The Skeleton Dance

The Skeleton Dance

Phil Partington

Ruthie Rivers didn't like to think about dying, but at eighty-seven, death had become the unwelcome guest at every doctor's appointment, every obituary read, and in every bout of fatigue--those coming more frequently now. She doubted any old woman alive enjoyed thinking about aging, not when they still had a taste for life. But the thought was there, leering as she clutched her shoulder and fell back into her wooden chair.

She'd shattered a glass trying to retrieve it from the cupboard when her arthritis had flared. Now her ring finger bled, a slow, steady drip she ignored for the moment. "Damn it all," she muttered, echoing her late mother's favorite curse. The pain in her shoulder gnawed at her, sharp as a rat trap--something Maris had always left scattered near the barn when they were younger. She'd never stuck her finger in one, but she imagined it felt much like this.

With a groan, she inspected her finger. A deep cut, not bad enough for stitches, but certainly more than a Band-Aid could fix. She rummaged through the lower cabinet for the first-aid kit and, after cleaning the wound, applied gauze and medical tape. Her hands, once steady as a surgeon's when her children were young, now shook with the effort.

As she worked, the rotary phone rang, a relic she insisted on keeping, its clamor echoing through the house. Ruthie smiled despite herself; only one person ever called these days.

"Hello, sweetie," she said before the receiver was even fully to her lips.

Shannon's voice, warm and familiar, came through the line. "Hi, Mom. How're you feeling today?"

"For an ol' gal with a fake hip? Not too shabby. How're the grandies?"

That had been her late husband's term for their grandchildren--four of them, all belonging to Shannon, the child who still called her.

"They're doing fine," Shannon said, her voice bright with the usual updates. "Paige is still teething--so, basically a tiny demon--and Oliver won his soccer game."

Ruthie listened, savoring every word. These phone calls were the highlights of her week. Loneliness, they said, was the silent killer of the elderly. If that was true, boredom was its axe-wielding accomplice, banging down the door with nothing but time on its hands.

After their usual chat, Ruthie ended the call with the same nightly ritual: a kiss to the photograph of Maris that sat on her nightstand. "Goodnight, love," she whispered, pressing her lips to the glass, feeling its cool surface. The wind outside howled, rattling the old house, a mournful song against the cedar boards Maris had built with his own hands.

That night, she awoke around two-thirty, the usual hour when nature demanded her trip to the bathroom. The wind had died down, leaving the house eerily still, save for its old bones creaking in the silence. Ruthie could relate to it--it had aged as she'd aged. Every joint in her body protested as she rolled out of bed, using the windowsill for leverage.

As she made her way across the room, a sound caught her attention--chatter. Faint, but unmistakably whispering.

"Who's there?" Ruthie called out, her voice hoarse with sleep.

No answer. Only the whimper of the floorboards beneath her feet. She stood still, listening harder. Had she imagined it? It wouldn't be the first time loneliness had played its tricks, but this felt different. The voices seemed too real, as though those who'd spoken had paused, waiting for her next move.

Deciding it had been her imagination, she shook her head, muttering something about getting old, and finished her business in the bathroom. The mirror reflected nothing unusual--just her own wrinkled face staring back, tired and lined like the rings of a tree. No signs of madness, though. At least, not yet. Dementia had stricken both her mother and mother's mother, so she was ever watchful of it in her. But madness, she knew, seldom shows itself to the one it claims.

She locked the door before returning to bed, hoping sleep would take her quickly.

It didn't. An hour later, Ruthie woke again. This time, it wasn't nature that roused her, but music. Sinatra. "Swinging on a Star."

Her heart thudded in her chest, hammering in her ears as the familiar lyrics filled the room.

The mule is an animal with long, funny ears...

Maris had loved Sinatra. She blinked, trying to clear the fog of sleep from her mind. The record player hadn't worked in years. Had it?

She gripped the bedsheets tightly, feeling the arthritis twist her fingers into knots. Was this a heart attack? She didn't think so. No, this was something else. She breathed deeply, muttering a prayer. "You're getting old, Ruthie. Just losing your mind a little, that's all. Breathe."

