The Wax Bride

Dad’s new wife, Elena, is painfully shy. She spends every day sitting by the attic window, her back rigid, wearing a high-collared lace dress. "Don't disturb her," Dad warned, scrubbing dark soil from his fingernails. "She's meditating." But the house has started to smell... wrong. Like heavy perfume masking something rotten. Tonight, I sneaked in to meet her. She was so pale, almost grey. I reached out to apply some rouge to her cheek, to make her look alive. My brush slid across cold, hard wax. Startled, I pricked my finger on her brooch. A single drop of blood landed on her painted eye. She didn't blink... but why is the attic door locking itself from the inside?