The town of Elder Hollow whispered tales about the old Ash Manor—where a girl once lived who could speak to mice and danced her way into royalty. That girl was Cinderella. But that was just a story, right? The truth was darker. Far darker.
Elena, a young historian obsessed with forgotten fairytales, had stumbled upon an old, tattered invitation at a village antique shop. Gold-foiled and fragile, it read: “You are cordially invited to the Grand Ball at Ash Manor. Midnight awaits.” It was dated over 150 years ago, and yet, somehow… it had her name on it. That night, she couldn’t sleep. The invitation sat on her desk, humming with a strange energy. As the clock struck midnight, the paper burst into flames—leaving behind nothing but ash and the faint sound of chimes echoing from nowhere.
The manor had long been abandoned, swallowed by vines and shadow. Its tall spires pierced the sky, and its broken windows resembled watching eyes. Elena entered with a flashlight, stepping into dust and silence. Faded portraits lined the walls—most of them slashed through. Only one remained untouched: a regal woman with ashen-blonde hair, in a tattered blue gown. Her eyes seemed almost… alive. Cinderella.
In the grand ballroom, the chandelier swayed though no wind blew. The broken clock at the end of the hall struck once. Twice. Then, music began to play. Phantom dancers appeared—flickering in and out of view. Shadows of nobles in twisted masks, locked in an eternal waltz. At the center stood her. Cinderella. Her gown was torn and stained with something dark. Her glass slippers were cracked. Her face was pale, lips blackened, and her eyes… empty voids. She extended her hand to Elena. “Elena,” she whispered. “Dance with me. It’s almost midnight.”
Elena fled to the library and discovered the truth: Cinderella had made a deal. When her fairy godmother turned away, the desperate girl summoned something else—a dark entity in the shape of a broken wand and shattered dreams. It granted her beauty, power, a prince. But the deal came at a price. She would relive her final ball forever, never aging, never dying—just dancing in darkness. Unless someone took her place.
Whispers led Elena to the attic. There, she found cages. Hundreds of them. Skeletons of mice. Some still twitched with life. Their eyes were wide with terror. One spoke. “She feeds on hope. Run. Before she puts you in the shoes.” Before she could respond, glass heels appeared beside her feet, slowly sliding toward her.
Elena sprinted to the clock tower. She had one chance—to break the cycle. With shaking hands, she wound the gears back, hoping to stop the stroke of midnight. But it was too late. Dong. Cinderella appeared, gliding like a marionette. Her limbs cracked with each step. “You were always going to come,” she smiled, revealing blackened teeth. “You wanted the story. Now you’re in it.” The glass slippers locked around Elena’s feet. Fire erupted across her skin. Her memories began to fade.
Now, she dances. Every midnight, Elena’s figure glides alongside the others. Her smile painted on. Her eyes lost. And Cinderella? She watches from the sidelines, finally free. Until the next girl arrives.
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