Max sat against the crumbling stone wall, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The night was quiet, too quiet. Nothing moved. Nothing sounded except the gnawing wind that whispered through the cracks in the ancient city ruins. He had been running for hours, maybe more—he couldn't even remember anymore. His legs burned with every step, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode from his chest.
Three AM was closing in. He felt the sweat on his brow, the icy sting of the air on his skin, but still, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was behind him. He'd heard the stories. That's why he'd been so careful, why he'd taken the detour through this decrepit town instead of the highway. But it didn't matter. She was still here. She was everywhere.
The Dancing Woman.
It was said she would show up somewhere in the world, randomly, at midnight, and until three AM, she would dance. But if you saw her, if your eyes met hers for even a fraction of a second, you vanished. Gone. No trace. No memory of you left behind.
Max didn't believe it at first. He'd heard the rumors, the whispers in dark corners of bars and over campfires. People spoke of it like it was some kind of ghost story, something to scare kids. But the way they told it—no one had ever come back after seeing her. No one.
Now, here he was, lost in some godforsaken ruin, looking over his shoulder every few seconds like a cornered animal, the feeling of being watched scraping at his mind like fingernails on glass.
He forced himself to focus. There had to be a way out. He had to find a way to survive.
His fingers clenched the sharp edge of the stone he'd been leaning on, the rough surface cutting into his palm. He stood up, wincing from the pain in his legs. The sky was a shade of deep gray now, the faintest light beginning to push through the cracks in the broken walls, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.
Max took a slow step forward, the ground crunching under his boots. He couldn't stop moving. He knew that. If he stopped, if he stood still for even a second, she would find him. She always found you.
The stories said she danced until three. That was when she disappeared. But how could you wait that long?
His mind reeled as he pushed himself forward. She had to be close. She always was. Max had never been the type to believe in curses or fate. But something about this place, the ruins, the silence—it felt wrong. And then the stories he'd heard came back to him. They weren't stories. They weren't whispers meant to scare.
They were warnings.
He stopped suddenly, his breath catching in his throat. There, just at the edge of his vision, a flash of movement. He turned his head, eyes darting to the side. At first, he thought it was nothing, just the wind stirring the loose debris. But then he saw it again.
A woman. She moved in long, slow arcs, her body twisting and jerking in unnatural directions, as though each part of her was trying to escape the others. She was far off, but Max's heart slammed into his chest. He could feel her. She was real.
The moonlight glinted off something—maybe her hair. No, it wasn't hair.
He couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to.
Run.
Every instinct in his body screamed it. But he couldn't run. Not yet. He needed to know for sure. He needed to be sure this was happening, that it wasn't some fevered hallucination or an illusion.
Max stepped closer, his breath shallow, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. She was far, too far, but something tugged at him, something desperate, something that pulled him in.
Then, it happened.
She stopped.
Her limbs froze, the movement of her dance halting, like a broken machine. For a split second, everything stopped. The world stood still.
Max froze, his heart in his throat, staring at her.
The silence wrapped around him like a vice, suffocating him. He knew it was too late.
Her head jerked toward him. And when her eyes locked with his, Max felt a pull in his chest, a sudden, violent tug as though something was trying to drag him out of his skin. His body wanted to run, wanted to scream, but his legs were frozen. He couldn't look away.
Her face was pale, skin stretched too tight, as if it didn't fit. Her eyes were black, deep voids that seemed to eat up the very light around her. She didn't blink. She didn't move. She just stared at him.
Max's throat tightened. There was no escape. He had seen her.
He knew it was pointless to try, but he couldn't stop himself. His feet took one step back, then another.
She wasn't dancing anymore.
Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, and she took a single, slow step toward him. The noise was deafening then—like the screech of metal on stone, like nails on glass. It tore at his sanity, sending him into a panic he couldn't control.
His legs moved, then. They finally moved. He turned and ran. The ground beneath him seemed to sink with each step, his body pushing harder, faster, desperate. The wind screamed in his ears, the sound of his boots slamming into the cracked stone ringing in his head.
He had to get away. He had to.
But the darkness seemed to stretch out before him. No matter how far he ran, how fast, it was like he was trapped inside a maze of his own fear.
Max stumbled, crashing into a pile of jagged stone. His hand scraped against the sharp edges as he fell to the ground, pain lancing up his arm. He scrambled to his feet, hands trembling, but the instant he looked up—
She was there.
She was standing at the top of a set of stairs, staring at him. Her limbs were twisted in ways no human could ever bend.
Her mouth opened. No sound came out.
But Max felt it. The pressure. It was as if her voice was inside his mind, scraping at the edges, pushing at his skull, pounding through his temples. The air thickened. It grew colder.
Max stumbled back, his chest tight. His head was spinning. He couldn't breathe.
He was so close. He could feel the ground beneath him start to melt, the walls around him bending, warping. His legs didn't work anymore. He couldn't move. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.
The air grew colder, colder still.
And then, the world cracked.
A blinding light.
Max's body jerked, snapping back like a ragdoll, his heart splintering. He was frozen, unable to stop the pull, unable to resist. Every inch of his body screamed to fight, to run, but his limbs refused.
She moved closer, her face twisting into something cruel and hollow. Her smile—no, it wasn't a smile. It was a grotesque mockery of one.
The ground split beneath him, and he was falling. Falling. His screams echoed in his own head, and then—
It stopped.
He woke up, gasping, his hands clutched tight around the crumbling stone beneath him.
It was still dark.
The wind had stopped.
The only sound was the soft crackle of burning wood.
Max's chest was heaving, his legs shaking as he pushed himself to his feet. He turned, but there was nothing behind him. The ruins were still.
And the Dancing Woman—
She was gone.