Note: This was done just today, during the one period of English we had in school. My teacher wrote a whole list of words on the whiteboard and asked us to write a ghost story using three of the words in that one period. The three words are bolded. One period is half an hour, and that was obviously not enough, paired with presentations. I managed to complete it in about forty five minutes or so, so it was not very good work, as I was rushing through it because of the lessons and work given after that. This is the first ghost story I've ever written, unless I am very much mistaken. Feel free to comment.

On pointe, the ballerina moved with the grace of the wings, pirouetting and swaying in time with the lilting tune of the radio playing. Three of the four walls around her were mirrors, and they reflected her perfect movements, displaying her expertise.

Smiling slightly in satisfaction, she turned towards the mirror on the right, as always, spinning after every spin incessantly, the melody rising to a crescendo as she closed the distance between the mirror and her. She could not see what her reflection was, for she was too lithe and agile; she did not notice, she did not know.

Continuing her spins and finally slowing to a stop, she faced the mirror directly before her as the melody ended abruptly, bestowing a whimsical silence upon the room.

Contented, she stared at the reflection in the mirror idly. Her once-tight bun was coming loose, and she blew lightly at the stray wisps of hair falling over her face. As her faze travelled down from her forehead to her eyes, the ambiguity of her physical identity struck her.

Gracefully arched brows curved over cold blue eyes that possessed a faint, malicious glint. In the centre of her face lay a sharp nose whilst high cheekbones rested firmly upon her faintly flushed face. With a finely sculpted frame, and a face of refined elegance and smooth, unmarred skin, her features are sharp and attractive, contrasting starkly to the all-too-ordinairy gymnasium.

A smile tugged at the corner of her thin, pink lips, finally curving into a mysterious smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Her lips then parted slightly in a laugh that was surely polite - too polite.

The ballerina could not hear her, however, and as she watched her smiling image sink into a deep ballroom curtsey, a slow wave of nausea sweeping over her, bile rising in her throat as the grand piano broke the deafening silence with a tight little tune.