The Mannequin in the Attic

My cousin Mira, her friend Elowen, and I were holed up in my attic bedroom, a cramped space under the eaves that I’d claimed as my sanctuary. We were sprawled on the floor, taking turns with Elowen’s phone, capturing silly poses against the backdrop of old trunks and forgotten relics. The air was thick with dust and the smell of mothballs, but we didn’t mind; it was our secret hideout.

I’ve always had this knack—or curse, depending on how you look at it—for sensing the dead. Not seeing them clearly, but feeling their presence, hearing their whispers in the back of my mind. It’s like a radio frequency only I can tune into. So when I suddenly zoned out, my gaze fixed on the far corner where an old dress form stood draped in a tattered sheet, Mira knew something was up. She’d seen me do this before. ‘What is it? Who’s there?’ she asked, her voice edged with unease.

I blinked, coming back to myself. ‘There’s a woman upstairs,’ I said, my voice flat. ‘She’s coming up the stairs.’ Elowen’s eyes went wide, and she instinctively scooted closer to Mira. My cousin clutched her phone, knuckles white. ‘Let’s hide in the closet until she passes,’ I suggested, trying to sound calm.

We squeezed into the narrow closet, pressing together in the dark, the scent of old cedar and fabric surrounding us. For a moment, there was only the sound of our breathing. Then Mira let out a sharp gasp and jerked away. ‘Something touched my arm!’ she shrieked, flailing. We burst out of the closet, stumbling into the dim light of the attic.

And that’s when I saw her—not with my senses, but with my own eyes. Standing by the dress form, half-hidden behind a rack of my grandmother’s coats, was a little girl. She couldn’t have been more than seven, with pigtails and a faded floral dress that looked straight out of a 1950s photograph. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear, like she was the one who was scared of us.

‘Did you touch her?’ I asked Elowen, though I knew the answer. Elowen shook her head, trembling. ‘I did not,’ she whispered.

I took a step toward the girl. ‘It’s okay,’ I said softly. ‘We’re not going to hurt you.’ The girl just stared, her lips moving as if she was trying to speak but no sound came out. She pointed a tiny finger toward the attic’s far wall, where a cracked mirror hung crooked.

I followed her gaze. The mirror reflected not our attic, but a different room—a rustic kitchen with a wood-burning stove and lace curtains. And in that kitchen, a woman in a blood-stained apron was staring back at us, her face contorted with rage. Behind her, the same little girl cowered in a corner, hands over her ears as the woman advanced with a rolling pin.

I screamed, and the vision shattered. The mirror was just a mirror again, coated in dust. When I turned back, the girl was gone, but a chilling cold had settled in the room. Mira was sobbing, Elowen was frozen, and I knew that the woman in the mirror was not a memory, but a presence that had followed us from the attic into that reflected past, and it wasn’t done with us yet. The mannequin in the corner seemed to lean forward, as if listening, and I realized that the little girl wasn’t a ghost to be feared—she was a warning.