Statues

by Emma Sterling

The leaflet on the community board had been vague—three typed sentences on a sheet of crisp white paper, stuck to the cork with a thumbtack.

Housekeeping and tutoring services desired. Room and board provided. Inquire at 44 Gibbet Road for more information.

Now it sat, wrinkled, in the hand of Sonia Davenport. She scanned over the paper again, oxford heels clicking over flagstones as she read—she’d tried to look as presentable as she could, though the foggy air was pressing creases into her skirt. This offer had immediately caught her attention, and she was not about to let the opportunity pass due to slovenly dress alone. Any family who lived in a house like this one was sure to pay well. On the other hand, their expectations were probably as grand as their fortune.

A lengthy (and costly) cab ride had dropped her here, in the manor’s shadow. Previously, it dwelled only in her imagination—but here it loomed before her, at the apex of a fog-shrouded hill. The once-beautiful property seemed to have fallen into disrepair at the hands of the elements; the bricks composing the house were crumbling into terracotta dust, and the front garden brought forth rows of wilting daisies and roses in the moonlight. Among the desiccation, the vines weaving up the side of the mansion thrived. The building itself looked as though it had once been palatial and grand, now a wraith of its former glory. Everything about it was sharp, severe—its tower jutted into the clouds, its stained-glass windows overlooking the misty recesses below. The manor’s keen edges formed a striking silhouette, and Sonia was but a speck at the foot of its front door—one which swung open before she could reach up to knock.

Inside was what appeared to be a parlor. Two upholstered chairs flanked a chestnut end table, upon which stood a stack of tomes and a clock. The warmth of candlelight illuminated the Persian rug covering the floor; its patterns seemed to shift into monstrous faces at the touch of the light. Sonia took in the peeling damask wallpaper and the silver key, which glimmered from a hook by the door, until the throaty sound of a cough pierced through her wonder.

An austere woman hovered in the doorway, candelabra in hand. There was an air of tepid formality about her—in stark contrast to her elegant clothing and ladylike posture, her face was pale and drawn.

“Good evening. I assume you are here for the housekeeping position.” Her voice sounded just as cadaverous as she looked.

“Yes, that is correct. I saw the posting on the board, and I would like to—”

“Right this way.”

The woman turned, floorboards creaking beneath her feet. The motion dispersed the scent of her perfume—rose, undercut with the dustiness of old books.

Sonia cleared her throat, fumbling with the paper in her hand. “I apologize—you will be my employer, correct? Is there a preliminary interview?”

“I am she. My name is Lady Aurora Blight. My husband will be providing your pay. I am pleased to inform you that there is no interview; rather, I was instructed by my husband to judge suitability based on impression and comportment. I have judged you favorably.”

She crossed the parlor and drifted towards the shadowy outlines of a stairway in the corner of the room. Sonia smoothed down her dress and followed, pressing nervous fingertips to the hollow of her throat.

“Your first assignment,” Lady Blight continued, “will be to put my daughter to bed. Then, I will show you to your quarters.”

At the top of the staircase, a hallway sprawled into darkness, lit only by the candelabra in Lady Blight’s hand. There were several closed doors, but only one was open to a lamp-light glow from within. Sonia trailed Lady Blight into the room, where a young girl with round cheeks and golden curls sat up eagerly in her bed.

“Is this our new maid, Mama?” the girl squeaked, pulling the covers to her chest in shy excitement.

“Yes, Ianthe. Now, now, settle down.” The woman gave a goading glance in Sonia’s direction and gestured to the bed. “Please do as I instructed. Your chamber is located three doors down and contains a bed and fireplace, which you may use at your discretion. You are to wake at five o’clock, prepare breakfast, and manage Ianthe’s lessons.”

When Lady Blight’s watery blue eyes flicked her way, Sonia stumbled into an awkward curtsy. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

The lady glided into the hall without another word, and Ianthe was tugging at Sonia’s dress sleeve before she could sit down.

“Be careful not to go through the second door by accident,” the child blurted, “or Father will yell. He was very cross with me the last time I tried to peek. He scolded me louder than ever, and I’d never seen his face so red—he looked like a big pomegranate!”

Sonia smiled rigidly, puzzled. “I will remember that. Now, it is time for bed.”

After a calm story and a lullaby, Ianthe nodded off, and Sonia was left to her own devices. Quietly, she retired to her own chamber. The hallway was black as oblivion now, and she would be lying if she said her gaze didn’t linger for a moment on the second door before she closed her own. There was a silver lock holding it closed, barely visible but for a glimmer in the dark. Sonia immediately remembered the key hanging next to the door.

She was careful to let her footfalls be silent as she edged her door open and tiptoed back to the parlor, feeling her way along the cobwebbed stair railing. She assumed the lord and lady had already gone to sleep, and it briefly occurred to her that she had yet to see Sir Blight. If he were anything like his wife, Sonia expected him to be frail and thin, almost skeletal. He must be stockier, she reasoned—she was still struggling to comprehend how a woman so corpselike could bear a child as vivacious as Ianthe.

