Short Stories of the Supernatural

Marisol's Dance

In the dusty village of Santa Rosa, nestled between dry hills and fields of corn, sixteen-year-old Marisol paced her bedroom barefoot, brushing her fingers through her long black hair. The air smelled of warm tortillas and woodsmoke. Her heart thudded in rhythm with the thought of the city dance—the baile that all the teens were talking about for weeks now.

“Mami, por favor,” she had begged that morning at breakfast, her dark eyes wide with pleading. “Just this once. All my friends are going. It’s safe. Tía Leti can drive us.”

But her mother, with her thick braid and stern brow, had simply stirred the pot of beans and said, “No.”

No explanation, no compromise. Just no.

The village was small, quiet. The biggest event was Sunday Mass and the occasional wedding. Nothing like the bright lights of Oaxaca City where the dance was to be held that very night. They said there’d be music, real music, not just the old guitar trio from town. And dancing! Fast, wild dancing that made your heart race.

Marisol slumped on the porch, kicking at the dirt until dust clung to her toes. That’s when her friends showed up—Lupita and Camila, giggling behind their hands.

“You won’t believe who’s going,” Camila whispered.

Lupita grinned. “And who’s asking if you’re going.”

Marisol felt her chest tighten. “Who?”

“Ángel,” they chimed in unison.

Her face flushed with heat. Ángel had smiled at her once after catechism. Said hola like it meant something. The thought of him spinning her across the dance floor made her dizzy.

She marched back into the kitchen, face set with hope. “Mami, I asked before, but—please. Ángel is going. My friends too. They said his cousins will be there, and Tía Leti is driving—”

Her mother didn’t even look up from chopping onions. “No.”

“Mami,” she whispered, “why?”

Her mother turned slowly, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Because I said so. You’re too young to go dancing in the city with boys who don’t know what respect means.”

“But—”

“And if you defy me, mija, the devil will follow you. El Diablo watches girls who sneak away from their mothers. He waits outside dances, with a charming smile and shiny boots. You won’t see his horns until it’s too late.”

Marisol rolled her eyes. “That’s just a story.”

Her mother’s voice was quiet but firm. “All stories have truth, mi corazón.”

That afternoon, the sun beat down as Marisol tried to forget the dance. But as the light faded, her friends came again, dressed in their best. Their earrings dangled and their skirts twirled when they walked.

“Just ask one more time,” Lupita said, eyes bright. “He asked about you, Marisol.”

Marisol’s stomach twisted. Her heart screamed yes.

She stepped back into the house as twilight turned the sky to violet. Her mother sat by the fire, embroidering a cloth.

“Mami,” she whispered, trying to be brave. “I know what you said, but this dance—it's just one night.”

Her mother didn’t answer.

“I’m sixteen,” Marisol added. “I won’t always be your little girl.”

Her mother looked up then, eyes sad but unyielding. “Tonight, more than ever, I need you to trust me. Stay home.”

Marisol stood in the hallway, the orange glow of the fireplace flickering against the adobe walls. Her mother had returned to her stitching, quiet again, as if the conversation had ended. But in Marisol’s chest, something rebellious stirred. A single night. One dance. She’d never forgive herself if she stayed behind.

She stepped softly toward her room. “I’m going to bed,” she said aloud.

Her mother didn’t look up. “Goodnight, mija.”

Inside her room, she closed the wooden door behind her and leaned against it, heart racing. The breeze blew through the curtain over the small window facing the back fields.

“Marisol!” came a hiss.

She peeked through the curtain and saw Lupita and Camila crouched beneath the jacaranda tree, their earrings catching the moonlight. They were waving like mad.

Marisol grinned and quickly changed into the floral dress she had hidden beneath her bed—one borrowed from Camila. It had little red roses and a fitted waist, far too grown-up by her mother’s standards. She slipped into her sandals and pinned back her curls with trembling hands.

One glance in the mirror. A deep breath. And then she pushed the window open.

The scent of night jasmine filled the air as she climbed through, careful not to knock over the flowerpots. Her feet hit the grass and the girls grabbed her hands, squealing in silence and spinning her in a circle.

“You look beautiful!” Camila whispered.

Lupita smirked. “Ángel’s going to die when he sees you.”