The music faded, leaving only the familiar creaks of the house. She tried to steady her breathing, convinced herself she was imagining things. But the unease lingered.

The next morning, she found a cocktail glass on the living room table, still half-full of liquid, a green olive bobbing on a toothpick. Ruthie stared at it, her stomach sinking. She hadn't had a martini in years. Had someone been in her house? Ghosts? The thought was absurd, yet the sight of the glass sent a shiver down her spine. Kids, most likely. Older ones. High schoolers on break, she guessed. She knew a few lived in the neighborhood. Probably just looking for a place to drink, somewhere their parents couldn't keep an eye on them.

She called the police, but the young officer who arrived took her statement with a condescending smile, scribbling in his notepad with barely concealed impatience. He didn't believe her. She could see it in his eyes.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, but that night, Ruthie couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. She double checked that all the windows and doors were locked, then went through her nightly ritual--kissing Maris's photo, muttering her goodnights.

Only Ruthie didn't sleep right away. She lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling as the words slipped from her lips, a quiet prayer to her dead husband.

"It's been more than twenty years, Maris. A long time for me. Maybe not for angels, but it is for me."

The photograph on the bedside table stared back at her, his reassuring smile frozen in time. He didn't answer, of course, but that didn't matter. The comfort came anyway, like a warm wave washing over her.

"Shannon's got children of her own now. You'd like them--especially Oliver. He's got that same spark you used to have." She paused, swallowing a lump in her throat. "Tim's doing well, too, off on his own adventures, as always."

Her voice cracked, and the tears came--not the kind drawn from sadness, but from some deep, welling joy, flooding her with an odd sense of accomplishment. Her children were fine. And, for the first time, she realized that she didn't have to be needed anymore. It wasn't such a sad thought, after all.

The moment passed too quickly, though, and reality crept back in. Her hands clutched the sheets, knuckles white as pain shot through her left arm. The familiar, cruel grip of arthritis made itself known, twisting her joints with sharp malice.

Then, as if to mock her pain, the tune drifted up through the floorboards.

...or would you like to swing on a star? Carry moonbeams home in a jar?

She froze.

Maris?

...and be better off than you are?

Her body tensed, the tears drying abruptly on her cheeks. The kids. They were back.

This time, their chatter was louder, more confident, and now, they had the gall to climb the stairs, their voices and laughter just outside her room.

Anger flared hot in her chest, replacing the fear that had been there just moments before. She sat up in bed, her voice rising to meet them.

"Get out of my house!"

Silence. For a brief, hopeful moment, she thought maybe they had gone. But no--the music grew louder, the laughter more brazen.

With a growl, she threw back the covers and shuffled to the door, cracking it open just enough to peek down the hallway.

Nothing. No one.

The old house groaned, its ancient bones creaking with the outside wind, but there was no sign of her intruders.

She let out a shuddering breath and turned back to the room, her eyes drifting to Maris' picture again. She tried to smile, tried to make light of it, forcing out a laugh that felt jagged and hollow.

"I'm losing it, Maris. You always said you'd be the first to go mad, but it looks like I beat you to it."

She was about to shut the door when movement caught her eye. At the far end of the hallway, where the moonlight pooled through the window, a figure stood. Pale, almost fragile, it swayed as if caught in a gentle breeze.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. She blinked, trying to clear the image, expecting it to vanish like all the other tricks her mind had played on her lately. But the figure remained.

No, not just remained--it moved.

The music began playing once more, that same dreadful tune, and with it, the figure took a step toward her.

...is an animal with dirt on his face. His shoes are a terrible disgrace...

Ruthie slammed the door and stumbled back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Stay back! Stay away from me!"

There was no response--just the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps approaching.

She bolted the door, every lock and latch, and ran to the window. She yanked it open, cold air biting at her skin as she stuck her head out and screamed into the night.

"Help! Someone please!"

But no answer came from the empty street. The wind howled as she pulled back, shivering.

It's not real. The voice in her head was calm, familiar--Maris' voice, though that too was impossible. No one's out there, Ruthie. No one can hear you.

"I'm scared," she whispered, her words lost to the dark.

