Disclaimer: I had no part in the creation of Little Women, or any of the characters in it. I'm just borrowing them for a bit.

Author's note and credits: This story started out as the following livejournal meme:

Think of a book that you like. Something outside of the realm of sci-fi/fantasy/horror. Now, think about what the story would be like if the fictional world were to suddenly include a vampire (or maybe even a whole lot vampires!) How would the story change? What would the vampire do to the framework of a story in which it clearly doesn't belong?

What I'm trying to do with this story is see what the Little Women characters would be like in an extreme situation, very much unlike anything they would normally experience. Hopefully I've written them in an emotionally viable way (and will continue to do so, since this is going to be a multiple chapter project.). This is my first time writing for the Little Women fandom, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.

Many thanks to Mariagoner for Beta reading, and providing me with tons of plot ideas/angles to explore.

The title is stolen from the musical Tanz der Vampire, which I also didn't write.

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It was fifteen minutes to midnight; Jo had to smile, though her heart was pounding somewhat too thunderously for comfort. Alone in the attic, her pen and paper only barely visible in the light of the candle placed precariously on her writing desk, she imagined she looked every bit the part of the mad literary spinster she often fancied herself.

It wasn't the storm outside that had roused her from her sleep (though the wind howled and rattled against the windows, as if singularly determined to break inside.). In fact, she didn't have any clear recollection of having slept at all, nor did she remember waking. She had dreamed -- of that much she was certain, but the whole experience was so peculiar, so seemingly detached from rationality, that she had simply had to write about it.

She was slow to start. She hadn't written since Beth's passing, and all she managed in the first fifteen minutes of trying was a series of senseless lines and swirls in the far right corner of her paper. Then, for a time, the words came, but only separated by long stretches in which the tip of her pen hovered uncertainly over the paper.

A sudden, crashing sound made Jo jump to her feet, nearly upsetting the candle. It came again, an almost organic thumping sound, as though a large bird were throwing itself repeatedly against the glass. Jo did not peer out the window to see what had caused the noise, but pulled the curtains tightly shut before returning to her seat, where she sat with her head in her hands for a moment before crumpling the paper she had begun to write on. Dipping her pen in the inkstand and taking a deep breath, she began again.

Dear Teddy,

I suppose it's been too long since sent you a letter. In fact, I don't much want to write to you at this very moment, only I'm sure you would laugh at me. I desperately need to be laughed at, believe it or not, and I'm afraid that anyone but you would take the tale I'm about to tell with undue gravity. After all, I've made enough of a mockery of your sentimental side that you oughtn't have any reason to concern yourself with my current state of mind, whatever that is.

While I was away in New York, I wrote some of the most ridiculous, ghastly sensation stories ever to make their way to make their way to the printing press. Such trash pays much better than you'd ever imagine. I was resolved never to write another, but I suppose this one last time won't hurt anything. Allow me to introduce myself, one Josephine March, as the heroine of this intrepid tale.

Jo paused to stare at the curtains before continuing.

It's storming tonight, and the wind was making such a noise that I couldn't rest, and so I fell to watching the rain through my window. This was all well at first, and I thought for sure that I would drift off soon, but then I noticed a white figure standing far off (if you'd like, you may insert a clap of thunder, or something else suitably dramatic here.). It came closer at the same moment that I got out of bed to get a better look at it, and soon we were separated only by a pane of glass.

It was a young girl, in a thin lace trimmed dress, made almost transparent by the rain. She was pale, every bit as much so as the material stuck to her skin, and she had brown hair and blue eyes that were overly bright, as if they had absorbed all of the scant light around her. She looked calm, though she didn't smile.

I was just beginning to think that I'd never seen a person stand so still and serene, except sometimes for Beth when she was deep in thought, when the idea that the girl was Beth got into my head. The features were hers, right down to the long fingers which she lifted to press against the glass. If only there had been some color in her cheeks, she could have been my Beth at the age of nine or ten.

Am I ridiculous, Teddy, to blame myself for looking away? I only did it for a fraction of a second, if that, but when I looked back she was gone, and I knew that what I'd seen was no comforting image. I wouldn't have wished for it. There was nothing ugly or outwardly frightening about the girl, but I felt cold, as if I'd seen something evil.

I've seen the girl three times now, always at night. I've never spoken to her; that would be madness. Madder even, than writing this letter to you, which I know better than to send. I might as create an imaginary friend (other than my Beth figment, that is.), for all that this correspondence is worth. Only, I can't be alone with my thoughts right now. I can't. That's why I had to address them to somebody.

Of course, I can't tell this to Marmee. I would never keep a secret from her, but she's grieving and I already fear that I add to it more than I help her in this time of trouble. I miss Beth terribly. I won't wish her back -- that would be wrong, for I know she's gone to paradise, and I'll see her again when my time comes. I will wish for an end to this strange fancy about the little girl. For now all I can do is ignore it, or do my best to find a sensible explanation that doesn't involve lunacy.

You know that I'm not one to break under pressure. I'd even flatter myself that I thrive on it. This, however, is not like anything I've experienced before. I don't mean my visions, but everything else. I'm so

"Jo?"

Jo nearly jumped out of her seat for the second time that evening, but when she looked up it was only Marmee standing in the doorway. Jo gave her a tired smile.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, as Marmee walked over to her, "So I thought I'd try and write something. Not the next great novel, you know, but something."

"It will do you good to return your writing." Was Marmee's decided reply. To her credit, she did not look at the piece of paper that Jo was carefully folding.

For a moment Jo was still, glancing again towards the closed curtain, as Marmee stroked her long hair away from her face, and kissed the top of her head.

"I shouldn't be up this late, at any rate," Jo said, cheerfully enough. "We should both get some rest."

With that, she blew out the candle.