The Dog Statue

CW: mentions of pet death, physical violence/harm, blood

It may have been a 10-inch tall porcelain statue, but it meant everything to Jack and his family. It was white, shaped like a dog, and decorated with tiny painted pink and purple flowers that circled its neck like a collar. Its eyes were painted black and seemed to be alive, watching over the family with benevolence.

It had been given to the family after their dog, Buster, had died in his sleep one night. Ever since then, the statue had become their most prized possession.

Jack was dreaming that he was running his fingers through Buster’s orange and white fur when he was awoken by his mother shaking him and saying, “It’s time to wake up. The Redfields are coming over.”

 A surge of anger chased away Jack’s tiredness. The Redfields were an older couple who were the richest family in town. They were known for their greed and inability to care about anyone, even each other. People suspected that they only married each other for the money.

Jack pushed aside his threadbare blanket and got out of bed. After putting on a pair of worn trousers and slipping a red shirt over his head, he left his room and walked to the kitchen, where Mr. and Mrs. Redfield were sitting at the table, looking at him with disdain. 

“Can’t you hide that disgusting scar somehow?” was Mrs. Redfield’s first comment.

Jack shifted his head to the side to hide his glare and let his messy black hair cover the crescent-shaped scar under his left eye. He had gotten it after he had accidentally cut himself trying to steal food from the Redfields’ enormous pantry, which was the size of one of the rooms in his house, and the couple never let him forget it.  

Jack opened his mouth to answer when, after his parents and little sister had sat down at the table, Mr. Redfield said, “You know why we’re here, Mr. Blueridge.”

“For the last time, we’re not giving you the statue!” yelled Jack’s father. “It’s not for sale!”

“A pretty statue like that doesn’t deserve to sit in your filthy house collecting dust,” snapped Mrs. Redfield.

The Blueridges’ eyes widened.

“What did you say?” growled Jack’s mother, clenching her fist so hard that her knuckles turned white.

“It’s just the truth,” Mr. Redfield said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders. Jack wanted to punch him right in his stupid, ruddy face.

“Beside,” he continued, “you’ll get more money from the statue than you could ever make yourselves.”

“But it’s really special to us,” said Jack’s sister, Annalise, who was only six years old. She sniffled. “Why are you being so mean?” Her big eyes filled with tears.

Jack put a comforting hand on her shoulder before turning to the Redfields. “It’s not for sale,” he asserted, repeating the words his parents had told the older couple time and time again. “We’re not going to change our minds.”

Mrs. Redfield sighed and shook her head, her graying brown hair bobbing. “It’s a shame you can’t see reason,” she told them, her voice almost a whine. “I feel so sorry for you. Living in all this”—she looked around the cluttered, dusty house—“must be so hard for you.” If faked emotion was money, the amount in her voice could provide for the Blueridges for life.

Mr. Redfield stood up, and his wife followed suit. “Well, we should be going,” said the former.

“You—you haven’t even eaten yet,” said Mr. Blueridge in confusion. “You said you were coming to eat, and—”

“We changed our minds,” Mrs. Redfield snapped. Before the Blueridges could say anything, she and her husband stomped out of the house, letting the door slam shut behind them.

Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief. Jack was trembling with rage, his teeth gritted so hard they hurt. They would pay for this.

That night, Jack climbed into bed. Ideas of revenge swirled in his mind as he stared up at the cobweb-filled ceiling. He was wide awake.

Hours passed. The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the hallway penetrated the silence of the darkened house.

Right as Jack’s eyelids had begun to feel heavy, he heard the floorboards creak with heavy footsteps. He shut his eyes, staying perfectly still even though his heart was pounding. None of his family’s footsteps sounded like that.

The footsteps came toward his room, and he briefly felt someone watching him before the floorboards squeaked in the opposite direction. There was a sound like a heavy object being moved, and the noise of the footsteps dwindled. After the thudding sound of the door shutting, there was complete silence, save for the clock’s ticking.

Just when Jack was falling asleep, sunlight shone through his window, temporarily blinding him. He sat up, groaning and rubbing his eyes.

A cry pierced the air, followed by loud sobbing. Jack ran into the living room and found Annalise gazing at the mantelpiece in horror. “The statue! It’s gone!”

She ran to Jack, wrapped her arms around him, and cried into his shirt, her tears staining the fabric. Mr. and Mrs. Blueridge joined them, their eyes wide and their cheeks wet.

Anger surged through Jack’s veins. You’ll pay for this, Redfields. Even if it kills me. 

One night, Jack stood outside the metal gate of the Redfields’ picturesque white mansion. The rain beat the ground, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed in the distance. Jack gripped the bars of the gate in one hand and the handle of his umbrella in the other. Every time lightning struck, accompanied by a loud crack, Jack slammed the umbrella handle against the lock of the gate. His heart was pounding with fear and his nerves were crackling with energy, causing his whole body to tremble.