The chatter outside her room resumed, mingling with the music, and she sank to the floor, curling into herself.

What if the boogeyman is real?

The thought was absurd, yet it clung to her, sinking its claws deep. She stayed there for what felt like hours, clutching the blankets, her body trembling until finally, exhaustion claimed her.

When she woke, sunlight streamed through the window, bright and warm. The house was still.

"A dream," she muttered. "Could it have all been a dream, Maris?"

She tried to laugh, but it sounded weak, uncertain. She had never dreamed so vividly before. Never felt so awake in a nightmare. Yet here it was--morning. The world seemed normal again, but the doubt gnawed at her.

Shaking off the cold, she went through her usual routine, though her mind stayed distant, replaying the strange events of the night. Maybe it was the new medication she was on. Maybe Shannon didn't need to know. Best to keep it to herself. She couldn't have her daughter thinking she was losing her grip on reality.

But as she dusted the living room, her fingers brushed against something that stopped her cold--a martini glass. Stained with dark lipstick.

Her breath caught. Celia's lipstick.

The glass clinked as she set it down, the sound sharp in the silent room. No one had worn lipstick like that since her old friend passed away nearly a decade ago.

It's the kids. They've come back. She was certain of it now. Five martini glasses now scattered through her house--four in the living room, one in the hallway upstairs. And worst of all, there, on her coffee table, a record sleeve with Frank Sinatra's smiling face against a bold red backdrop: Days of Wine and Roses and Other Academy Award Winners. A twist of nausea curled in her gut as she read the titles, with Swinging on a Star catching her eye.

She would have to call the police again. She had no choice. The kids were rummaging through her things, and though the monetary value of some items didn't bother her, others--sentimental pieces--were irreplaceable. The thought of their grubby hands on those cherished things made her sick.

The same police officer showed up thirty minutes later, his face etched with that same polite yet skeptical look she had seen before. He jotted her story down in his small notepad again, nodding along to her concerns, and promised to have a patrol car swing by every hour from ten to two in the morning.

"Call again if anything's wrong, ma'am," he said with an assuring nod.

Nice boy, Ruthie thought, but he doesn't believe a word I'm saying. She could see it in his eyes, just as before. He thought she was a foolish old woman. Maybe he was right.

Shannon called that evening, but Ruthie didn't mention the break-ins, still too afraid her daughter would think her crazy. To be honest, Ruthie was starting to wonder if she was losing her mind herself. It had been years since she'd had a drink...

...but what if she had? Sleepwalking--could it be a side effect of the medication? Didn't she used to have strange dreams after a few too many cocktails? She couldn't quite remember. Maybe the kids weren't coming after all. Maybe it was her.

"Dear Lord, I'm a drunk!" The thought felt ridiculous, but given the alternative--mischievous teenagers breaking in every night and wreaking havoc--it didn't seem entirely far-fetched. Best to play it safe, she figured. So, she spent the evening moving all the bottles from the liquor cabinet into the garage, then stacked old boxes in front of the door to block her path to them--just in case.

It was all for nothing, though. Ruthie didn't sleep a wink that night. She'd kept the window shut and cranked the heat to fight off the winter frost, but even the warmth couldn't stop the chill creeping into her bones. The clock's fiery red digits glared back at her--3 a.m.

"Is there anyone there?" she called into the stillness, feeling foolish the moment the words left her mouth.

Downstairs, the grandfather clock ticked steadily, the only sound in the quiet house. She grabbed the black-and-white photo of Maris from her nightstand, clutching it like a blanket. His smile offered no comfort this time, but it was something to hold onto.

She moved downstairs quietly, candlelight casting long shadows on the walls. She refused to turn on the main lights; she wanted to see them, whoever they were, before they saw her. At the bottom of the stairs, she could watch the driveway through the curtains, partially drawn. If teenagers were behind this, they'd have to come from there.

Minutes dragged by like hours. The dark outside pressed in, suffocating her breath. Her chest tightened, panic clawing at the edges of her mind.

"Maris," she whispered, her voice trembling, "make me brave."

And then she heard it--the unmistakable thudding of footsteps from the basement, followed by the creak of the old stairs. A chill shot through her spine. How had they gotten in?

