****
It was an hour later and Emilee lay in her sleeping bag, staring at the ceiling. Beads of sweat collected on her forehead. There was somebody—or something—above her. She could hear movements and the soft tap, tap sound of dancing. She knew it well. She shut her eyes tight and willed herself to sleep. Just a dream, she told herself. Just a dream.
Yet there was the same sound—sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. It was like somebody spun and leapt right above her head, yet she did not dare look at what did it. Maybe it's just some other student playing a prank on me. Maybe it's even Jackson. Suddenly, she was filled with anger. Jackson. The rat. She leapt to her feet and turned around. There was nobody in sight, but she could still hear the sound of dancing—sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep.
She frowned, leaned downward, and scooped up the bottle of alcohol. She took a swig and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Liquid courage. Emilee Kensington did not believe in ghosts. Emilee Kensington had gotten into the ballet academy through strength and wit, and that same strength and wit would keep her from becoming a public joke by showing that she was not somebody to be made a fool of.
I bet the last thing they expect me to do is dance, she thought, frowning. Fine. I'll give them my best. She shut her eyes and recalled the steps to Swan Lake. She remembered only a fair few, but she still gave it her best anyway. Her feet sprung out even without her ballet slippers and she turned. Suddenly, she flew. The air whistled through her hair and her ears buzzed. The sound of music, classical, filled the stage. She laughed at how far Jackson would go in order to make fun of her and continued to move.
As she danced, she heard the same sound behind her. Sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. She whirled around, turned, and saw a dark shadow at the base of the curtains. She could see the shadow moving to the beat of the music and noted when his feet touched the ground and made the sweeping and tapping noises. One thing that she also noticed was that the man was very good, far better than she had ever seen. Better than Jackson. A nervous chill ran down her spine.
No, Jackson must have gotten a senior to do this, she thought, frowning. It's not like this is a one man show. She frowned and turned, spinning. She then stopped a moment to watch the shadow and began to copy his movements. Soon, her feet moved to the shadow's beat and she heard herself make the same noises. She went sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep.
And then the shadow went sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep.
Laughing, she spun. Hazing was a lot more fun when she was dancing and drunk. She wondered how she could have ever been so afraid. "This is amazing. Who are you? You sure dance well."
The shadow danced again, but this time he spun into her vision and out of the darkness of the curtains. He was tall and thin and in a black leotard, and he wore a mask that looked as though it had once been silver but now had traces of vibrant orange rust meandering over the surface. Silently, he extended his hand to her and withdrew his foot backward with perfect grace. Smirking, she bowed too and then reached for his hand. When she touched him, he was surprisingly cold.
"Were you waiting for me for long?" she asked. "You're like ice."
The face turned toward hers, expressionless beyond his silver mask. He grabbed her waist and flipped her outward, and she once again felt like she was flying. But better. This man was amazing. He took her currently iffy skills and turned them into something beautiful. As she moved in his arms and looked at half of her reflection in the mask, she felt as if she was Odette. An Odette wearing jeans and mismatched socks, but Odette all the same.
She danced for ages, longer than she ever had before. Always, they went to the same beat―sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. She twirled and twisted, but soon she began to become drenched in sweat. When she looked down, she gasped when she saw that her socks were soaked with blood. More blood than she had ever seen before. How could she not have noticed that? Drunk. I'm drunk. Need to stop, she realized, reaching down and squeezing some of the blood from her sodden sock mid-step.
But still her partner danced.
As her feet quivered and her shirt became soaked with yet more sweat, she panicked. She looked at her partner and saw that there was no sweat and no blood. Fear hissed like an angry snake. There was no human being alive that could dance for three hours and not be covered in sweat. On top of that, his hands were still cold. Cold like porcelain. Her eyes widened.
"This isn't funny," she said.
Her partner said nothing.
"Really, it isn't," she said, as he lifted her into the air. She noted how sore her sides were. "This isn't just hazing anymore. I'm done. My body hurts."
Yet again, silence. Panic seeped through her skin, her very pores. She turned to stare at his face and thought, This isn't…He isn't…Oh, God…
Sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep.
She had two choices―dance with her partner until morning and Jackson came to rescue her, or stop and get her bones snapped apart. Her eyes widened. How long did she have? Jackson was going to come get her at six. As her partner tossed her into the air, she looked over her shoulder and saw that it was four-fifteen. Two hours. She could live with two hours.
Her heart pounded harder as her partner picked up the pace and twirled her. Sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. She felt sick to her stomach and vomit poured from her throat in a sour volcanic upheaval, but still she danced. She lifted her legs and twirled. Anything, anything, would feel better than having her bones snapped at the joints.
The clock's ticking filled her head along with the music's beat. She began to listen to it as she heard her partner's footsteps―sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. When four-fifteen turned to five-thirty, her feet felt close to breaking beneath her, but it was better her feet than her knees. Better her feet than her neck, too. She didn't care if she never danced again, as long as she got out of here and got to see her family.
When five-thirty turned to six, she could scarcely think. Her partner was nothing but an unnatural haze, yet she knew that he had the strength to kill her, to break her body into pieces. As she twirled and twisted, listening to his pace, she heard the same old beat―sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. Her tongue was a salted slug stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her lips were dry and cracked. Her bones clanked and ached, desperate to stop.
At six' o seven, the sound of a door opening caught her attention, but her partner's arms were still around her, and she could not stop. What if Jackson can do nothing? What if I die? She turned and heard the same beat. Sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep. There was the sound of a curtain drawing back and an entire group's laughter. When she twirled, she caught sight of ten faces and wondered what they could be laughing at. Her partner was going to kill her. He was going to snap her arms clear off. Did they really think that was funny?
As she continued to dance―sweep, tap, tap. Sweep, tap, tap, sweep―the sound of laughter stopped. Jackson stepped forward, and she turned around mid-step. As long as she kept dancing, even backward, she would be okay.
"Emilee," Jackson said, his eyes wide with fear. "Oh my God, Emilee, what are you doing? What the hell happened?"
"He's here," she croaked. "He came. Don't you see him?"
Jackson said nothing, and Emilee whipped around. Only there was no one there. She stopped dancing and felt her body sway. Lights danced before her eyes.
"Emilee, don't you see yourself?" Jackson asked.
Somebody behind Jackson screamed, "Somebody call 9-1-1."
Emilee turned toward the mirrors that covered the stage. Before her, she saw a blood drenched, sweaty girl in jeans. Half of her face was pale and half of her face was smeared with rust―but it was blood. The smell of metal, she thought, looking down at her blood sodden hands. She stared into her own eyes before falling to the stage while being enclosed by darkness.
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About the author:
Stephanie Campbell is a novelist in Ogden, Utah, w
here she lives with her family and too many dogs. Her interests include history, traveling, classic movies, and biographies. She published her first book at seventeen and has continued to write with the goal of being a career novelist. She is the author of the novels Poachers, Dragon Night, Tasting Silver, Keeping Freedom, Late but not Never, Case Closed, Icy Tales of Draga, E is for Eternity, Specimen X, and P.S. I Killed My Mother, all of which are being published or have been published by traditional houses.
Dancing with Absinth Page 2