She imagined seeing his face for the first time, ruby with rage as he berated her for stealing on her first night in the house, but her hand was already closing around the cold key. The dogged curiosity in her mind would not rest until her question was answered.

She rummaged for a match and candle on the end table and sparked a flame to life. With light to guide her way, ascending the stairs was easier but required even more stealth. She cupped her hand as close to the flame as she could until she reached the second door. Hazarding a glance down the gloomy hall, she slipped the key into the corresponding slot.

The tarnished lock was stubborn, but she managed to coerce the key past its internal mechanisms and turn until she heard a grind and a click. The door shifted in its frame, and a cool draft issued from within. Sonia let her fingertips graze the doorknob. Its coldness sent a delicious chill up her spine, and all possibility of turning back withered as she eased the door open.

The musty odor of old cloth drifted into the hall, but beyond the door was an abyss so dark that her candle failed to light the space a foot from her nose. Mystified, she raised a hand and recoiled when a gossamer texture brushed against her fingertips. The darkness billowed like fabric in motion; in fact, it was nothing but a black curtain obscuring a tunnel below. Sonia clutched for the base of her throat, drawing a bracing breath before continuing on.

Below was a dingy staircase that led through what appeared to be wooden support beams of the manor’s foundation. The underpass was narrow, its dusty brick walls laced with cobwebs. Sonia’s skin prickled, but she walked on, nearly dropping the candle at her feet when she turned the corner at the bottom.

There, lurking in the shadows, were many intricately carved stone statues. All of them depicted motionless and hauntingly beautiful young women, their elaborate faces twisting into various expressions, many blank eyes staring at Sonia as she tried to catch her breath. The flicker of her candle ricocheted off the figures and painted monstrous forms opposite them. Each face contained nearly lifelike detail and variety. Surrounding them were masonry tools of all kinds; chisels and brushes hung in a disorderly array on one of the walls, and the floor was littered with awls, mallets, and fragments of rock. A shelf in one corner held several rags and a basin of cloudy water, as well as listless arms and legs in various stages of the shaping process. More carefully sculpted body parts were strewn about the floor. Sonia couldn’t help but think she had stumbled into the workshop of a madman.

A flash of movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention, and she whirled around. Had one of the statues wobbled closer, or was it merely the motion of her shadow?

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Sonia shrieked at the sound of a gruff voice from the depths of the chamber. The candle slipped from her hand and flung a dribble of hot wax down the front of her dress before extinguishing on the ground. For a moment, she was fumbling in utter darkness, whimpering in terror and pain—until the room lit up.

She found herself face-to-face with a tall, dark-clad man, the sharp planes of his face made grotesque by the oil lamp in his hand. He glared down at her, scratching his carefully waxed mustache, and she acted on her immediate instinct to back away from him. Her shoulder brushed one of the statues; as it teetered, the man’s flinty eyes sparked with horror, and he rushed forward to steady it before it could topple over.

“Those are my life’s work,” he grunted. “Perhaps my old bat of a wife did not inform you, but you are not allowed here.”

“I take it you are Sir Blight?” Sonia asked, trembling. “You must be a sculptor.”

“Yes.” His eyes narrowed on her, lip curled in contempt. “I am both. Now, I must demand that you return to your quarters. You are never permitted to come here again, or you will be dismissed immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Unconsciously, her fingertips returned to the base of her throat. Her cheeks burned as she rushed back to the stairs, not even sparing the time to retrieve her burnt-out candle. Her mind still weighed heavy, now with the burden of questions answered and questions posed.

Lady Blight was the first to arrive at the table for breakfast once it had been laid out. She preferred to eat in silence, even when Ianthe, still in nightclothes, emerged several minutes later. Sir Blight made no appearance—in honesty, Sonia was glad to avoid him after the brief confrontation the night before. Her next task was to oversee Ianthe’s lessons, and after clearing up the table, she found the child dressed and waiting at the desk in the study.

“I hope you’re better than my last governess,” Ianthe giggled. “She was awful at math.”

Sonia’s brow furrowed. “Your last? If I may ask, how long ago was she dismissed? Have you been receiving lessons in her absence?”

“She’s been gone for maybe two months,” Ianthe replied with a dismissive shrug. “Mother can’t teach me because she doesn’t know how, and Father is always busy.”

“Does he sculpt for most of the day?”

“I think so. He brings a lot of people here, though. They usually go into that room—the one I’m not allowed into. Sometimes I hear things—weird voices—but I can’t go. Father only brings the housemaids down there.”

Heat rushed to Sonia’s face. Ianthe, in her innocence, didn’t know what her words implied, but Sonia’s heart burned with pity for Lady Blight. Was she aware that her husband was most likely being unfaithful to her? The fact that he was brazen enough to bring lovers to his own home—in view of his daughter, no less—astounded her.

