Beloved ballet student. Last seen entering her home. Never came out.

No signs of struggle. No witnesses. Police assumed she ran away.

But what caught Eleanor's eye was the photo beneath it. It wasn't of Annabel.

It was of the house.

This house.

She slammed the laptop shut and grabbed the landline phone mounted on the hallway wall. The number was faded, but still legible: Margaret Rowe, her grandmother's cousin.

She remembered meeting Margaret once, years ago—a pale, silent woman who always wore gloves indoors.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

On the fourth ring, a voice answered. Fragile, dry as paper.

"…Hello?"

"Margaret? It's Eleanor. From the house—uh, I mean, my mother's side. I—" She swallowed. "I found something. A journal. It mentions a girl. Annabel."

Silence.

Then the voice returned. Shaky. Cold.

"You opened it."

"What?"

"You shouldn't have opened it."

Eleanor froze. "What do you mean?"

Margaret didn't answer right away. Eleanor could hear breathing—too fast, too shallow.

"You need to burn sage. Salt the doorways. Don't look in the mirrors after dark. And whatever you do… don't dance. Don't let it see you move."

"Margaret, what is happening to me?"

"It's not you, dear. It's her. She needs a girl. Always one. The line broke. The music box gets angry when it's denied."

Eleanor's blood turned cold. "So this happened to you?"

"No." A pause. "It happened to my sister."

Click.

The line went dead.

Eleanor stood there, the dial tone humming like a funeral bell in her ear.

Then—behind her—the sound of the music box lid creaking open upstairs.

And something small and sharp tapping against the floor.

Like ballet slippers.