The Ironwood Parlor’s Reel

Our inaugural event at the Ironwood Manor, a Victorian relic perched on a cliff above the churning gray sea, was meant to be a showcase of professionalism. The building itself was a maze of creaking corridors and spiral staircases, its walls breathing the salt air through cracked plaster. Our host, a gaunt caretaker named Elroy, ensured no investigator went without strong black coffee and thick slices of seed cake, his hands trembling as he poured, his eyes darting to the ceiling. The buffet we provided—cold cuts and breads—sat untouched for most of the night, as the anticipation of the séance in the grand parlor overshadowed any hunger.

After a thorough exploration, where we noted the ironwood wainscoting in the Parlor, the hidden door behind the tapestry, and the chandelier that swayed without any draft, we began our vigil. Four of us—Elena, Marcus, Sylvia, and I—gathered around the heavy oak table that dominated the room. Its surface was scarred with initials and dates, as if decades of guests had carved their presence. Elroy had warned us with a crooked smile that the table was ‘affectionate.’ We dismissed it as local folklore.

We placed our fingertips on the table’s rim, barely touching, as per the technique. For a long while, nothing. The only sounds were the hiss of the sea below and the occasional groan of the house. Then, a subtle vibration, like a distant train. Marcus, our skeptic, chuckled nervously. ‘It’s just the wind,’ he said. But the vibration grew into a rhythmic shudder, and the table began to rock—slowly, then with increasing urgency. It slid a full foot across the floor, as if pushed by invisible hands, then lurched back, the legs scratching the wood.

Sylvia gasped, pulling back. ‘It wants to dance,’ she whispered. And indeed, the table began to spin, turning in a slow circle, then reversing, its movements akin to a waltz. We followed, our hands gliding over the surface, our feet shuffling to avoid being struck. Then, without warning, it stopped. A tense silence. ‘Ask it something,’ Elena urged, her voice taut. Marcus, eager to debunk, stepped away from the table, his hands raised in the air. ‘If you’re there, make the table move to me,’ he commanded, his tone mocking.

The table shot toward him with a violent jerk, slamming into his knees. He stumbled back, pale. Then, as if in reply, the chandelier above began to sway, its crystals clinking a discordant melody. Elroy, who had entered silently, stood in the doorway, his face ashen. ‘It’s the waltz,’ he croaked. ‘The waltz of the house. It wants you to join.’

We tried to end the vigil, but the table had other plans. It began to move in a frenzied circle, faster and faster, our hands now glued to it as if magnetized. The room grew cold, our breath visible. The hidden door behind the tapestry burst open, revealing a dark stairway, and from within came the faint sound of a waltz—a scratchy phonograph record playing a tune from the 1920s. The music grew louder, and the table lurched toward the doorway, dragging us with it.

We stumbled down the spiral steps, the table leading, our feet barely keeping pace. The stairway opened into a low-ceilinged basement room, lit by a single oil lamp. The walls were lined with photographs—dozens of them, all featuring a young woman in a white dress, dancing. In each photo, she was with a different partner, all of whom had their faces scratched out. The waltz music blared from a rusted phonograph in the corner, its horn trembling. The table came to a halt in the center of the room, and the music stopped.

Then the woman in the photographs stepped out from behind the phonograph, solid as we were, her dress stained with what looked like dried seaweed. Her face was blank—smooth, featureless skin where her eyes and mouth should be. She extended a hand toward Marcus, who had insulted the table. ‘You mock the dance,’ she said, her voice like stones grinding. ‘You shall lead.’ Marcus screamed, but the table rose on its legs, and the woman began to twirl him around, his feet lifting off the ground as if he were a marionette. We watched in horror as his body twisted and contorted, his bones cracking, until he collapsed, a broken heap.

The woman turned her blank face to us. ‘Your friend has learned the steps. Now, you must choose.’ She gestured to a rack of dresses hanging on the wall—all white, all tattered. ‘One of you will replace me,’ she said. ‘I have danced alone for seventy years. The sea takes the others, but I am bound. Choose.’

Elena, Sylvia, and I looked at each other. I felt a tug on my arm, and I glanced down—my hand was fused to the table, my skin beginning to merge with the wood. The woman laughed, a sound like dry leaves. ‘The table always chooses,’ she said. ‘It has chosen you.’ I pulled, but my arm stretched, sinew and bone elongating like taffy. The others screamed as the woman began to dance with me, waltzing in a jerky motion, while the table dragged me across the floor. I felt my feet leave the ground, my body spinning, my consciousness fading.

I awoke hours later on the parlor floor, the other investigators gone. Elroy stood over me, his face apologetic. ‘You were the lucky one,’ he said. ‘You only brushed against it. The others? They are part of the house now.’ He pointed to the wall, where new photographs had appeared—Elena, Sylvia, and Marcus, their faces scratched out, dancing with the woman. I looked at my hands; they were white, chalky, the texture of old plaster. Elroy helped me to my feet. ‘You’ll serve the waltz now,’ he said. ‘Every night, until the sea reclaims the manor.’ And as the phonograph began to play again, I realized I was already humming the tune, my feet beginning to move without my will, the Ironwood Manor’s reel claiming its newest dancer.