They tiptoed down the dirt path, skirts swishing, laughter barely contained. The moon shone above them, round and full, casting long shadows as they hurried toward the road where a battered blue pickup truck idled.

Tía Leti leaned against the door, a cigarette dangling from her fingers and red lipstick gleaming even in the dark.

“Ándale, niñas,” she said, flicking the cigarette away. “We’re late.”

They piled into the truck bed, giggling as the wind caught their hair and the village disappeared behind them. The ride to Oaxaca City was bumpy but thrilling. Lights grew brighter. Sounds louder. The road widened, and soon, the narrow countryside gave way to a city pulsing with life.

Marisol gripped the side of the truck bed and stared, wide-eyed.

Everything sparkled.

Music floated from street corners. Lanterns strung across the plaza danced in the breeze. People laughed, twirled, kissed, lived. It felt like stepping into a dream.

The dance was in an old stone building with wrought-iron doors thrown open wide. Music spilled out—a live banda, loud and vibrant. The beat pulsed through her chest.

Marisol’s sandals hit the pavement as she jumped down from the truck. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Lupita tugged her arm. “Come on! Let’s find Ángel!”

Inside, the air was thick with perfume, heat, and music. Lights swirled in soft golds and reds. Couples spun across the floor, dresses flaring, boots stomping in rhythm.

Marisol had never seen anything like it.

Her heart pounded—not with fear, but wonder. She couldn’t wait to find him, to feel his hand in hers, to lose herself in the rhythm and forget her mother’s words.

She was sixteen. This was her night.

And she had no idea something was already watching her from the shadows near the door.

The music swelled, and Marisol swayed to the beat, eyes scanning the crowd. Her friends had already disappeared into the rhythm of the baile, laughing and spinning with boys they knew—or wanted to know. Then she saw him.

Ángel.

He stood near the refreshment table, tall and easygoing, his crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, a grin on his face as he sipped from a bottle of soda. When their eyes met, his smile widened.

He made his way through the crowd, nodding at friends, and stopped right in front of her.

“Hola, Marisol,” he said, a little shyly. “I was hoping you’d come.”

Marisol felt her face bloom with heat. “Hi, Ángel. I almost didn’t.”

“Good thing you did,” he said. “Would you… like to dance?”

She nodded, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings.

He led her onto the floor, placing one gentle hand at her waist. The music pulsed around them, the banda blazing bright and loud. She wasn’t the best dancer, but Ángel didn’t care. He smiled every time she got a step wrong and tugged her playfully back into rhythm.

She laughed more in that hour than she had in months.

The lights blurred above her. Her sandals slid against the tile. The heat of the dance floor, the spinning colors, the feeling of being wanted—it was more than she’d imagined.

She was flying.

Until—

“Mind if I cut in?”

The voice was smooth, deep, and unfamiliar.

Marisol turned just in time to see a man standing beside them. Taller than Ángel. Sharper. His hair was jet-black and slicked back perfectly. His suit shimmered like polished obsidian, and his boots gleamed with silver buckles. His skin was warm brown, smooth as carved wood, and his smile—too perfect.

Ángel blinked. “Uh, I—”

But before he could answer, the stranger had already reached for Marisol’s hand.

The touch sent a thrill through her veins. Her body moved before her mind caught up. She looked back at Ángel apologetically, but he was already swallowed by the crowd.

The stranger’s grip was confident but not forceful. He led her back into the music, twirling her once, twice—so fast her skirt flared around her knees and she gasped.

“Do you always dance like that?” she asked, breathless.

“Only when I find someone worth dancing with,” he said, voice like silk.

They moved together as if they’d done so for years. He didn’t miss a beat. When the music shifted to something slower, he pulled her close. When it picked up again, he spun her like she weighed nothing at all. Her body responded to his rhythm without thought.

People stepped aside to watch them. Whispers followed in their wake.

“Who is that?”

“Look how he moves…”

“She’s not dancing with Ángel anymore.”

But Marisol didn’t hear a word.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Far from here,” he answered, eyes gleaming under the lights. “But tonight, I came just for you.”

Her stomach flipped. She didn’t even care what his name was. All she knew was that the most handsome man at the dance had chosen her.

