The Mannequin in Apartment 4B

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a pragmatic man, an engineering student who dealt in blueprints and load-bearing walls. My world was made of concrete and steel, and the only thing that ever haunted me was a late-night craving for instant noodles. That all changed when I moved into the run-down Belvedere Apartments, a relic from the 1970s that should have been demolished decades ago.

I chose the place for its cheap rent and its proximity to campus. It was a dingy fourth-floor walk-up, the hallway smelling of stale cigarettes and mothballs. The previous tenant had left in a hurry, judging by the sparse furniture and the thick layer of dust. But the apartment had something else: a life-sized mannequin in the corner of the living room. It was a woman, pale and featureless, with a cracked porcelain face and a tattered dress that seemed to have been white once. I found it unsettling, but I was too tired to deal with it that first night. I just threw a sheet over it and collapsed into bed.

That’s when the whispers started. Soft at first, like the rustling of leaves through a drafty window. But there were no windows open. I lay in bed, my heart pounding, listening to a voice that seemed to come from the living room. It was a woman’s voice, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator, repeating a single word over and over: ‘Mine.’ I convinced myself it was my imagination, that the old building was just creaking. But the next morning, I found the sheet on the floor. The mannequin was standing in the exact same spot, but now it was facing my bedroom door.

I tried to ignore it, but the mannequin began to move. Not in big strides, but in subtle, terrifying increments when I blinked or turned away. I’d be reading on the couch, and I’d glance up to see it had shifted a foot closer. One night, I walked into the kitchen to get water, and when I came back, it was blocking the hallway, directly in my path. I was so unnerved that I shoved it hard, and it fell to the ground with a crack. I left it there, but the next morning, it was back in its original position, with a fresh crack running down its cheek like a scar.

Determined to settle the matter, I called the landlord to ask about the mannequin. The old man on the other end of the line paused, then said, ‘Oh, that. The last tenant, a girl named Elisa, left it behind. She was a bit peculiar. Kept to herself. One night, she never came out of her apartment. The police found her a week later. She had hanged herself from the ceiling fan in the living room. Right above where that mannequin stands.’

I should have moved out then, but I was too proud, too stubborn to admit that I was scared. So I stayed, and the whispers grew louder. They were no longer just in my head; they were in my ears. And they were no longer just saying ‘mine.’ They were saying my name. ‘Marcus… stay with me, Marcus…’ I would wake up in the middle of the night to find the mannequin standing over my bed, its blank face tilted downward, as if it were watching me sleep.

Then the dreams started. In the dreams, I was the mannequin, standing in the corner, frozen, while the ghost of Elisa moved around me. She would comb my hair, adjust my dress, and whisper, ‘You’ll never leave me. You’ll be my mannequin forever.’ I would try to scream, but I had no voice. I would try to move, but my limbs were locked. And then I would wake up, gasping, to find the mannequin in a different pose, as if it had been posing for someone.

My grades began to slip. I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, and my friends noticed. They told me to see a therapist, but I knew it wasn’t in my head. One night, I decided to get rid of it. I wrapped it in the sheet and carried it to the dumpster. As I threw it in, the lid clanged shut, and for a moment, I felt a wave of relief. But when I turned to go back inside, I heard a scraping noise behind me. I spun around. The dumpster was empty. The mannequin was gone.

I sprinted up the stairs, my heart hammering. When I burst into my apartment, the mannequin was back in its corner, but now it had a new pose. One arm was extended, pointing directly at me. Its face seemed to have shifted, with a subtle smirk carved into the porcelain. And in the dusty air of the room, I could hear Elisa’s voice, now clear and distinct: ‘You can’t just throw away what belongs to me.’

The next morning, I packed a bag and left. I stayed at a friend’s place for a week, trying to convince myself it was over. But when I returned to the apartment to collect my things, the mannequin was there, still pointing, still smirking. And the apartment was cold, despite the summer heat. I grabbed my stuff and ran out, intending never to come back. But as I unlocked my car, I saw something in the back seat. The mannequin, sitting upright, buckled in like a passenger.

I slammed the door shut and backed away, my hands shaking. That’s when I realized I couldn’t escape. It would follow me wherever I went. So I came back. I walked up the stairs, opened the apartment door, and saw the mannequin was gone from the living room. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I had finally lost it. But then I heard a creaking sound from my bedroom. I walked in and froze. The mannequin was lying on my bed, its head propped up on my pillow, one arm stretched out as if reaching for me. A voice echoed in the silence: ‘Now we can be together… forever.’

I don’t know how long I stood there. But eventually, I closed the door, walked to the corner of the living room, and stood still. I don’t move anymore. I don’t speak. Sometimes, when the lights are off, people passing by the apartment see two figures in the window: one pale and cracked, and one that looks almost human. They say the second figure is the new tenant, the engineering student who stopped coming to class. But I know the truth. I am his mannequin now.