The Mannequin in the Parlor

I never believed in ghosts. Not really. I was a skeptic, a pragmatist, someone who needed to see something to believe it. But that was before the night at the Ashworth house.

It was October, and I was staying over at my boyfriend Marcus’s place. He lived in a sprawling Victorian that had been in his family for generations, but they’d converted it into a divided home: his older brother on the ground floor, his mother on the second, and Marcus on the third. His father was living in the carriage house out back, recovering from surgery. His mother, a real estate agent, was away at her boyfriend’s cabin that weekend, so we had the middle floor to ourselves.

I remember the night vividly because of the mannequin. It stood in the parlor, a vintage dressmaker’s dummy that Marcus’s mother used for her vintage clothing collection. It was draped in a dusty ivory gown, its head a faceless, featureless orb. It creeped me out, but I tried to ignore it.

We’d spent the evening watching horror movies, and I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Marcus woke me with a gentle kiss, mumbling he had an early shift. I mumbled a reply, rolling over on the plush sofa, burrowing into a crocheted afghan, and closed my eyes, listening to his footsteps retreat down the hall.

I was half-asleep when I heard a faint rustling from the direction of the parlor. Then, a distinct clink of metal on glass. My heart stuttered. Marcus must have come back for his keys. I called out, ‘Honey?’ my voice thick with sleep.

I turned over, expecting to see him illuminated by the faint glow from the hallway, but instead, I saw a silhouette. It was tall and thin, but not Marcus’s build. It stood by the dresser where his mother kept her jewelry, a hand hovering over the trinket dish. For a moment, I thought it was a trick of the light, maybe a coat thrown over a chair. But then it moved.

The figure glided across the room with an unnerving grace, its limbs moving as if they were on hydraulic pistons. It stepped into the parlor and paused, standing beside the mannequin. In the dim light, I could have sworn the mannequin’s head turned to watch me.

A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I could feel my pulse in my ears. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The figure didn’t seem to notice me; it just stood there, like it was waiting. Then it lifted a hand and pointed a finger directly at me.

I don’t know how I found the strength, but I scrambled off the couch, my legs like jelly, and sprinted for the bedroom. I slammed the door, locked it, and dove under the covers, shaking. I called Marcus, my voice trembling, whispering, ‘Get home now. Something’s in the house.’ I could hear him say, ‘What? What do you mean?’ but I just kept repeating, ‘Get home, just get home.’

I stayed curled up, the blanket over my head, listening. I heard the figure’s footsteps travel from the parlor to the kitchen. There was the sound of a drawer opening, the clatter of cutlery. Then silence. And then, the most terrifying sound of all: the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps on the creaking stairs, coming up to the second floor.

I pulled the covers tighter, my breath hot and ragged. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped right outside the bedroom door. I could hear breathing, a low, wet sound. Then, a voice, barely a whisper, but somehow clear: ‘I see you.’

I squeezed my eyes shut and covered my ears, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. After an eternity, I heard Marcus’s car peel into the driveway, and the front door slam. I flung the covers off and ran to him, sobbing into his chest. He held me, looked around, and said, ‘There’s no one here. You fell asleep watching creepy movies, you had a nightmare.’

But I knew what I saw. And when I finally looked into the parlor before we left, I saw something that chilled me to my core. The mannequin had moved. It was no longer facing the window, but was turned towards the hallway. And in its wooden hand, it clutched a small, silver locket that had been on his mother’s dresser.

Marcus never found an explanation. The locket was gone, never recovered. And to this day, I can’t stand to be around mannequins. Every time I see one, I remember that night, and the way that figure pointed at me, and the voice that whispered from behind the door. I moved out of the house the next day, and I never went back. But sometimes, in my dreams, I hear that voice again, and I see the mannequin’s featureless face, and I know it’s still waiting.