Dark Ballerina

Eleanor climbed the stairs slowly.

Each step groaned like it knew what she was doing. Like it disapproved.

The music box sat at the top, delicate and still—its ballerina now pointing straight at her. That dainty porcelain arm felt accusatory. You're the one. It's your turn. Dance.

Eleanor didn't flinch.

She bent down and picked up the music box, her fingers brushing the cold brass. The lid slammed shut the moment she touched it.

Her breath caught.

Then the box opened itself again.

This time, the ballerina didn't spin.

She twitched. Just once.

Her tiny porcelain head jerked slightly to the left, like a doll reacting to sound.

"Nope," Eleanor muttered, backing up a step. "You're not real. You're just a cursed little story in a cursed little box."

She reached into her pocket—matches. Found in the kitchen drawer the night before.

"I should've done this days ago."

She struck a match and held it over the ballerina's delicate figure.

The flame flickered close to her tutu.

The music started playing again.

Only now—it sounded like screaming.

Not loud, but high and sharp beneath the melody. Like someone screaming through a keyhole. Eleanor nearly dropped the box.

But the ballerina wasn't burning.

Her tutu blackened but didn't melt. Her tiny legs didn't crack.

Instead, the box shuddered in Eleanor's hands—like it was breathing.

And the ballerina blinked.

One slow, deliberate blink.

Eleanor stumbled back, slamming into the wall.

The match burned down to her fingers. She dropped it, swore.

The music stopped.

Silence again.

The ballerina stood motionless—but now her arms had shifted positions.

Not raised. Not pointing.

Now they were crossed in front of her chest, like someone in a coffin.

The box clicked.

Shut itself again.

This time, it locked.