The old dance hall smelled faintly of lemon polish and mildew, its once-grand chandeliers now dimmed to an eerie, flickering glow. Emma adjusted her coat, the weight of her stethoscope still lingering on her shoulders despite leaving it at home.

The charity event was a last-minute decision, a weak attempt to shake off her fatigue and the hollow ache of her life. Her parents used to love this place, she remembered. They spoke of the dance hall as if it were enchanted, a palace where love thrived under the spell of moonlit waltzes.

Now, the enchantment felt faded, a brittle thing on the verge of breaking.

“Emma, meet Victor,” the hostess chirped, her smile stretched too tight as she pushed a gaunt man in his fifties toward her. He moved with stiff unease, his eyes shadowed and sunken. “He’s here for the dancing lesson. Lucky you two found each other!”

Victor nodded, his lips barely twitching into what might have been a polite smile. Emma stifled a sigh. She hadn’t come here to dance, especially not with someone who looked like he belonged at a funeral.

The music began, a scratchy waltz that tugged at something deep in her chest. Victor stepped closer, his movements disjointed and wrong. She placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, cold as stone under her palm. They swayed, or rather stumbled, across the worn floorboards.

“You’re not much of a dancer,” Emma said, attempting levity.

Victor’s lips parted, revealing a faint, unsettling grin. “Neither are you.”

She chuckled nervously, but her laughter faltered when his eyes locked with hers. They weren’t just tired—they were ancient, swirling with a darkness she couldn’t name.

As the song drew on, Emma felt the world around her blur. The room grew colder, the chandelier’s light dimming to near-darkness. Her parents had spoken of magic here. This wasn’t it.

“I haven’t been here in decades,” Victor murmured. “My wife and I… we used to come. She loved to dance. Did you know this hall was built on bones?”

Emma blinked. “What?”

He gestured with a flick of his head toward the floor. “During the renovations, they found graves beneath it. The old caretaker didn’t see the point in moving them.”

She stopped moving, the music warping into a low, grinding hum. The room seemed smaller, suffocating. “Is this a joke? Because it’s not funny.”

Victor’s expression didn’t change. “Your parents loved this place too, didn’t they? I remember them. They were beautiful, but… unlucky.”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, stepping back. Her heart thudded, and she realized her feet were stuck. Not metaphorically—literally. The floor seemed to grip her shoes like molasses.

Victor loomed closer, his frame now towering, grotesque. His face split into a grin too wide for any human jaw. “I was there the night they danced their last waltz. So was my wife. They called it a tragedy. Four dancers gone in one night, crushed when the balcony collapsed.”

Emma’s breath hitched. That couldn’t be true. Her parents had spoken of leaving the hall because of a falling out, not a literal fall. “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Victor’s voice dropped, echoing unnaturally. The music slowed further, its melody unraveling into dissonant shrieks.

Then, she saw them.

Figures emerged from the shadows—her parents, young and vibrant, and a woman she didn’t recognize, her dress torn and stained with dark patches. Their faces were waxy, their eyes dull. They glided toward her, their bodies jerking in unnatural spasms like puppets on twisted strings.

“Emma,” her mother whispered, her voice soft and decayed. “Dance with us.”

“No!” Emma screamed, pulling at her legs as the floorboards seemed to ripple, skeletal hands clawing their way free from the grain. She turned to Victor, but he was no longer human. His flesh hung loose, his eyes blazing red.

“This hall doesn’t let go,” he hissed, his voice guttural. “We’ve all been waiting for the final waltz.”

The skeletal hands gripped her ankles, pulling her downward. The last thing she saw was her parents reaching for her, their faces warped into masks of grief and hunger. The music swelled, a triumphant dirge, as the dance floor claimed its newest partner.

When the doors to the hall reopened the next morning, the floor gleamed as if freshly polished, the air fragrant with lemon and mildew. The charity hostess smiled at the arriving guests, oblivious to the faint, bloody footprints leading into the wood grain.

The dance would begin again.

The End