Blanket Face

The streetlights flickered on as dusk settled upon the Victorian house. June rang the bell and waited nearly ten minutes before the door opened by a sliver, held tight by a chain.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice answered from within.

“Hello. I’m here from the agency—the caregiver position.”

“Oh, please, come in.”

The woman unlocked the chain and opened the door. June stepped inside and was met with a blanket of musty air. The foyer was dark besides a trickle of light from the adjoining room. A walnut staircase spiraled up to the second and third floors, where dust hung in the air like clouds inside a cathedral. To her right was a closed door. Beyond that, stained-glass windows, yellowed by cigarette smoke, lined a hallway that terminated at a gated elevator.

The woman ushered June into the parlor. She sat on a sofa covered with a dingy slipcover and patted the seat next to her. June guessed that the woman was in her sixties, but it was difficult to tell how much sickness had aged her. Her features were sharp with frailty—her mouth puckered like a fish, and ribs like gills peeked through the fabric of her plain, old-fashioned dress. She tapped her pale fingertips against her hollow cheek as she inspected June, producing a thrum that echoed through the room.

“You may call me Helen. The job is very simple. I am feeble and can no longer care for my brother. He is a simple-brained man—contained, yet sensitive. He rarely causes trouble, but there are three rules you must follow. One: he is to remain covered at all times. Two: you must never touch him. And three: he is forbidden to leave the house. Your job is simple. Meals will be served to his room: breakfast at nine, lunch at noon, supper at seven. Then you may retire to your room. I am not to be disturbed. What you do in your free time is of no concern to me. Do you accept?”

“I accept.”

“I will show you to your room.”

Helen led her upstairs, her withered frame floating silently up the steps while each one seemed to groan with anguish under June’s weight.

Her room was simple—an oak dresser, a canopy bed, and a nightstand with a twin-belled alarm clock.

“I will arrange for a car to pick up your belongings in the afternoon,” Helen offered.

“That won’t be necessary. Everything I own is in here,” June replied, gesturing to her shoulder bag.

“Good.” Helen’s mouth twisted with the hint of a smile. “You may use the bathroom down the hall. My bedroom is on the first floor. My brother’s is on the third. You will find instructions for meals in the kitchen. Don’t forget the rules. Goodnight.”

“Wait,” June said.

Helen paused.

“What do I call him?”

“Blanket Face.”

She closed the door.

June sat down on the bed and drew the canopy curtains closed. The curtains settled with a flurry of dust, heavy with the same mildew that lingered throughout the house, and another scent she recognized. The smell of death, she thought. She decided she’d sleep on top of the covers.

In the middle of the night, she awoke to floorboards creaking outside her room. She tiptoed to her door and cracked it, peering into the darkness.

Silence.

Suddenly, a shadowy mass darted past her doorway. She shut the door swiftly and got back into bed. This time, she pulled the blankets over her face.

In the morning, June went downstairs, walking softly to discourage the steps from creaking. She shuffled past Helen’s closed door, through the parlor, and into the kitchen. Light trickled through the crusty windows, chipped and bandaged with newspaper. The refrigerator was ancient—an icebox, her grandfather would have called it.

On the marble countertop, she found the instructions.

Breakfast: black coffee, two fried eggs, two strips of bacon, one piece of toast.

June opened the refrigerator and a rotten stench hit her nostrils. Inside, blue and white mold sprouted from remnants of food. She slammed the door with disgust. Panicking, she searched the room for anything that could pass as breakfast. In the cupboard, she found a loaf of bread—stale but edible—and instant coffee. She toasted the bread and brewed a cup of coffee. She carried the rations on a wooden tray up to the third floor.

The floor had only two entryways: the elevator, which remained gated, and a room whose door was slightly ajar.

June stood outside the doorway holding the tray, her hands quivering.

“Hello?” she asked in a small voice.

No answer came.

“Breakfast time.”

She took a deep breath and pushed through the doorway with her shoulder.

Blanket Face sat in a wheelchair at the window, his back facing her. A linen blanket was draped over his head. It fell over his shoulders, dangling to the ground.

June tiptoed toward him.

“Good morning. I’m the new caretaker, June,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Blan—”

Her tongue refused to finish the name.

Blanket Face remained silent.

She set the tray on the bedside table and composed herself.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you your usual breakfast. I have to run to the store.”

And with that, she turned and hurried out of the room.

June walked to the grocery store with the instructions in hand. She bought the ingredients to prepare meals for the next few days. She paid for them with her own money—she would ask Helen to reimburse her.

When she returned, Helen’s door was still closed. June spent the remainder of the morning scrubbing the refrigerator clean after discarding its contents in the trash bin outside. At eleven-thirty, she prepared lunch: bologna sandwich, apple slices, six almonds.

She carried the plate upstairs.

Again, she waited at the doorway before entering.

“Hello, it’s me again. Lunchtime.”

Blanket Face had turned his chair to face the doorway. The coffee and toast appeared untouched.

“That’s alright,” June said. “I’m sorry it was stale.”

