The Plaster Saint

In the autumn of my sixteenth year, my family moved into the old Harlow house, a sprawling Victorian relic that had sat empty for decades. The previous owners had left most of their belongings, including a basement cluttered with furniture, boxes, and one particular oddity: a life-sized plaster statue of the Virgin Mary, her painted eyes staring blankly at the far wall. My friends—Jenna, Marcus, and Lou—helped me explore the house on the first night, flashlights cutting through the dark as we descended the creaking stairs.

Lou, always the skeptic, noticed a small brass plaque at the base of the statue: ‘Gifted to the Harlow family in 1923. Do not move.’ With a laugh, he nudged the statue, and it wobbled slightly, revealing a crack in the plaster behind it. Curious, I pried at the crack, and a section of the base swung open, revealing a dusty wooden box. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a hand-cranked phonograph and a single wax cylinder labeled ‘The Harlow Family Recordings.’

We hauled the phonograph upstairs and, despite the creepy circumstances, set it up in the living room. The recording was scratchy, filled with the sounds of a family laughing, but then a child’s voice cut through: ‘She’s in the walls. She’s always been in the walls.’ The laughter stopped. A woman’s voice, trembling, said, ‘We didn’t mean to wake her. Now she won’t let us leave.’ The cylinder ended with a series of thuds and a door slamming.

We dismissed it as a prank, but that night, as I lay in bed, I heard a faint scratching within the walls, like fingernails dragging along plaster. I tried to ignore it, but the scratching grew louder, and then a voice—soft and feminine—whispered, ‘You found me.’ I bolted upright, and the room was freezing. The closet door creaked open a few inches, and I saw a pale hand retreat into the darkness. I screamed, and my friends, who were staying over, burst in.

Jenna suggested we play the recording again, thinking it might hold clues. We did, and this time, we heard a low hum beneath the family’s voices—a melody that seemed to grow in intensity the longer we listened. Marcus, who had a talent for music, started humming along, and the walls began to vibrate. Lou shouted, ‘Stop!’ but it was too late. The plaster statue in the basement began to crack and crumble, and a black, oily substance seeped from its eyes.

Within minutes, the entire house turned against us. Picture frames crashed to the floor, glass shattered, and the furniture toppled over as if tossed by an invisible force. The phonograph started playing the cylinder backwards, revealing a reversed incantation: ‘I am bound to this house. You have freed my body. Now I shall take yours.’ The lights flickered, and we heard the sound of plaster cracking again, this time from the ceiling above us. We looked up to see the face of the statue—now blank, blank as a canvas—peering down from a fresh crack, its mouth moving in silence.

We fled to the front door, but it refused to open. The windows were sealed tight. The scratching was now everywhere, in the walls, under the floorboards, even inside our heads. I grabbed the phonograph and was about to shatter it when I remembered the plaque: ‘Do not move.’ Maybe moving the statue was a mistake, but maybe it was the key. I shouted to my friends, ‘We have to put her back together!’ We raced to the basement, and through the chaos, we collected the plaster fragments that had crumbled. They were still warm, like skin.

As we worked to piece the statue back together, the entity grew more violent. The air thickened, and we could hear her scream—a sound that was both a thousand voices and one. We finally restored the statue, but it was missing a hand. I remembered the closet door in my room. I sprinted up the stairs, the entity’s rage shaking the house, and found the hand lying on the floor. I clutched it, and as I ran back down, I tripped, and the hand slipped from my grasp. It skittered across the floor, and I lunged for it just as the basement door slammed shut behind me.

My friends were trapped inside. I could hear their muffled cries. I held the hand, and the voice whispered, ‘Put me back, or they die.’ I opened the door, and the chaos subsided for a moment. The statue was nearly whole. I placed the hand, and there was a sickening pop as it sealed into place. The house went silent. The statue’s eyes, once blank, now seemed to bore into us with an ancient hatred.

We didn’t speak for a long time. We knew we had done something terrible. We had not merely woken a demon; we had shattered a prison meant to contain a vengeful spirit. The plaque read ‘Do not move,’ but we had moved her, and now she knew our names.

Two years later, I was alone in my apartment, a small place far from the Harlow house. I had tried to forget that night, but the memory clawed at the edges of my mind. One night, I felt a draft from the closet. I had left the door open, just a crack, and with a shiver, I saw a shadow shift within. The door slowly swung open, and standing inside was a figure of plaster, her face blank but familiar. She took a step forward, her cracked lips parting, and in a voice that was both a whisper and a shout, she said, ‘You can’t move me, because I’ve already moved into you.’