The Mannequin in the Attic

In the autumn of 2004, I was a senior at St. Augustine’s Academy, a boarding school housed in a converted Victorian mansion in the mountains of Vermont. The building was a labyrinth of creaking corridors and forgotten rooms, but the oldest part was the attic, a place never spoken of by the faculty. It was known only as ‘The Gallery’ because it was filled with the school’s collection of antique anatomical mannequins, used for the biology and art classes. The rumor was that they were once used for secret anatomy lessons, and some of them were said to be haunted. I never believed in ghosts, but I was to learn that some things are worse than ghosts.

I shared a dormitory room with my roommate, Jake, on the third floor, just below the attic. The room had a narrow staircase that led up to a locked door, and we used it as a closet. But on the first Friday of October, after lights out, I heard a sound from the attic. It was a slow, rhythmic thumping, like a heavy object being dragged across the floor. I lay awake, listening, the sound seeming to come from directly above my bed. Jake was asleep in the other bed, snoring lightly. I tried to dismiss it as the wind or rats, but the pattern was too methodical.

I decided to investigate. I knew the attic key hung on a hook in the janitor’s office, and I could easily borrow it. I crept out of the room, my heart pounding. The hallway was illuminated by thin strips of moonlight coming through the tall windows. The janitor’s office was unlocked, and there, among the clutter, hung the key, labeled ‘ATELIER’ in faded paint. I took it and made my way to the staircase. The door was old and warped, and it groaned when I unlocked it. I pushed it open, the hinges crying out like tormented souls.

A cold draft hit me as I stepped into the attic. The air was thick with dust and the smell of mothballs and decay. The room was vast, with a sloping roof and dusty skylights letting in the pale blue glow of the moon. The mannequins stood in rows, draped in cobwebs, their painted faces cracked and peeling. They were of all sizes and shapes, some with movable joints, others solid plaster. But as my eyes adjusted, I saw that at the far end of the attic, one mannequin was not like the others. It was taller, made of dark wood, and had a grotesque carved face with hollow eye sockets. And it was moving.

The thumping came from it. It was rocking back and forth, its wooden base sliding across the floor. I froze as a sound emanated from it, a low rasping whisper that seemed to be speaking my name. I wanted to flee, but my legs felt heavy, as if embedded in cement. The mannequin’s head turned toward me, and the hollow eye sockets filled with a fiery red glow, like coals. Two long, twisted horns sprouted from its temples, and its wooden mouth opened, emitting a hiss. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My body went rigid, and I fell to the floor, unable to move.

The mannequin began to glide toward me, its steps sounding like the drums of a toxic march. As it came closer, the red glow in its eyes intensified, and I felt a searing pain in my temples, as if it were drilling into my mind. The last thing I saw as it hovered over me was its face contorting into a demonic leer, its wooden fingers reaching for my throat.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, drenched in sweat. The room was bright with the first rays of dawn, and Jake was shaking me, his face pale. ‘You were screaming,’ he said. ‘And there was a strange sound coming from the attic all night.’ I told him everything, but he dismissed it as a nightmare. Yet, when we went to breakfast, we saw that all the other students were quiet, and some were crying. A senior girl said that a janitor had found the attic door ajar. Later, we learned that one of the mannequins, the oldest one, was missing.

Over the next weeks, the school was plagued with strange events. Students reported seeing a tall, horned figure in the hallways, and some fainted from sheer terror. One night, I woke up to find the missing mannequin standing at the foot of my bed, its wooden eyes glowing. It raised its hand, and I saw that it held a piece of paper. It placed the paper on my pillow and then vanished. The paper had a drawing of a pentagram and the word ‘NEXT’ written in blood-red ink.

I never slept soundly again. I transferred schools the following spring, but to this day, whenever I hear a rhythmic thumping overhead, I look at the ceiling and see a pair of fiery red eyes staring down at me.