The Lace-Faced Waltz

I’ve learned to keep the details of my nights to myself. People smile, nod, and then find a reason to be elsewhere. They see the flicker in my eyes and think I’m either lying or lost. But the truth is, I’ve been a spectator to things that have no place in our world, and the first performance I ever witnessed was in a house that smelled of fresh paint and new beginnings.

My family had just moved to the outskirts of a town that was little more than a bend in the highway, into a house that stood at the edge of a cranberry bog. The rooms were bright, the floors were new, and my bedroom had a window that faced a tangle of old oaks. I was five, and everything was a mystery waiting to be unraveled. But the first night I slept there, I woke to a sound like silk being drawn across wood.

I sat up in my bed, and the room was not my room. It was larger, with walls covered in faded damask, and a chandelier dripping with candles that burned with a cold, blue light. And there were people—dozens of them—dressed in gowns with bustles and men in tailcoats, their faces smooth as porcelain, but their eyes were hollow, filled with the same blue flame as the candles. They moved as if in a dream, circling the floor in a waltz that made no music. I remember the woman nearest me, her dress the color of dried blood, with lace at her throat that moved as if it were alive, and she smiled at me with a mouth that was too wide.

I watched, frozen, as they danced. The urge to join them was a physical pull, a hand on my chest, but a stronger instinct told me to flee. I slipped out of bed and crept to the door, and as I turned the knob, the room fell silent. I didn’t look back. I ran into the hallway, which was empty and dark, and I found my parents’ door, but when I opened it, the room was filled with the same dancers, twirling in the same blue light. I ran to the front door, but the foyer was a ballroom, and they were all there, all turning to face me with those hollow eyes.

I woke up on the floor of my room, the morning sun streaming through the window, and I told my parents about the dancers. They exchanged glances, and my mother said it was a dream, just a dream. But I knew better. The thrumming in my chest, the faint scent of candle wax and old perfume—those were not dreams.

As I grew older, the experiences didn’t stop. They grew more assertive. In that house, I would see a woman in the reflection of the toaster, her face a blur of sorrow. I would hear a child’s laughter from the crawlspace, but when my father opened it, there was nothing but dust and a dead rat. The final straw came when I was twelve, and I was in the basement, which was unfinished and smelled of damp soil. I saw a circle of figures standing in the center, all dressed in that moth-eaten finery, and they were all pointing at me. One of them, a man with a beard like a bramble patch, spoke in a voice that sounded like gravel crushing leaves: ‘You see us, and you must dance.’

I refused. I turned and climbed the steps, and behind me, I heard the sound of a thousand needle-heeled shoes clicking on the concrete. But when I reached the top, the basement door was locked from the outside. I pounded on it, screaming, until my father heard me and broke the lock. He found me huddled on the top step, and behind me, there was nothing but shadows.

A year later, we moved again. My father got a job in a different state, and I thought I could leave the dancers behind. But the town we settled in was old, with houses that had stood for over a century, and ours was a Victorian with a wrap-around porch and a turret that reached into the sky like a finger. The day we moved in, I saw a face in the attic window—a woman with hair the color of dried straw, and she pressed her palm against the glass.

The first night in that house, I woke to the sound of scraping. It came from the hallway, and when I opened my door, the hall was full of them, the same dancers, but older, more faded, their lace turning to cobwebs. They were waiting for me, and this time, there was no urge to run. There was only a pull, an inevitability. The lead dancer, a woman with a face like chiseled marble and a gown of tattered velvet, extended her hand. ‘You’ve grown,’ she said, her voice like a music box winding down. ‘Now, you will lead the dance.’

I took her hand, and the world spun. The hall dissolved into a dim ballroom with a mirror floor, and I was in a suit of black, and my feet moved without my will. The music began—a waltz, but the notes were wrong, sliding off-key, and the dancers all wore smiles that were too sharp. I danced with her for what felt like hours, and when the music stopped, she leaned in and whispered, ‘You will always see us, but now you will provide the music.’

When I woke, my mouth tasted of rust, and I found my violin, which I had never learned to play, sitting on my nightstand, its strings coated in a fine dust. Since then, I have tried to live a normal life, to push the visions away. But they are never far. I see them in the periphery—a man in a top hat at the bus stop, a woman in a hoop skirt in the grocery store line. And each night, I hear the faint strains of a waltz, and I know that they are waiting for me to pick up the violin and lead them in a dance that will never end.

If you know why I see them, why they chose me, I would be grateful. But I fear the answer is that I was never meant to understand, only to join. And the dance is about to begin again.