The Mannequin on the Catwalk

My first year at Northwood Technical College, I signed up for the annual ‘Industrial Night,’ a camping event held in the vast courtyard behind the main workshop building. It was meant to bond the new students with the seniors, a night of cheap hot dogs, bad jokes, and a bonfire that was actually just a metal drum with pallets. The courtyard was a weird place, bordered by the old fabrication labs on one side and a long, glass-walled catwalk connecting the engineering block to the administration tower. The catwalk was usually locked, but that night, under the full moon, it glowed like a ribcage of steel and glass.

We were maybe an hour into the ‘Spirit of Metal’ competition—each dorm team had to perform a mantra of clanging tools and chanting—when a girl from my team, Marta, suddenly stopped mid-yell. Her jaw hung open, and her eyes went wide. She pointed a trembling finger at the catwalk’s third-floor landing. We all turned. There, framed against the moonlit glass, stood a figure: a woman in a long, pale gown, with hair so black it seemed to swallow the light. She didn’t move. She just stood there, like a mannequin in a dusty store window.

Chaos erupted. Some freshman screamed, others dropped their makeshift instruments, and a couple of the seniors started shouting that it was just a prank, maybe a leftover display from the textile department. Our advisor, Mr. Kessler, tried to calm us down, insisting it was a rolled-up banner or a stack of whiteboards. He radioed the security office, and someone finally managed to switch on the catwalk’s floodlights. When the light hit, the figure was gone. No whiteboard, no banner, nothing. Just empty glass and the distant hum of the building’s ventilation.

We were all shaken, but the coordinator forced us to continue the event, saying it was likely a trick of the moon and the reflective glass. The bonfire crackled on, but the cheer had gone out of the night. I couldn’t shake the image. I decided to investigate, to prove to myself it was nothing. I told Marta I’d check the catwalk from the inside. The main building was locked, but I knew a side door to the workshops was often left ajar. I slipped in, my footsteps echoing on the concrete floor, past the silent CNC machines and the rows of half-finished projects. The air smelled of oil and sawdust.

I reached the stairwell that led to the catwalk. The door was propped open with a rubber wedge, which was odd—facility management was strict about that. I ascended the metal stairs, each step clunking. On the third floor, the catwalk stretched before me, a long corridor of glass and steel. I walked slowly, peering around, expecting to find a forgotten coat rack or a mannequin from the design studio. Nothing. At the far end, I noticed a small door that led to the maintenance bridge over the central atrium. It was ajar. Inside, the air was cold, and there was a faint smell of flowers—like a funeral home, not a workshop.

I stepped out onto the narrow bridge. Below, the dark atrium yawned, with a glass ceiling long since cracked and patched. And there, at the middle of the bridge, I saw her again. The same woman, same white gown, same black hair. But now she was close enough to see her face. It was smooth, expressionless, like a mask. And her eyes, they were button-like, black and shiny, like a doll’s. She tilted her head, and a sound came from her—a soft, mechanical whir, like a mannequin’s joints if they could move. I stepped back, but my foot caught a loose cable, and I fell.

I landed hard on the metal grating, and as I looked up, she was right above me, her white gown trailing on the floor. She reached down, her fingers cold as metal, and touched my forehead. Her lips moved, but the voice that came out was a thousand tiny whispers, all layered, saying, ‘You left the mold behind.’ Then the lights in the building flickered, and she was gone.

I ran, not stopping until I burst back into the courtyard, screaming. The others were all gone—the bonfire was still burning, but the campsite was empty. All the tents were flattened, as if a giant hand had pressed them down. On the ground, scrawled in what looked like grease pencil, was a single sentence: ‘The catwalk is only the beginning.’

I never found out what happened to the other students. The police found no sign of them. The school closed that semester, citing structural issues. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear that mechanical whirring sound. And I know, somewhere, that woman is still watching, waiting for her next audience. I just hope she never finds me again.