The village of Kravica was known for two things: its lush, rolling hills and the chilling legend of the Serbian Dancing Lady.
For generations, locals whispered about her—a spectral woman in a tattered white dress, seen twirling under the moonlight near the old graveyard. Some said she was a bride who died on her wedding night; others claimed she was a mother who lost her children and danced in grief until her feet bled. But no one dared to speak her name aloud, for fear she might hear… and join them.
Mira, a university student from Belgrade, scoffed at the stories. "Superstitious nonsense," she told her friends as they drove through Kravica for a weekend getaway. When they passed the crumbling churchyard, she joked, "Maybe we'll see the famous ghost tonight!"
Her friends laughed, but the old innkeeper's face darkened. "Do not mock her," he warned. "She does not like to be laughed at."
That night, Mira awoke to the sound of faint music—a slow, mournful violin drifting through the open window. Curious, she stepped outside. The moon cast an eerie glow over the gravestones, and there, between the tombs, stood a woman in a flowing white gown.
Her movements were hypnotic—graceful yet unnatural, her limbs bending too far, her feet barely touching the ground. Mira's breath caught as the woman turned, revealing hollow eyes and a smile too wide for any human face.
"Dance with me," the woman whispered, her voice like rustling leaves.
Mira tried to run, but her body moved against her will. Her legs jerked forward, her arms lifted, and suddenly, she was spinning—faster and faster—her bones cracking, her skin tearing as the ghostly waltz consumed her.
The next morning, her friends found her in the graveyard, twisted into an impossible pose, her face frozen in a scream. And in the mud beside her… a single set of footprints, leading back to the oldest grave.
They say if you visit Kravica at midnight, you might hear the violin again. And if you do, "don't look". Because the Serbian Dancing Lady never dances alone… not for long.