The Mannequin Paced

The first thing I noticed about the house on Maple Street was the smell—aged wood, dust, and something faintly metallic, like old pennies. My parents had moved us there at the end of fifth grade, right before summer, so I’d have time to adjust before starting middle school. But the house never felt like home. It felt like a place that was waiting for something, or someone.

My bedroom was at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom. The bathroom door had a habit of creaking open on its own, and the toilet seat would slam down with a crack that could wake the dead. At first, I blamed the draft, but the windows were sealed tight, and the vents were in the ceiling. My parents thought I was imagining things, but I knew better.

One night, about a month after we moved in, I decided to try something. I had read about Ouija boards in a horror novel, and I figured, why not? I took a piece of cardboard, wrote the alphabet in a circle, and used a shot glass as a planchette. I sat cross-legged on my floor, lit a candle (though my mom had forbidden candles, I did it anyway), and whispered, ‘Is anyone here?’

At first, nothing. Then the shot glass slid—not a jittery movement, but a smooth, deliberate glide to ‘Y’. My hand was barely touching it. I asked again, ‘Who are you?’ The glass moved to ‘N’ and then ‘O’, then ‘O’, then ‘N’, then ‘E’. It spelled ‘NO ONE’. I laughed nervously. ‘Then what are you?’ The glass spelled ‘WATCHER’. I felt a chill crawl up my spine, and the candle flickered, though the air was still.

From that night on, I was never truly alone. When I was in my room, even with the door closed, I could feel eyes on me. The presence was heavy, like a physical weight pressing down on my chest. It would arrive as soon as the door closed, especially after my brother had left for school and my parents were at work. I would hear the bathroom door creak open and slam shut, over and over, like a heartbeat. The toilet seat would slap, slap, slap.

But the worst was the waking at four in the morning. Every single night, regardless of when I fell asleep, I would snap awake at exactly 4:00 AM. The room would be pitch black, but I would know something was beside my bed. The air would grow cold, and there would be a shape—a white, featureless figure, like a mannequin come to life. It would stand there, facing me, not moving. If I held my breath, I could feel it leaning closer, but it never touched me.

The figure only ever did one thing: it paced. Back and forth, back and forth, along the side of my bed. The movement was silent, yet I could track it by the shifting presence, like a pressure wave. It would pace for what felt like hours, until I would eventually drift off again out of sheer exhaustion. But before I fell back asleep, I would often experience vivid night terrors—waking up screaming, my heart thundering, drenched in sweat, convinced that something was clawing at my throat.

One night, I tried to fight back. I left a recorder on my nightstand, hoping to capture the sounds. In the morning, I played it back. There was static, and then a faint, rhythmic sound—like something heavy being dragged across the floor. And then, a voice, so low it was almost a growl, saying, ‘You are not welcome here.’ I played it for my mom, but she said it was just the pipes.

As the weeks went on, the figure became bolder. It would pace closer, and once, I swear I saw it bend over, its face inches from mine. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, it was gone. But the next morning, I found a handprint burned into the wall above my bed—a handprint with fingers too long, and a thumb on the wrong side.

I knew I had to leave. I started sleeping in my brother’s room, on the floor, with the light on, and the presence faded. But every night, at 4 AM, I would still wake up, and I would hear the toilet seat slamming from the bathroom down the hall, and I would see the door slowly open, and a white, elongated figure would stand in the doorway, watching me. It never came into my brother’s room, but it would stand there, pacing in place, as if waiting for me to return.

Eventually, we moved again when my dad got a new job. I never told anyone about the handprint or the recorder. But to this day, whenever I stay in a new place, I check the bathroom door, and I wait for the clock to hit 4. And if I ever see a mannequin in a store window, I cross the street, because I know it’s watching me, ready to pace beside my bed once more.