The Hollow Mannequin

It had been three years since I’d left the cramped apartment in the old mill town, three years since the whispers in the walls had finally fallen silent. Now, in the sprawling suburb of Aurora, Colorado, I thought I’d found peace in a quiet cul-de-sac and a job at a boutique in the nearby mall. The store was called ‘Maison de Rêve’, a high-end fashion shop filled with elegant clothing and, my personal responsibility, the window mannequins.

Every morning, I would unlock the glass door, breathe in the scent of polished floors and new fabric, and begin my rounds. I’d adjust a sleeve, smooth a skirt, reposition a hand. They were just plastic figures, but there was an art to it. The owner, Mrs. Delacroix, was a stickler for perfection, and I took pride in my work.

Then came the day the new mannequin arrived. It was ordered from a quirky online store that specialized in ‘vintage-style display figures’. The box was heavy, and the delivery man grunted as he hauled it inside. ‘You guys sure got some weird stuff,’ he said with a sideways glance. I shrugged it off.

When I unboxed it, I was struck by its realism. The curves, the slight sheen of the ‘skin’, the almost too-realistic hands with visible knuckles and faint blue veins. But the face… it was blank, a featureless oval, standard for mannequins. I placed it in the center window, dressed it in a flowing crimson gown, and stepped back to admire my work. It looked… too alive.

That night, as I was locking up, I saw it. In my peripheral vision, the mannequin’s hand—the one I had positioned delicately at the gown’s waist—had moved. It was now resting flat against the glass, as if pressing to get out. I froze, heart hammering. I blinked, and it was back in place. A trick of the light, I told myself. I rushed home and locked my doors.

The next morning, I was early, and I found the mannequin turned to face the interior of the store, not the street. It was as if it had been watching me enter. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck, but I forced myself to think rationally. The cleaning crew must have bumped it. I repositioned it and went about my day.

But throughout the day, my eyes kept drifting to that window. Customers would stop and stare, not at the clothes, but at the mannequin. Some would look uneasy, even walk away quickly. Mrs. Delacroix noticed the fuss and came over. ‘It’s the pose,’ she said, ‘too natural. Maybe we should put it in the back.’ I agreed, relieved.

In the back storage room, surrounded by boxes and spare fixtures, the mannequin seemed to exude a coldness. I tried to avoid it, but I had to organize the stock. As I moved a crate, I heard a noise—a faint suffocated gasp, like something trying to breathe through plastic. I spun around. The mannequin’s head was tilted, as if listening. My blood ran cold. I backed toward the door, but it was locked. I fumbled with the key, and just as I unlocked it, I felt a cold, hard touch on my shoulder. I whirled around—nothing was there. But the mannequin was now facing the door, as if it had been watching me leave.

The next week, I started having nightmares. I’d dream of being trapped in that storage room, the mannequin slowly advancing, its blank face splitting into a wide, toothless grin. I’d wake up drenched in sweat. I told my friend, a security guard at the mall, about it. He laughed, ‘It’s just a mannequin, Jules. Maybe you’re just stressed.’ But his face dropped when I described the pale, almost translucent skin and the way the light seemed to bend around it.

One evening, I stayed late to do inventory. The mall was deserted, the only sound the hum of the air conditioning. I entered the storage room and flicked on the light. The mannequin was in the corner, draped in a shroud of white linen. But as I approached, I saw that the linen was not a cloth—it was a cobweb, thick and silvery, covering it like a cocoon. And the mannequin’s blank face… now had faint indentations, as if something was pressing from the inside out. I dropped the clipboard and ran.

The next day, I refused to enter the storage room. Mrs. Delacroix was furious. ‘It’s just a mannequin, Jules. You’ve been doing this for years. Get a grip.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching me, that it knew I was afraid.

That night, I got a call from the mall’s security. There was an intruder in my store. The police arrived, but found no one. Yet, when I got there, I saw the mannequin in the front window, dressed in the crimson gown, one hand raised as if waving. I nearly screamed. The security guard said, ‘That thing wasn’t here when we checked the perimeter. It was in the storage room.’ I looked at him, and he looked at me. We both knew.

I couldn’t sleep for days. I tried to quit, but Mrs. Delacroix offered me a bonus if I stayed ‘for the season’. Desperate for money, I agreed. But I avoided the mannequin, even refused to clean it. It remained in the front window, and I noticed that every time I passed, I would feel a faint vibration in my pocket, as if my phone was about to ring, but the screen stayed dark.

One afternoon, a customer approached me and asked in a hushed voice, ‘Excuse me, but that mannequin… does it ever move? I swear I saw it blink.’ I forced a laugh. ‘They’re static, ma’am. Just plastic.’ She didn’t look convinced. She shook her head and left, muttering about ‘bad vibes’.

As she walked away, I felt a cold breath on my neck. I spun around. The mannequin was behind me, just inches away. Its blank face seemed to tilt. I stumbled backward, knocking over a display of scarves. The mannequin’s arms were now raised, as if to embrace me. I screamed, and a passing shopper looked in, startled. When she looked back, I was on the floor, the mannequin stood in its original pose in the window. I trembled, unable to move.

That evening, I decided I had to destroy it. I waited until closing, took a heavy hammer from the maintenance closet, and entered the storage room. The mannequin was there, wrapped in a new white shroud, as if waiting. I raised the hammer, but my arm froze. A voice, dry and brittle, whispered from within, ‘Don’t you want to see my face?’ The shroud slipped off, revealing a face that was no longer blank. It was a perfect copy of my own, with hollow, black eyes. I dropped the hammer and ran out into the mall, screaming, never looking back.

I called in sick the next day, and the day after. Mrs. Delacroix called, threatening to fire me. I didn’t care. I never returned. I moved to a small apartment across town, changed my number, and tried to forget. But sometimes, at night, I look out my window, and I see it—the mannequin, standing across the street, facing my window, its blank face turned upward. And I know it’s not finished with me yet.