Story 1042: The Widowmaker’s Waltz

Long before the outbreak, before cities fell and the dead danced in moonlight, there was a melody.

It played only at night.

Only when someone was about to die.

They called it The Widowmaker’s Waltz.

No one knew where it came from—some said it was an old music box, others swore it was the wind whispering through broken bones. But everyone who heard it swore the same thing: you never forget the sound. A waltz, yes, but crooked—off-beat, as if the dancers were limping.

And always, always, followed by a death.

After the Hollow Plague swallowed the eastern territories, a new kind of silence settled. No sirens. No screams. Just the scuttling of things with too many teeth and memories of warm blood.

But in the heart of the ruined town of Veilmoor, the waltz returned.

Soft at first—almost sweet. Like porcelain turning in a jewelry box.

Then came the shrieks.