Linda spins between the dark trees, her torn white robe whipping around her legs. She twists and leaps, arms stretched wide. Each movement flows into the next. Dancing is everything now. She wants to be the best dancer these woods have ever seen. Her sharp teeth gleam as she grins. Soon others will come to watch. Soon they will understand what she's become. Soon their souls will feed the hunger that burns inside her chest. She pirouettes faster, laughing at the moon above. Her feet guide her deeper through the trees until she finds it. A patch of fresh earth marked by a simple wooden cross. The dirt is packed down smooth and flat. She steps onto the grave and tests the ground beneath her. It holds firm. Perfect. This will be her stage. This is where she will perform her greatest dances. She begins to move, slow at first, letting her body remember each turn and gesture. The wooden cross casts a thin shadow across the dirt. She leaps over it, spins around it, lets her fingers trail across its rough surface. Lost souls will wander close when they see her dance here. They will stop and stare. They will step closer to watch. And when they do, she will take what she needs. Her laughter echoes through the dark woods as she twirls faster and faster on her new stage.

Linda needs an audience before she can truly become the greatest. She spins alone on the grave, testing new movements with each turn. Her head tilts at strange angles as she experiments. What if she detaches it mid-leap? The thought makes her grin wider. But the darkness swallows her stage when the sun drops below the trees. She can't dance what she can't see. She needs light that matches what she's become. Something that glows with the same hunger that burns in her chest. She finds an old branch and wraps it with strips torn from her robe. The fabric soaks up something dark that seeps from her gray skin. When she strikes it against a stone, purple flame erupts. The fire doesn't burn orange or yellow like normal torches. It flickers with deep violet light that makes the shadows twist and writhe. She plants it beside the grave and steps back onto her stage. The eerie glow bathes the dirt in unsettling purple. Now she can practice through the night. Now wandering souls will see her dance from far away. Now they'll come closer, drawn by the strange light and her movements. She begins to spin, her white robe catching the purple flame's glow. Her laughter rings out between the trees as she leaps and twirls beneath her new light. Dawn breaks and she stops mid-turn. Three hikers came during the night. Their bones rest in a small pile near the edge of her stage. She remembers their screams, their terror, the sweet taste as their souls slid down her throat. But something nags at her as she stares at the weathered remains. They watched her dance. They saw her leap and spin. Then they ran. That's not right. A true audience stays until the end. A true audience understands the beauty before them. She needs dancers who won't flee. She needs souls who will watch her become the greatest without fear breaking the spell. The purple torch still burns beside the grave. The bones mark her first attempt. She steps back onto the dirt and begins again, slower this time, searching for movements that will make the next wanderers stay.