My name is Kian, and what I'm about to tell you is a story that has haunted me for years. It's about my sister, Lina, and a house we once lived in—a house that promised wealth and luxury but at a price so steep, no one would dare pay it knowingly. Except, we did. We paid it without even realizing what was at stake until it was too late.
We were poor—desperately so. My father worked odd jobs when he could, and my mother sewed clothes for the villagers, but it was never enough. Some nights, all we had to eat was a thin broth with scraps of bread. I remember the way my parents used to argue in hushed voices when they thought we were asleep, voices cracking under the strain of endless hunger and the fear of losing us. I could hear the frustration in my father's voice and the quiet sobs of my mother.
It was around this time when my father heard about the house. It was an old manor on the outskirts of the village, abandoned for decades, or so the rumors went. The villagers avoided it, saying it was cursed, that the families who moved there came into fortune but were never seen again. But desperate people don't believe in curses. Desperate people believe in survival.
We had nowhere else to go. So, one cold evening, we packed what little we had and moved into that old house. When we arrived, I felt a shiver run down my spine. It was huge, with tall, shadowy windows and a crumbling stone exterior, as if time itself had forgotten it. Vines crawled up the walls like fingers trying to reclaim it, and the air around it seemed thicker, as though the house was breathing. But we had no choice, and inside, it was warmer than the bitter cold of the outside world.
The first thing we noticed was that the house was already furnished. The furniture was worn but grand—old leather chairs, velvet curtains, chandeliers that sparkled in the dim light. It was strange, yes, but we were grateful. For once, it felt like luck was on our side.
The second thing we noticed was the basement. It was locked, sealed with a heavy iron padlock. My father tried to open it the day we moved in, but the keyhole was rusted, and no amount of force could budge it. We figured it was just an old storage space, perhaps dangerous or filled with debris. So, we left it alone.
But that was when things started to change.
The first night, I heard it—a faint sound, like music. It was soft, almost like a lullaby, drifting up from beneath the floorboards. I thought I was imagining it, but when I asked Lina the next morning, she said she heard it too. My parents didn't believe us. "Old houses make noises," my father said. But Lina and I knew better.
A few days later, the real strangeness began. It was subtle at first—a few coins scattered on the floor in the kitchen. My father found them one morning and pocketed them with a frown, muttering about how maybe the previous owners had dropped them. Then, it was more than just coins. A stack of bread appeared on the dining room table one morning—fresh bread, the smell of it filling the air, even though we hadn't baked any. We devoured it without question, our hunger overpowering any curiosity. Then came the clothes, rich and fine, hanging in our closets where only our tattered rags had been. A silk gown for my mother, polished shoes for my father, even toys for Lina and me—things we never could have afforded.
But the biggest change was the money. Gold coins, piles of them, showed up in corners of the rooms, under the beds, inside cabinets. We didn't know where they came from, but they were real, and they were ours. My father stopped working, my mother no longer sewed. We had everything we needed.
But with the wealth came something darker. The music, that soft, eerie melody, grew louder every night. It always came from the basement, and with it, the sound of movement—like someone was dancing.
One night, Lina woke me. "Do you hear it?" she whispered. I did. The sound of feet, bare and soft, gliding across the floor, moving in rhythm with the music. It was as if someone was performing a waltz in the dark. The sound was so faint, so delicate, but unmistakable. It was coming from the basement.
The next day, we found the key.
It was just sitting there on the kitchen counter, a rusty old key, like it had been waiting for us all along. My father picked it up, a look of confusion on his face. None of us had put it there.
My father hesitated for a moment but, driven by curiosity and perhaps something more—something unseen, he unlocked the basement door.
We descended the stairs cautiously, lanterns in hand, our shadows flickering against the damp stone walls. The basement was wide, cold, and empty, save for a single figure in the center of the room.
A girl.
She was young, around Lina's age, her skin pale and translucent like she hadn't seen sunlight in years. She wore a tattered white dress, her long black hair falling around her face as she moved, spinning in slow circles, her bare feet gliding soundlessly across the floor. And yet, we could hear her dance. It was as if the floor itself was echoing her movements, amplifying the soft tap of her feet.
She stopped when she saw us and smiled—a smile that sent a chill down my spine. Her eyes locked onto Lina, and I saw something dark in them, something ancient and desperate.
"I was like you once," she said softly, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "Before they chose me."
None of us knew what to say. My father finally managed to speak, his voice shaky. "Who…who are you?"
"I am the dancer," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "I have been here for so long, waiting. I cannot leave…not until someone takes my place."
We stood frozen, trying to make sense of her words. The girl smiled again, but this time it was different. There was a hunger in it, a longing. "The house gives you wealth, but it demands something in return," she said. "The house is never satisfied until it has a sacrifice."
"A sacrifice?" my father repeated, his voice trembling.
The dancer's eyes never left Lina. "I was chosen, long ago. And now, it's her turn."
"No," I whispered, stepping in front of Lina, my heart racing. "You can't have her."
The dancer tilted her head, as if considering my words. Then she turned to my father. "You wanted wealth," she said. "And the house gave it to you. But wealth comes at a price. You cannot leave here without paying that price."
Lina stepped forward, her face pale but calm. "If I stay," she asked, her voice steady, "will my family be safe?"
The dancer nodded. "You will have everything you ever wanted. Riches beyond measure. But you cannot leave until someone takes your place."
"No," I said, grabbing Lina's arm. "We'll find another way. We'll leave the house. We don't need the money."
"You can't leave," the dancer said simply. "Not without paying the price."
Lina looked at me, her eyes filled with a strange mixture of fear and acceptance. "It's okay, Kian," she whispered. "We have everything now. You'll be safe."
"I won't let you do this," I said, tears filling my eyes. But Lina was already stepping toward the dancer, her feet moving as if drawn by an invisible force.
The moment Lina touched the dancer's hand, the air in the basement seemed to shift. The dancer let out a long sigh, her body dissolving into a cloud of mist, vanishing into the darkness. And Lina—my sister, my brave, beautiful sister—began to dance.
Her feet moved in slow, graceful circles, her face blank, her eyes distant. She danced like the girl before her, spinning silently in the cold, dark basement. And I knew, with a sinking feeling in my chest, that she was gone.
We left the house the next morning. My parents couldn't bear to look at the basement door. We packed what we could and left, but the wealth stayed with us. The gold, the diamonds, the riches we had gained—they were still ours. But none of it mattered.
We never spoke of Lina again. No one knew what happened to her, except me. And sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear the soft shuffle of feet beneath the floorboards, the faint echo of a forgotten melody.
I wonder if she's still down there, dancing in the silent basement, waiting for the next family to come.
Because the house always demands its price.