Dark Ballerina

She didn't sleep. Again.

After the call, Eleanor sat in the hallway for hours, staring at the phone like it might ring again. It didn't.

The music box had stopped playing at some point in the night. But she hadn't gone upstairs to check.

She wouldn't.

When the sky turned pale, Eleanor packed a bag—just the basics. Her phone, keys, the car charger, a sweater. The journal stayed on the vanity, untouched. She didn't want to carry it. She didn't want to look at it.

She just wanted out.

The car was cold when she started it. The engine rumbled low, a comfortingly normal sound in a world that suddenly wasn't.

She reversed down the long, crooked driveway. The fog was thicker than usual, and the trees pressed in on either side like they'd inched closer overnight.

But then—just as she reached the end of the gravel—her tires hit something.

A soft thump.

She slammed the brakes. Her heart flipped.

She stepped out slowly, squinting through the fog.

There was nothing there.

No branch. No animal. No body. Just gravel and mist and a long, empty road ahead.

She got back in, shaken. Shifted to drive. Pushed the pedal.

The wheels spun.

The car didn't move.

She tried again. More gas. A soft grinding sound answered. The tires weren't stuck—they were refusing to roll forward.

She shoved the door open and stormed to the front of the car.

And froze.

The road had disappeared.

Where there had been gravel and trees and the long familiar drive to town—there was now a wall of fog, thick and unmoving, like smoke frozen in place.

She reached out.

The moment her fingers touched it, a sharp cold pain shot up her arm. She yanked back, gasping. A faint red line bloomed across her palm. Like a cut.

Like glass.

She backed away.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—"

Then the music began to play again. Not from the house.

From the backseat.

Eleanor turned slowly.

The music box sat there, open, spinning. The ballerina turned gracefully, her head slightly tilted now—like she was watching Eleanor.

The car door slammed shut by itself.

Locked.

All four doors.

She pounded on the glass, yelling, screaming, but the fog outside just absorbed the sound.

Inside the car, the ballerina kept spinning.

The tune kept playing.

Slower now.