The Hollow Mannequin

The night had the quality of something waiting, the way the air thickens before a storm. We’d spent the evening at my cousin’s secluded cabin, nestled in a valley where the pines grew too close together, their branches scraping the windows like skeletal fingers. My partner, Alex, and his son, Jamie, had gone to bed around midnight, but I’d stayed up, nursing a glass of wine and watching the fire die. It was nearly 3 AM when I finally padded to my room, the one at the end of the hall, with a window that looked out onto the black wall of the forest.

I lay in the unfamiliar bed, the sheets smelling of cedar and dust. Sleep came in fits, interrupted by the creaks of the old house, the wind rattling the panes. At 4:30, I gave up and went to the bathroom, the cold floor sending shivers up my spine. I splashed water on my face, and in the mirror, I noticed a long scratch on my arm that I hadn’t seen before, a thin line of dried blood. I shook it off, blaming the rough woolen blanket, and crept back to bed, pulling the covers over my head.

What happened next is still a jumble. I remember the weight of sleep pressing down, and then a flicker of consciousness. I was paralyzed, my limbs too heavy to lift, my tongue thick in my mouth. I tried to call out for Alex, but only a faint moan escaped. The room was darker than it should have been, the moon having dipped behind the hills. And then I heard it: a soft rustling, like fabric dragging across the floor. I thought it was Jamie, checking on me, but the footsteps were too measured, too slow. A figure emerged from the corner of my vision, but it wasn’t a boy. It was a woman, tall and gaunt, wearing a long gray dress that seemed to absorb the light. Her face was pale, featureless except for two dark sockets where eyes should have been. She didn’t speak, but I felt her voice in my head, a dry rasp: ‘You see what I keep.’

I forced my eyes open, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. The room was empty, but the air was cold. On the nightstand, a small wooden figurine I’d bought that day from a local artisan—a twisted, hollow mannequin—had been turned to face the wall. I hadn’t touched it since I set it down. I grabbed it, and beneath the wood, I felt a faint vibration, like a heartbeat. The windows rattled, and I swear I heard the sound of a woman crying, muffled, as if from behind a wall. I didn’t sleep again that night, huddled in the corner with the light on, the mannequin clutched to my chest, its hollow eyes seeming to watch me.

The next morning, I told Alex everything, but he dismissed it as a nightmare, the stress of the trip. Jamie, however, seemed troubled. He said he’d heard me calling his name in the night, and when he peeked into my room, he saw a tall figure standing over my bed, stroking my hair. He thought it was a dream. I looked down at my arm, and the scratch was gone. In its place was a small, perfect bruise, shaped like a thumbprint. And when I unwrapped the mannequin to show them, it was no longer hollow. Inside, there was a tiny, unborn baby, made of wax, with its eyes sewn shut. I dropped it, and it shattered on the floor, releasing a single, wispy breath that smelled of decay. The woman’s voice echoed in my ears: ‘You carry me now.’ I packed our bags that instant, but as we drove away, I saw her in the rearview mirror, standing on the cabin’s porch, her head tilted, her mouth open in a silent scream. I haven’t turned off the lights since, and every time I close my eyes, I feel her cold fingers brushing my cheek.