Finally, after almost an hour, the lock broke and the gate swung open. Jack sprinted across the vast front yard, dotted with small oak trees and neatly-trimmed bushes. A clothesline was hung from two trees on the right side of the house. A servant was gathering the laundry hanging from the glinting wire while trying to avoid the pouring rain. 

Jack swung the umbrella at the servant’s head with such force that the man dropped the laundry and hit the trunk of one of the trees, falling unconscious.

Clutching his umbrella and ducking low to the ground, Jack ran up to the house and peeked into a window. 

He found himself looking at a dining room with a table in the center that stretched almost from one end of the room to the other and filled with silver plates and ornate wooden chairs. Perpendicular to the table was a gilded fireplace with flames crackling loudly inside and a white painted mantelpiece decorated with various pictures, figurines, and—

A porcelain dog statue.

Jack’s heart leaped.

He attempted to open the window, but he soon discovered that it was locked from the inside. During lightning strikes, he summoned all his strength and thrust the point of the umbrella at the glass until the glass shattered. He dove inside the house, shards crunching under his feet. He raced to the mantelpiece, dropping the umbrella and reaching out his hand to grab the dog statue. In his mind’s eye, he saw Buster turning toward him, smiling and panting, his tongue lolling—

Gunshots echoed in the silence. Bullets hit Jack’s chest and stomach. He collapsed, blood quickly staining his shirt and the floor around him. The pain was all he knew.

Mr. Redfield came into his field of vision, holding a rifle. Mrs. Redfield was at his side. While she grabbed the statue and checked it for damage, Mr. Redfield glared at him.

“Dirty thief,” he growled, spitting in Jack’s face. He smiled evilly. “Now do you know not to mess with other people’s belongings?”

“It… belongs… to us!” Jack gasped, anger joining his pain. “Curse you… curse you!”

“The curses of the dead have no meaning,” said Mr. Redfield, leveling the rifle at Jack’s heart and pulling the trigger.

***

Not long after the blood had been scrubbed from the floorboards and the window had been repaired, the mantelpiece found itself in need of a good dusting. Duster in hand, Mrs. Redfield attacked the painted wood until there was not a mite of dust to be found. When she turned to clean the dog statue, its painted eyes moved to look at her. She screamed and dropped the duster.

“I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with it!” she told her husband one night at dinner.

Mr. Redfield shrugged. “You’re probably just being delusional. Besides, we can’t get rid of it. It’s a beautiful statue, and we worked so hard to get it.”

“You’re right,” said his wife, nodding. There was no use in arguing with her husband. Both of them gazed proudly at the porcelain statue. 

All of a sudden, Mr. Redfield gave a loud cry. 

“What’s wrong?” demanded Mrs. Redfield. 

Her husband pointed a shaking finger at the statue. “It moved! I swear, it moved by itself!”

Mrs. Redfield followed his finger to the statue, which had moved three inches to the right seemingly on its own. 

One rainy night, the Redfields had invited the Greendales, another well-off family, to dine with them. The Greendales complimented the statue with more vigor than the Redfields thought necessary and kept gazing at it over their wine cups (or water, for the kids), so between bites of caviar, the Redfields made sure to inform them, with venom dripping from every word, that the statue was not for sale. 

Then, one of the Greendale children, a six-year-old boy, interrupted the conversation by saying to his mother, “Mommy, why is that statue floating?”

His mother chuckled. “Don’t be silly. Statues can’t float—” 

The rest of her words were swallowed by a shriek as she saw that the statue was levitating a few inches off the mantlepiece. 

All of a sudden, the statue’s eyes flashed red, lightning crashed, and the power went out, bathing the room in darkness. Everyone screamed. 

Eventually, the servants were able to get the backup generator running, and the house was once more filled with light. 

Although the Greendales finished their meal, they never dined with the Redfields again. 

“That stupid statue!” raved Mr. Redfield, pacing up and down the bedroom he shared with his wife. “Because of it, those Greendales won’t talk to us anymore! It’s cursed, I tell you!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say this whole time!” cried Mrs. Redfield, wringing her hands. “Should we get rid of it?”

Mr. Redfield turned on her. “What are you saying?” he demanded. “You want to throw away this thing, this beautiful thing? Are you insane!?”

“Are you insane!? Have you forgotten when the statue levitated in front of”—she quickly thought—“five people, not including us!? How about when it moved on its own or when it looked at me!? I don’t want to get rid of it any more than you do, but I’m starting to think that keeping it around wouldn’t be such a good idea—”

There was a loud crash, followed by a scream. The Redfields followed the noise into the dining room, where a servant girl was pressed against the wall, chest heaving. The remains of a chair littered the floor next to her. 

“I’m so sorry,” she panted. “I—I was just going to mop the floor when one of the chairs— it threw itself at me! And that dog statue— it was— its eyes—” Her voice dissolved into sobs. 

Mrs. Redfield looked at her husband as if to say, See? 

Mr. Redfield looked at the statue over his shoulder. It appeared to be perfectly normal. But the way its white paint and the little pink and purple flowers that encircled its neck reflected the light and the way its eyes seemed to sparkle made it look like something from heaven. 

