Dance Of Death

• Alisanne Withayaban, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2022

The stage was basked in shadows, with only a sliver of moonlight lighting up a lone dancer, spinning around and around nonstop. Alone she was, for all the centuries that had come and gone, she had never seemed to age. Many years ago, the theatre had been abandoned, and everything, apart from the stage, had been destroyed.
A forest had grown around the wreckage when the young count and his butler had arrived, partly because they were lost, partly to see if the stories were true
The legends say that a young ballerina still danced in the wreckage. Storytellers whispered that in her showbiz days, she was known as the “Swan,” the greatest dancer of all time. One day, the man she had loved ordered the theatre, the only home she had ever known to be destroyed, after believing the rumours of witchcraft. Enraged and heartbroken, she had attacked the man and his new lover with a knife, slitting both their throats. She had vowed to return and end whoever dared to desecrate the theatre remains.
As the two travellers approached the stage, the count couldn’t help, but be entranced by waist-length locks the colour of wheat, and the hourglass body. His butler tried to hold his master back. There was something eerie about her. Her movements were completely perfect, with no indication of fatigue, and her skin was so snowy-white, it almost seemed bloodless. A shadow seemed to hang over her face, shielding her eyes from view. He tried to retreat before she spotted them, but his master looked under an enchantment.
As the dancer turned her head, a flash of glowing red glinted faintly. The count continued, unfazed. Finally, the ballerina noticed him. She lifted a smooth hand, silently asking for a dance. The count instantly took her hand, and the two of them began to dance, their movements as seamless as a river.
Two hours later, the ballerina was still twirling nonstop. The count’s bloodstream had stopped because of the dancer’s vice-like grip. He tried to escape, but her strength outweighed his own. He began struggling, like a fish on land, or an animal caught in a hunting net. Finally, the blonde haired angel looked up. Her glowing red eyes were the shade of freshly spilled blood. She grinned, and the count blanched in horror, seeing a pair of long, bat-like fangs. As he opened his mouth to scream, something long and sharp punctured his back.
In his dying moments, the ballerina’s name had finally shown its other side, as it had for her other male victims. Swan, a graceful creature, but as deadly and possessive as a mother bear.