She replaced the wooden tray with lunch.

“Do you need anything? A glass of water?”

Blanket Face didn’t answer.

“Alright,” June said, with the uncomfortable sensation that she was speaking only to herself. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

As she walked down the stairs to her room, she thought she heard laughter coming from his room.

June kept to herself until it was time to cook dinner: pork chop, baked potato, vanilla ice cream.

This time, she lingered in front of Helen’s room for a moment. She pressed her head against the door. June could hear Helen talking to someone, perhaps on the telephone. Although she couldn’t make out the words, she was sure she heard her name.

June rushed up the staircase. She didn’t bother to greet Blanket Face before entering.

He sat in the center of the bed. His white blanket flowed down over his body and blended into the covers.

“Oh no!” June cried when she discovered he hadn’t eaten his lunch. “Did—did I do something wrong?” she asked hesitantly.

Blanket Face was silent.

She swapped the lunch plate for his dinner tray.

“I’ll do better tomorrow,” she said.

On her way out the door, she paused.

“Please, eat something.”

June had been asleep for several hours when she was jolted awake, this time by a loud thud from upstairs. She crept up to the third floor. A light was on in the room, the door still ajar.

She pushed open the door to see Blanket Face sitting in the same spot on the bed.

“Is everything al—”

She stopped when she noticed the blanket was slowly slipping downward. Soon, his head would be exposed.

June ran to the bed. With her eyes closed, she grabbed the edges of his blanket and carefully pulled it back into place without touching him. She squinted to make sure he was covered before opening her eyes.

“There,” she said, smiling.

Her smile contorted into a grimace as the lamp-lit figure remained still. June ran out of the room.

In the morning, she prepared breakfast as instructed.

Blanket Face was back in his chair, looking out the window. His dinner from the night before had gone uneaten.

“You poor thing!” June exclaimed. “Maybe you’re ill.”

She walked over to him.

“If I could just feel your forehead.”

She reached a shaky hand toward the top of his head. Blanket Face didn’t say a word. As her fingers grazed the blanket, she stopped and withdrew her hand, remembering the rules.

“Maybe I’d better talk to your sister.”

June practically fell down the staircase, her heart beating out of her chest.

“Helen,” she called at her doorway.

No answer.

“Helen, I need to speak with you, please. I think Blanket Face is sick.”

June rapped on the door.

Again, no answer.

This is ridiculous.

At eleven-thirty, she prepared lunch.

Why bother?

She carried the bologna sandwich past Helen’s room, the door still closed.

Although Blanket Face had turned his chair to face the doorway, June was not at all surprised to find his breakfast untouched.

“Please,” she begged. “Let me help you.”

Silence.

June went downstairs and banged on Helen’s door.

“Helen!” she called. “Helen, I must speak with you!”

Helen did not answer.

June tried the door.

Locked.

This is insanity.

She threw herself at the door, and it swung open. Inside, she was hit with the same rotting stench that filled the rest of the house. Helen was lying motionless on her bed.

June moved toward her.

“Helen, your brother—”

She poked Helen’s shoulder, and she rolled over in the bed flat onto her face.

June shrieked and ran out of the room, straight up to the third floor and into the bedroom.

“I’m getting you help!”

She grabbed Blanket Face’s chair and wheeled him into the hallway. She struggled to open the elevator gate, using all over her force to pry it open.

She got on the platform and pulled Blanket Face in front of her. She mashed the down button over and over until the ancient elevator came alive.

As it descended, June could hear footsteps pounding through the house.

The second floor was nearly out of sight when an arm reached into the elevator, grabbing at June’s hair.

She screamed.

As the elevator neared the first floor, she prepared to run. Before it had even settled, June was sprinting at full speed, steering Blanket Face down the hall.

The staircase creaked behind her.

She flung open the front door and pushed Blanket Face into the light.

Before they could make it any farther, she was tackled from behind, forcing her against Blanket Face, her hands still gripping his chair.

June tumbled down the cobblestone steps, taking Blanket Face with her.

She rolled onto the pavement below.

Blanket Face’s chair hit the cement and careened into the grass, tipping over on its side.

He lay there motionless.

“Blanket Face!” June cried out in agony.

Her leg was broken. She dragged herself over to him through the grass.

“Answer me!”

She screamed as she pulled the blanket from him.

Then, silence.

Underneath the blanket, a mannequin with a wax face stared blankly back at her, its features beginning to melt in the hot summer sun.

“I told you not to touch him!” Helen screamed with fury as she stomped down on June’s head.

--------------------------

Maria sat in the parlor.

“Whatever happened to June?” she asked Helen. “I knew her from the agency.”

“June found… other work,” Helen replied. “Do you remember the rules?”

“Umm, let’s see,” Maria said, twirling her hair. “Remain covered at all times. Never touch. Forbidden to leave the house. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

Helen smiled.

“I’ll show you to your room.”

Maria sat down on the bed.

“Goodnight,” Helen said.

“Wait,” Maria said.

Helen paused.

“What do I call her?”

“Blanket Face.”

She closed the door.