He and his wife would later learn that it would become something from hell. 

The next few months were littered with smaller incidents that caused the Redfields no less anguish than a power outage or a tossed chair. Things would mysteriously disappear and turn up days later in strange places. Doors would open and close of their own accord, and sometimes one of the Redfields would hear footsteps behind them, only to find that no one was there. 

The number of people who came to visit the house dwindled until the Redfields rarely received guests anymore. Everyone was saying that they wouldn’t eat with the Redfields even if you paid them. 

Things got to a point where the Redfields ate in their rooms and told the servants not to go anywhere near the dining room. 

The strange incidents continued, but the Redfields couldn’t bring themselves to throw away the statue. It had become one of their most prized possessions, whether they liked it or not. 

One evening, the Redfields were forced to step foot in the dining room for the first time in weeks because the town was having its worst cold spell since 1987 and the dining room was the only room in the mansion with a fireplace. 

The couple seated themselves as close to the crackling flames and as far away from the statue as they possibly could. 

None of the servants were allowed to warm up with them. They were the most important people in this house, heck, in this entire town! Why should mere servants be permitted to share in the warmth of their fireplace?

Right after the Redfields felt significantly warmed up, they moved to leave when the dog statue began to vibrate. Mrs. Redfield groaned. “Not again…!” 

Then, despite the flames, the room was blanketed with a sudden chill. The Redfields began to tremble with fear. 

Suddenly, words appeared on the wall to their right, written in fresh blood dripping down the white and mint-green wallpaper. 

YOU’RE DEAD. 

“Run!” gasped Mrs. Redfield, pulling her husband away from the fireplace just as the flames inside swelled, setting the mantle alight and quickly spreading throughout the area, surrounding the couple. Smoke filled the air, and the room became stiflingly hot. 

“Why are you doing this?” demanded Mr. Redfield. “You didn’t seem to be cursed before! How have you become something straight out of those stupid movies!? ANSWER ME!!!”

The flames engulfed the table and chairs and rapidly spread to the ceiling, eating up the wallpaper and concrete with supernatural speed and power. 

Then, blood began to drip from the walls, slowly at first but then getting faster and faster until it seemed to rain down on them. They screamed. 

“Are you possessed!?” Mr. Redfield shrieked at the statue. “Like that doll in that dumb franchise!?”

“Who!?” cried Mrs. Redfield. “Who are you!?” 

Then, pieces of the ceiling began to fall around them, lights shattering and debris hitting the ground and exploding into smaller chunks that pierced their clothes and their skin. The two of them bolted for the door, but an unseen force pulled them back to the fireplace, which was somehow mostly intact. 

A small chunk of concrete hit the statue’s pointed face. 

Mrs. Redfield shrieked loudly and pointed a shaking finger at the porcelain dog. 

The debris had given it a small crescent-shaped scar below its left eye. 

“IT WAS YOU!” the couple screamed, sobbing. Their legs gave out, and they fell to their knees. “CURSE YOU, CURSE YOU!!!”

The blood trickling from the wall by the fireplace formed words.

THE CURSES OF THE DEAD HAVE NO MEANING.

Meanwhile, holes appeared on the statue’s chest and blood began to drip from them. Gore continue to sweat from what was left of the walls and ceiling. The fire had already consumed the kitchen and was now spreading to the rest of the house. Smoke was filling the Redfields’ lungs and the heat had gone beyond oppressive, but the couple was still staring dumbly at the porcelain dog.

Finally, the Redfields stood and moved to flee, but a piece of the ceiling fell in their path. Turning, they bolted to the window, but more debris dropped in their way.

Mr. Redfield looked back at the statue, which was perfectly intact. He recalled the number of times he and his wife had traveled to the Blueridges’ house to convince the family to sell them the statue. He remembered how the beautiful porcelain dog had caught his eye, how it had sparkled in the sunlight.

He met his wife’s eyes, and he knew she was remembering the same thing.

They turned and sprinted back to the fireplace, sweating profusely and breathing hard. They reached out their hands toward the statue. They were close, so close—

Then, the rafters collapsed, crushing them. The last thing they saw was the dog statue gazing at them and smiling maliciously.

***

It didn’t take long for the story of the Redfield hauntings and the fire that had killed everyone inside the mansion and burnt it to the ground to become public knowledge. The statue was the only thing that was recovered. It was intact except for a chink below its left eye.

A poverty-stricken family called the Blueridges came to claim the statue, sobbing with joy. When asked if they felt malignance coming from it, they answered that they only felt benevolence.

An ecstatic director latched onto the idea, and a new movie called The Dog Statue was released the following year. The profits were given to the Blueridges, and they became rich, living in a mansion that soon became the forever home of a little puppy named Sammy.

At the Blueridges’ request, a photographer took a picture of them outside their new house with the statue. The family kept the picture on their mantlepiece. 

One day, the Blueridges were looking at the photo. They noticed phantom footprints in the grass next to them, one set human and the other set canine.