The apartment was ice cold when I entered it. Not a window was open, nor could I feel a draft, but the place had an iciness to it that left my fingertips tingling and raised goosebumps on my arms.
My boss expected me to give him an appraisal of this penthouse but I don’t think that people would want to buy a live-in freezer. Nonetheless, I stepped inside the foyer then into the living room where I saw a statue sitting smack dab in the middle, instead of where a coffee table should’ve been.
The statue looked peaceful, almost ethereal. Smooth and clear, not a wrinkle in sight. Carved from pale golden wax, the female figure sat with her head held high, shoulders set, and back ramrod straight. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap and her feet appeared to be crossed at the ankles. Her smile was frozen in place, almost as if it was forced upon her face.
Beautiful. Peaceful. Still.
Except for her eyes.
They looked deep into my soul, as if she were measuring the depth of me. She looked at me in a way that made my innermost thoughts seem available to her like the morning newspaper.
I moved to the side and felt the strange sensation of being watched. I turned my head back to her and found her eyes on me.
She reminded me of the Mona Lisa; her eyes followed me everywhere. This thought gave me the chills. The sight reminded me of an old legend that haunted our town for a while, before the elders decided to declare it as folklore. They used to say that beeswax could preserve a soul for eternity.
I stood still for a moment and watched her for any signs of movement. Then I shook my head at myself and laughed. Surely, I couldn’t believe a myth.
I took another glimpse at the motionless form and although it looked creepy, it was a simple piece of art.
I checked the rest of the apartment, wary of the eyes following my every movement. I couldn’t wait to get out. My imagination ran wild, making it seem as if she could actually see me.
When I entered the living room again, my eyes zeroed in on the figure and something caught my attention. Running down the statue’s face was a hairline crack from her left temple to her jaw. I studied it for a moment, confused as to how it got there; I could’ve sworn there was nothing there when I first saw it.
I assumed that I didn’t notice it before and continued on checking the rest of the furniture.
Every time I moved, her eyes moved with me.
I stepped to the side; she looked at me. Her head didn’t turn, only her eyes.
I stepped to the left, her eyes swiveled toward me.
I stood behind her, and I felt, rather than saw, her eyes on me.
As I approached her front again, a small fissure under her right eye stopped me in my tracks.
Her hands had cracks running along the length of them.
I put my hand to her shoulder and immediately pulled back. The statue felt warm to the touch, almost as warm as a human body.
I took a couple of steps backward when I heard it. Two short “plop” sounds, then a rhythmic wet ticking. It sounded heavier than a simple water drop.
My eyes roamed the figure in front of me and landed on the droplets of blood below it.
As I stumbled backwards onto the couch cushion, I heard a snapping sound and looked up to see the figure’s entire body was covered in cracks.
My eyes widened in horror and I let out a horrified yell.
Instead of the figure collapsing to the floor, it began to bleed. Flesh and bone showed through the widening fissures.
She stood up and fixed her eyes on me. I scrambled off the couch and fell onto the floor. She reached out one bloody hand but I crawled away. Her eyes looked alive and crazed, as if she had been waiting for this moment.
This wasn’t some ordinary figure.
It wasn’t done to immortalize a person.
It was done to keep something alive.
Her leg moved one step towards me. I lay on the floor, frozen in abject horror. When suddenly she stopped.
Her eyes left me.
They landed on something behind me.
Then, the front door shut and the lock snapped into place.
