The Mannequin in Room 12

My name is Neil, and I’ve never believed in ghosts. I worked as a night auditor at the Grandview Inn, a sprawling, old-fashioned hotel that had seen better decades. It was the kind of place where the wallpaper was patterned with faded roses and the carpet smelled of dust and old cigarettes. My shift started at eleven PM and ended at seven in the morning, which meant I spent most of my time alone in the lobby, staring at the security monitors that showed endless, empty corridors.

One night, around two in the morning, I decided to do a quick walkthrough of the second floor. I told myself it was to make sure no guests were causing trouble, but really, I just wanted to stretch my legs. I passed room after room, each with its brass numbers and little card in the slot. When I got to room 12, I noticed the door was slightly ajar. That was odd. Room 12 was supposed to be empty that night. I pushed it open slowly, calling out, ‘Housekeeping?’ There was no answer.

The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cast a pale glow through the curtains. I could make out the shape of the bed, the dresser, and, in the corner, a tall figure. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but then I realized it was just a mannequin. A full-sized, female mannequin, draped in an old-fashioned floral dress, with a cracked porcelain face. Who the hell would leave a mannequin in a hotel room? I thought. Maybe it was for a display in the lobby or something. I shrugged and closed the door, making a mental note to ask the manager about it in the morning.

The next night, the same thing. I was doing my rounds, and I passed room 12. The door was ajar again. I pushed it open, and there was the mannequin, but this time it was standing right by the window, facing the parking lot. I felt a chill. It almost looked like it was watching something. I decided to be brave and walked closer. The room was colder than it should be. I could see my breath. I reached out to touch the mannequin; it was plastic, cold, and had fine cracks on its face, like it had been painted and repainted many times. I pulled my hand back quickly. I had the sudden, irrational feeling that if I touched it again, it would move.

I tried to dismiss it, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Even when I was back in the lobby, I felt eyes on the back of my neck. I looked up at the security monitors, and there it was: a pale, blurry shape in the corner of the screen showing the second-floor corridor. It stood outside room 12. Then it vanished.

Over the next week, this became a ritual. Every night, I’d find room 12’s door open, and the mannequin would be in a different position. Sometimes it was closer to the door, sometimes facing the wall, sometimes lying on the bed, with its arms crossed over its chest like a corpse. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of it on the monitor, standing in the hallway just out of reach of the camera’s flickering light. I started hearing things, too: a faint humming, like a lullaby, drifting from that direction.

I asked my manager, Mrs. Delgado, about it. I said, ‘Do you know there’s a mannequin in room 12? It’s been in different positions each night.’ She looked at me with a strange expression. ‘Room 12 has been closed for years,’ she said. ‘We don’t put anything in there. It’s the old storage room. But you’re the third night auditor to complain about strange things in that corridor.’ She told me that a previous auditor quit because she saw a woman in a floral dress standing at the end of the hall, and when she approached, the woman simply disappeared.

That night, I refused to believe it. The mannequin was real. I saw it with my own eyes. So I went to room 12 with a flashlight and a determination to prove it was just a prank. The door was ajar, as always. I stepped inside and shone the beam around. The room was empty. No mannequin. But the air was cold, so cold, and I could hear the humming again, louder now. It seemed to come from the closet. I opened the closet door, and there was the mannequin, hanging from a hook, swaying slightly. Its head was tilted at an unnatural angle, and its painted eyes seemed to look straight at me.

I backed away, but my heel hit the door, and it slammed shut. The light flickered. I tried to turn the knob, but it wouldn’t budge. I felt a presence behind me. I turned slowly, and the mannequin was now slumped against the wall, but its head was turned to face me, and I could have sworn it smiled. A thin, painted smile.

I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up on the floor of the lobby, with the morning sun streaming through the windows. The security footage showed me entering room 12 and then nothing, a blank screen, until the camera flickered back on at 5 AM, showing the door opening and me stumbling out, pale and shaking.

I quit that day. But the worst part is, I still feel it. Sometimes, when I’m at home, I’ll catch a glimpse of a woman in a floral dress out of the corner of my eye. And I’ll hear the humming. And I know, wherever I go, that mannequin, or whatever it is, is waiting for me to turn my back again.