The Mannequin in the Attic

My father, Elias, was a master welder, and his crew—Marek, Tomas, and old Vasily—had been with him for years. When they landed a contract in northern Minnesota, I tagged along, fresh out of high school, eager to see the world beyond our small town. We rented a house on the edge of a pine forest, a two-story Victorian that looked like it had been frozen in time. The landlord was a nervous little man who kept glancing at the attic door and muttering about the ‘previous tenants’ being ‘a bit odd.’ We dismissed it as small-town superstition.

The first few days were ordinary: we unpacked, had a hearty meal at the local diner, and went over the project plans. The house itself was cozy, with a wood stove that crackled and a porch that faced the lake. We all slept well, dreaming of the quiet life.

But on the fourth night, at exactly 1:00 AM, a scream tore through the silence. It was Marek, the youngest of the crew, who shared the upstairs room with Tomas. We burst in to find Marek lying rigid on his bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling. His lips were blue, and his body was completely still, as if all his muscles had locked. He didn’t respond to our shouts or shakes. Elias, my father, stood frozen, his face pale, too afraid to touch him.

‘It’s the attic,’ Tomas whispered, pointing to a small door in the corner of the room. ‘I heard scratching up there all night.’ Vasily, the oldest, crossed himself. ‘I’ve seen this before. Something is sitting on his chest, pressing the life out of him.’

We all looked up. The attic door was slightly ajar, and from the darkness within, we heard a faint rustling, like fabric against wood. Then, a slow creak, as if something heavy was shifting its weight.

Marek’s eyes moved, following an invisible form above him. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out. I saw his hand twitch, as if reaching for something. Then, as suddenly as it began, his body relaxed, and he gasped for air. He sat up, drenched in sweat, and whispered, ‘She’s in the attic. She’s been waiting.’

We didn’t sleep that night. We sat in the kitchen, drinking coffee, while Marek recounted what he saw: a woman in a white dress, with hollow eyes, sitting on his chest, humming a lullaby. She pointed to the attic and mouthed, ‘Come see what I found.’

The next morning, despite our fear, curiosity got the better of us. We climbed the rickety stairs to the attic, armed with flashlights and a crowbar. The attic was cluttered with old furniture and dusty boxes. And there, in the corner, under a tarp, we found a life-sized mannequin, its porcelain face cracked, its empty eye sockets fixed on us. It wore a tattered white dress, and its hands were posed as if reaching out. A small, rusted music box sat at its feet. When I wound it, it played a broken lullaby that matched Marek’s description.

We decided to destroy the mannequin. We hauled it outside and smashed it with a sledgehammer, but as we did, the house groaned, and the wind howled. That night, all four of us were visited in our dreams by the woman, her hollow eyes now filled with rage. She stood at the foot of each bed and whispered, ‘You broke my vessel. Now you shall carry me.’

One by one, we started to feel a weight on our chests at night, and we woke with scratches on our arms. The atmosphere in the house turned oppressive; the air grew thick with the smell of mothballs. Even the wildlife avoided the property.

On the eighth night, I woke to find myself standing in the attic, holding the crowbar, with the mannequin’s head in my hands. I had no memory of how I got there. The other three were staring at me, their faces blank, their eyes hollow like the mannequin’s. They spoke in unison: ‘She is inside us now. We must go to the lake.’

We walked to the frozen lake in the dead of night, each of us holding a piece of the mannequin. The ice cracked beneath our feet, but we didn’t stop. At the center, we placed the pieces in a circle, and I saw the woman’s reflection in the ice, smiling. She was no longer hollow—she wore our faces in a grotesque collage.

As we turned to leave, the ice gave way, and we plunged into the freezing water. I gasped for air, but the others didn’t resurface. I clung to a chunk of ice, watching as the mannequin’s head floated up, its cracked smile mocking me. Somehow, I managed to crawl out, but when I reached the house, it was empty, just a shell. The crew was gone.

I fled to town, but no one believed me. They said there was no house in that location, just trees. I returned to find the forest reclaiming the spot, with only a single white flower—and a porcelain finger—sticking out of the soil. To this day, I carry that finger in my pocket. Sometimes, it hums a lullaby, and I feel a weight on my chest, reminding me that she is still waiting, and that I am her new vessel.