Ruthie's body moved before her mind caught up, instinct driving her into the kitchen. She grabbed the phone, fingers trembling as she dialed 9-1-1.

"YOU'D BETTER GET OUT OF HERE!" she shouted, voice trembling with fear.

The phone rang once. Static greeted her instead of a dispatcher's voice, a low growl vibrating in her ear.

The basement door creaked open, a sound she knew all too well. Her breath hitched as the familiar noise filled the room--like the house itself was groaning in protest.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" she screamed, adrenaline coursing through her. She bolted up the stairs, faster than she had moved in years. Locking herself in her bedroom, she flung the window open, shouting for help into the desolate night.

Nobody would hear her. Not out here.

Panic blinded her to everything else--the biting air, the stiff ache of her joints, all washed away in a wave of terror. But she couldn't breathe. Each gasp felt thinner, more desperate. Her chest tightened, heart hammering in her ears.

She stumbled back from the window, Maris' picture held tight against her chest. "Oh, Maris," she gasped, "let the devils have their fun. Let them be kids..."

She fell back onto the bed, exhaustion finally claiming her, eyelids heavy. Then came the voices. Laughter. Sinatra's voice, smooth as velvet, crooning Swinging on a Star. The clink of martini glasses. She squeezed Maris' photo tighter, focusing on his smile, letting it warm her like it always had.

And then...she felt him. His touch. It wasn't just in her mind--his warm hand interlaced with hers. She opened her eyes.

But it wasn't Maris.

The figure standing before her had no eyes, just dark, hollow sockets. Its skin was waxen, pale, stretched tight over bone. The grin carved into its face was grotesque, eternal.

The room spun, and the strength drained from her legs. She fell into its arms, too weak to scream. A cold, howling wind rushed from its gaping mouth, filling the room with an icy breath.

Her mind screamed for her to fight back, but her body wouldn't obey. Her fists, her legs--nothing responded. She gasped, trying to pull air into her lungs, but it felt like something was crushing her chest, squeezing the life out of her.

The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was the skeletal figure's grin, wider now, more knowing. Everything around her faded into black.

But she didn't pass out. She blinked. And when her eyes opened again, she was no longer in the grip of death.

"Maris?" she whispered, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.

He was there. Standing before her, hazel eyes warm and familiar.

"Hello, darling," he said, his voice as soothing as a caress.

She touched his face, her fingers trembling. He was real.

"How?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

Maris laughed, his hand finding hers. He pulled her into a twirl, just like how they used to dance.

"The skeleton...the teenagers...it was you?"

"And the others. Come with us, Ruthie. The party's just begun."

Tears welled in her eyes, but they weren't sad tears. They were tears of relief. Of release. She was home. She was with him.

He led her to the door, the one that led to the basement. It creaked as it opened, but this time, there was no fear. Only the warm embrace of friends and familiar faces.

Ruthie Rivers drank her first cocktail in twenty years that night. She laughed. She danced. She was finally free.

When the morning sun peeked through the curtains, Maris turned to her, his smile softer now.

"It's time," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it without hesitation.

Ruthie Rivers and her husband walked down the stairs into the basement, the door closing behind them with a soft, final creak.

Shannon wasn't expected until Saturday. When that day finally arrived, she unlocked the door with the key her mother had always kept tucked beneath a potted plant on the front porch. An unsettling feeling seeped into her bones the moment she stepped inside, chilling her like the winter wind slipping through the old cedar boards of the house

In the dim light of the bedroom, she found her mother sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted as if caught in a moment suspended between breaths. Ruthie clutched a worn photograph of her husband, the edges of the frame faded by time. A smear of blood stained the bandage wrapped tightly around her finger.

The window stood ajar, curtains fluttering like pale ghosts, and Shannon felt a sudden rush of dread. In that suffocating silence, she retreated from the room, her heart pounding like a caged animal desperate for escape.

With trembling fingers, she dialed the police, the numbers blurred by a well of tears. When the call was done, she returned, seeking solace beside her mother's still form. Together, they listened to the wind's mournful wail--a haunting melody that echoed through the house her father had built with his own hands.