1042: Story 1042: The Widowmaker’s Waltz 1042: 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.
Scout teams whispered about a figure seen gliding between fog and flame.
A woman in mourning black, her face hidden by a spiderweb veil, floating inches above the ground.
She moved like a shadow underwater, leaving frost and rot in her wake.
Wherever she passed, people died—beautifully.
Arms entwined with air, spinning in phantom embrace, their faces stretched into rictus grins of joy and horror.
Some were found hanging mid-step, bones snapped like marionette strings, their hearts missing but no wounds.
Each corpse held a single black rose, blooming from their mouths.
They called her The Widowmaker.
Folklore sprang up fast.
Some said she was once a bride left at the altar who made a deal with a waltzing demon.
Others claimed she was music itself, cursed to take back the souls who had heard her tune before they were meant to.
But no one questioned this: if you heard the waltz?
You’d dance.
Willing or not.
One survivor, Calla Grimm, claimed she survived the Widowmaker’s advance.
She was part of the outpost at Veilmoor’s ruins—until the song began.
At first, it played from a broken phonograph they’d never seen before.
Then the floor turned cold.
Then the dancers appeared—see-through things in wedding garb, spinning in pairs, faces slashed into unholy grins.
Her team began dancing, unable to stop.
Even Calla’s brother.
She fled—dragging her bleeding feet through the glass-strewn street, the melody chasing her like a slow, steady heartbeat.
She never stopped running.
Now the Widowmaker moves with the horde, her dance a siren song for the damned.
Cultists adore her.
They mimic her waltz in blood-soaked chapels.
They beg to be chosen as her next partner.
But it’s not love she offers.
It’s erasure.
Those she dances with?
Their names vanish from memory.
Their photos blur.
Their voices?
Forgotten.
As if they never were.
And on still nights, if you listen closely through the rustling leaves and groaning dead…
You’ll hear the music box.
Turning.
Tuning.
Waiting for its next dance.
And you’d better hope you’re out of step.
Because once the music starts…
You don’t stop until you die.