The Marble Gaze

Twelve-year-old Anika lived with her family in a four-story apartment building in the old quarter of Kathmandu. The building was always humming with life—the clatter of pots from the first floor, the laughter of children on the second, and the constant prayers from the temple next door. But the fourth floor was different. It was a dusty, forgotten space, filled with trunks of old clothes and broken furniture, a room that no one visited unless absolutely necessary. Anika never liked that room. Even from the stairwell, she felt a cold weight pressing against her, as if the air itself was heavy with something unseen.

One afternoon, her mother, busy with the younger twins, called up to her. ‘Anika, the storage room needs cleaning. You’re old enough now. Go sweep the dust and sort those old boxes.’ Anika’s stomach dropped. She had never been inside alone, and she always made excuses to avoid it. But her mother’s tone allowed no debate. Reluctantly, she trudged up the creaky stairs, her sandals slapping against the worn concrete. The key to the room hung on a nail beside the door, rusty and cold in her palm.

She turned the key and pushed the heavy wooden door. It swung inward with a low groan, revealing a dim space lit only by a small, grimy window. Dust motes danced in the thin light. Boxes and trunks were stacked haphazardly, and an old mattress leaned against the far wall. Anika stepped in, her heart thumping. She decided to start with the boxes near the window, but as she took her second step, the door slammed shut behind her with a violent bang that echoed through the room. She spun around, heart in her throat. She grabbed the handle and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. She rattled it, called out for her mother, but her voice seemed to be swallowed by the thick air.

A sound from behind her—a soft, shuffling noise, like fabric dragging across the floor. Anika froze. Slowly, she turned. In the corner, near the old mattress, stood a figure. A woman in a white sari, so pale she seemed almost translucent. Her head was bowed, long black hair obscuring her face. Anika’s breath caught. She wanted to scream, but only a whimper escaped. The figure began to move towards her, gliding without footsteps. Anika backed up until she hit the door, pressing herself against the cold wood.

The woman stopped a few feet away. Then, with an unnerving slowness, she raised her head. Anika’s blood turned to ice. Where her face should have been, there was nothing—no eyes, no nose, no mouth, just smooth, marbled skin, like the statues in the old temple. Anika’s mind screamed, but her body was frozen. The faceless woman reached out a hand, pale and long, and touched Anika’s cheek. The touch was cold, like stone.

Anika’s vision blurred. She felt herself falling into a void, the room dissolving. When she came to, she was on the floor, the door slightly ajar. Sunlight streamed in. She scrambled to her feet and fled down the stairs, sobbing. Her mother saw her and frowned. ‘What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ Anika couldn’t speak. She just pointed upstairs. Her mother sighed. ‘There’s nothing up there. Just old junk. Now wash your face and help me with dinner.’

That night, Anika couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the faceless woman. She wanted to tell someone, but who would believe her? The next morning, she went to the temple next door and asked the priest, a kindly old man with a gray beard, if he knew about the fourth floor. His face grew serious. ‘Long ago, a woman named Maya lived in that apartment. She was a sculptor’s wife. He went mad and left her. She had a stillborn child, and in her grief, she took her own life. They say her spirit never found peace. Some people see her occasionally, but she never harmed anyone. She’s just looking for her child.’

Anika shuddered. ‘But her face… it was blank.’ The priest nodded slowly. ‘Some say when she died, she lost her face because she lost her identity as a mother. But others believe she takes the face of the child she lost. If you ever see her again, pray for her, and maybe she will leave you alone.’

Anika tried to avoid the fourth floor after that. But a week later, she had to retrieve an old photo album for her grandmother. She climbed the stairs, heart pounding, but this time the door was open. She peered inside. The room seemed different—cleaner, warmer, with a soft light coming from the window. In the corner, she saw a small child sitting on the floor, playing with a toy. The child looked up and smiled. It had no face either. Anika felt a strange mix of fear and pity. The child pointed to a box. Anika walked over and opened it. Inside was a dusty old mirror. She picked it up and looked at her reflection. Her own face stared back, but for a moment, it shimmered, and she saw the face of the woman and child superimposed over hers, their expression sorrowful.

Then they were gone. The mirror clouded over, and when it cleared, Anika saw only herself. She took the mirror and left. She never told anyone what she saw that second time, but she often thought about the faceless woman and child. She began to leave small flowers and sweets in the corner of the room, and sometimes she would speak softly to the air, ‘I hope you find peace.’

Years later, when Anika was grown and the building was being renovated, workers found a sealed room in the fourth floor. Inside, they found the mummified remains of a woman and an infant, wrapped in a white sari. The sari was embroidered with intricate patterns, and over the woman’s face was a marble mask, smooth and featureless, as if the sculptor had never finished it. Anika, now an adult, was called to identify them. She looked at the mask and felt a deep sadness. Those were Maya and her child, hidden away, never laid to rest. She arranged for a proper cremation and prayers. After that, the fourth floor felt light, and Anika never saw the faceless figures again. But sometimes, when she caught her reflection in an old mirror, she thought she saw, just for an instant, a faint smile on her own face that wasn’t hers.