They danced for hours.

The music never seemed to stop. Neither did he.

The room grew warmer. The crowd changed. Faces blurred. Her limbs ached, but the stranger held her with such ease, she barely noticed the time. She lost herself in the movement, in the sparkle of his eyes, in the charm of his voice and the way he looked at her like she was the only girl in the world.

Until—

The music slowed.

The last song.

The crowd began to drift toward the doors, laughter fading into the night.

And then she saw it.

She looked down—just a glance.

Her breath caught in her throat.

His boots were gone.

In their place were two sharp, split hooves. Black and polished like marble. The tiled floor beneath them was cracked where he stood.

Slowly, her gaze crept back up.

He was still smiling.

But now, his eyes glowed—deep, burning red.

Her heart stopped.

The stories. Her mother’s warning.

El Diablo.

And he had danced with her all night.

The moment Marisol’s eyes met the stranger’s glowing red ones, her breath vanished like smoke.

He tilted his head slightly, smile widening into something monstrous and inhuman. Then he began to laugh—not loud or wild, but low, like embers crackling in a dying fire.

“So now you know,” he said smoothly. “But you invited me, didn’t you?”

Marisol tore her hand from his and stumbled back. She didn’t scream. She couldn’t. Her voice was buried beneath terror. She turned and ran, weaving through the thinning crowd, the music now warped and distant in her ears.

She burst out of the dance hall and onto the cobbled street, gasping for air, heart pounding like war drums.

“Tía! Camila! Lupita!” she cried.

Down the block, the blue pickup truck sat parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. Her aunt leaned against the door, chatting with Camila and Lupita, who had already removed their heels and were rubbing their tired feet.

Tía Leti’s eyes snapped to her.

“Marisol? ¡Dios mío, qué te pasó?”

Marisol nearly collapsed into her arms, shaking.

“What happened?” Camila asked, concerned. “Where’s Ángel?”

“He left,” Lupita said. “You were dancing with that other guy all night. Who was he?”

“I—I don’t know,” Marisol whispered, her throat dry. “Please, just take me home. Ahora.”

Her aunt didn’t ask more questions. She saw the fear in Marisol’s eyes, the paleness of her cheeks. She shoved open the truck door and yelled, “Get in! Vámonos, ya!”

The girls climbed in, the mood completely shattered. Marisol sat in silence, arms wrapped around herself, eyes darting into every shadow as the truck rumbled down the dark road toward Santa Rosa.

When they arrived, Marisol leapt out before the engine even stopped. She ran across the dirt yard, past the chickens, and into the front door of her adobe home.

Her mother stood from the table, startled. “¡Marisol!”

Tears spilled from Marisol’s eyes as she threw herself into her mother’s arms.

“I’m sorry, Mami! I’m so sorry—I didn’t listen—I went to the dance and I met this man, and we danced, and everyone loved him, and he was perfect until I saw…”

She trembled harder. “He had hooves, Mami. And his eyes… they were red. Like fire.”

Her mother’s arms tightened around her. She whispered a prayer under her breath, then gently guided Marisol to sit down beside the fireplace.

She looked into her daughter’s eyes with a seriousness that cut through the fear.

“Hija, do you remember what I told you?”

Marisol nodded, still crying. “You said… if I disobeyed, the devil would come.”

Her mother nodded slowly. “And he did.”

“But he looked like a prince,” Marisol whispered. “He was so charming. Everyone stared. He danced like he had the music in his blood.”

Her mother reached for her hands, holding them tightly.

“In the stories of our people, passed down from abuelas and abuelos, the Devil doesn’t always come with horns and fire. Sometimes, he comes dressed as your heart’s desire. He comes when a child doesn’t listen, when she turns away from her mother’s voice. He dances with her to remind her… that he is still around.”

Marisol buried her face in her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll never disobey you again. I swear it.”

And she meant it.

From that night on, Marisol never saw the stranger again.

But in Santa Rosa—and all the villages like it—mothers still tell the tale. On stormy nights or beneath full moons, they look their daughters in the eye and say:

“Listen when your mother speaks, or El Diablo will come for you. He’ll smile. He’ll dance. And you’ll never see his hooves until it’s too late.”