Hastily, she changed the topic over to Ianthe’s lessons for the day, and the rest of the afternoon was without incident. Ianthe played quietly in her room, and Sonia was straightening a stack of papers on the girl’s desk when she heard footsteps outside the misty window.

A figure trudged over the parched grass, edging towards the front door. As Sonia squinted through the glass, she recognized the figure’s surly face as that of Sir Blight. Quickly, she excused herself and found him swiftly disappearing past the black curtain and closing the second door behind him. She wedged her foot into its path before it could swing shut.

“I would like to speak with you.”

“Go away,” Sir Blight snarled from the darkness below.

“This is important.” She passed the curtain and stepped down a few of the stairs. “I would like to discuss something Ianthe shared with me earlier.”

“If you continue to follow, do not expect to keep your position at this estate.”

Indignation flared through Sonia, and she stomped, scowling, down the remaining stairs. Sir Blight was hunched over a workbench on the opposite side of the basement, and he whipped around to face her when he heard her footsteps approaching.

“I know about the affairs,” Sonia snapped. “Ianthe told me about the women you bring here. To think I was hired for such a purpose when I sought a respectable housekeeping job… you are a disgusting man, and I will no longer act as your pawn.”

Silence echoed through the chamber as he glared at her, his dark eyes utterly soulless. She started to turn, expecting another outburst—however, when he lowered his head, it was a chuckle that escaped his throat. She stared back, still stewing with a mixture of conviction, confusion, and chagrin.

“I have hidden a secret, yes,” he declared when he caught his breath. “However, it is not what you have so foolishly assumed.”

He turned to rummage around on the bench behind him. Carving and sculpting tools intermingled with a messy pile of unfinished stone limbs, the most prominent of which was a partially carved head sitting on a tray. She looked about the same age as Sonia, her expression distant as she gazed vacantly at the ceiling.

“I was planning to wait, really, and keep you here for longer,” Sir Blight continued. “I wanted to finish this before I started another. Now, though… you’ve left me no choice.”

He whirled around, eyes wild, and leveled the shining blade of a chisel at her heart. The scream bubbling up her throat was stifled as she scrambled backwards, holding her breath. Large hands grabbed for her skirt to stop her, but she evaded his grasp and felt her arm strike one of the statues. Sir Blight cried out as if he had been injured instead, and Sonia shrunk away.

The statue smashed to the ground. Fragments of stone flew in all directions, but there was something else among the dust and rubble. Countless smooth pieces of something mingled with jagged chunks of stone, and Sonia spotted a round, off-white object that resembled… the fractured dome of a skull.

She recoiled, nauseated; Sir Blight’s silhouette descended upon the broken statue, and his fingers sifted through the debris until they found what Sonia now recognized as bones. Shaking, he looked up at her, and flecks of saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

Sonia’s eyes flitted to the door, still covered by the black curtain.

“I told you this was my life’s work,” he growled as he tried to sweep the crumbled statue into a pile. “But the statues themselves aren’t all of it. Didn’t you ever wonder who they were modeled from? I searched for my muses extensively—looking for the beauty in all of them—and replicated them perfectly. Aren’t they beautiful, Miss Davenport?”

She held back a shudder. “Does your wife know?”

“No. Even if she did, there’s nothing that cow could do about it.” His hand tightened on the sculpting chisel. “I’d make sure of that. It would be a shame—she’s not fit for the collection. Too old, too unsightly.  The others are like angels. Beautiful, pure… perfect, even.”

Sonia took a step back and glanced at the rippling curtain again. The door was ajar, just as she’d left it. There was still hope.

Sir Blight uttered a cruel laugh. “You’ll make a great addition, Miss Davenport. You’re just like many of the others—pretty, naïve, always looking for approval. Even so, I hope I can capture that fighting spirit of yours. It fascinates me.”

He lunged at her, and she finally made a dash for the stairs, her entire body electric. She was close enough to touch the curtain when a meaty hand seized her wrist and wrenched her back. The world pitched onto its side, and pain bloomed through her skull as she was dragged down the stairs. Screeching, she kicked at anything that moved, fueled by adrenaline and mortal terror. Her vision was waning. All she could see were strong arms pinning her down and a chisel being pressed to the pulse at the hollow of her throat, its blade glinting against the candlelight as she struggled in vain.

For weeks, the community board was flooded with notices, all emblazoned with a young woman’s cheery face, abuzz with desperate words and calls to action. Eventually, the papers yellowed, and the corners curled inwards. They slowly vanished as they became torn and ragged, just as they always did, and their message faded as gradually as ink.

In time, a new leaflet appeared, pinned over the last copy of Sonia Davenport’s paling smile—three typed sentences on a sheet of crisp white paper, stuck to the cork with a thumbtack.

Housekeeping and tutoring services desired. Room and board provided. Inquire at 44 Gibbet Road for more information.