The Marble Mannequin

The autumn of 2006, I was twelve, and we had just moved into my great-aunt’s old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. The house had been empty for years, and my parents thought it would be a good place to start over. The living room was large and drafty, with a stone fireplace that hadn’t been lit in decades. On the far wall hung a huge, faded tapestry depicting a hunting scene. In front of the fire was a worn leather couch, and opposite it, a wooden rocking chair that creaked even when no one was sitting in it. My mother had put a small TV on a cart near the window, and that’s where my older sister, Clara, and I would watch reruns of old sitcoms, as the wind rattled the glass panes.

One evening, while my parents were unpacking boxes in the kitchen, Clara and I were on the couch, half-watching a show. I was more interested in the window, which looked out onto the overgrown front yard. The moon was full, casting silver light on the tall grass that swayed in the breeze. My eyes drifted to a corner of the yard, near the old well, where a figure stood. It was a woman, tall and slender, with hair that flowed down to her waist. She wore a long, pale dress that seemed to shimmer like moonlight on water. Her face was pale, and her eyes were fixed straight ahead, unblinking. I thought it was a mannequin, the kind they used in old clothing stores, but why would one be out there? I nudged Clara, but she was absorbed in the TV.

I watched as the wind blew through the grass, but the woman’s dress didn’t move. She stood perfectly still, like a statue. I felt a chill run down my spine. I whispered to Clara, ‘Look outside.’ She reluctantly tore her eyes from the screen and leaned over to see. ‘It’s probably just a scarecrow,’ she said, but her voice was uncertain. The figure was too well-dressed and human-like for a scarecrow. We watched for a few more minutes, and then it was gone. Just like that, the spot was empty. I didn’t sleep well that night, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw that pale face.

The next morning, I asked my mother if she knew anything about the woman. She laughed and said, ‘You’re imagining things, honey. There hasn’t been anyone around here for years.’ But I couldn’t shake the feeling. That afternoon, I went outside to explore near the well. The grass was trampled in a large circle, as if something had been standing there, but there were no footprints. I noticed a small, round object half-buried in the soil. I picked it up: it was a cameo brooch, a woman’s profile carved in white stone, set in tarnished silver. I slipped it into my pocket and thought nothing more of it until that night.

Clara and I were alone in the living room again, watching TV. I had taken to sitting by the window, my back to the room, because I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me from outside. The curtains were drawn, but I could see the reflection in the glass. Suddenly, I saw a figure standing behind me, near the fireplace. I turned sharply, but no one was there. I looked back at the window, and the figure was there again, closer. It was the same woman, but now she was inside. Her hair hung limply around her shoulders, and her dress looked damp, as if she had been standing in the rain. Her mouth was slightly open, and I could see her teeth, which were too many and too white.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Clara looked at me and said, ‘What’s wrong?’ I pointed, but by then the figure had vanished. I told Clara what I saw, and she laughed nervously, thinking I was playing a prank. But I was serious. I took out the brooch and showed her. Her face went white. ‘Where did you find that?’ she asked. I told her, and she said, ‘That was Aunt Mildred’s. She wore it in that old portrait upstairs.’ I had never seen the portrait, but I knew my great-aunt had died in this house. The story was that she had gone mad after her fiancé left her, and she had wandered the fields, waiting for him, until she froze to death.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind. At around 3 AM, I heard a soft tapping on my window. I opened my eyes, and there she was, floating outside, her face pressed against the glass. Her eyes were wide, and her lips moved, but I heard nothing. My heart pounded, and I pulled the covers over my head. I stayed like that until dawn, shaking.

Over the next few days, the woman appeared more frequently. I saw her in mirrors, in reflections, at the edge of my vision. Every time I looked directly at her, she was gone. I tried to tell my parents, but they dismissed it as a phase. Clara was starting to believe me, though. She had begun to hear whispers in the walls, and she often woke up with scratches on her arms. We both knew we had to do something.

One day, I decided to search the attic for the portrait Clara had mentioned. I climbed the creaky stairs and found a trunk covered in dust. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a painting of a woman who looked exactly like the apparition. I noticed it was signed by an artist we didn’t know, and the date was 1889. I also found a diary, bound in leather. The last entry, dated February 1892, read: ‘He has gone, and I am left with only the shadows. I will wait for him in the garden, forever, until I become a marble monument to his betrayal.’

I realized then that the woman was not a ghost of my great-aunt, but something older, a spirit trapped in a state of waiting. And she wanted me to join her. That’s when the house began to feel wrong. Cold spots would appear, and the sound of a woman crying echoed through the halls. My parents began to notice, too, and they talked about moving back to the city.

But it was too late. The woman had grown stronger. One night, I woke to find her standing at the foot of my bed, her hand outstretched, inviting me come with her. Her face was a mask of sorrow, and her eyes dripped with tears that looked like wax. I screamed, and she vanished, but I knew she would be back. The next morning, I told Clara that we had to destroy the portrait and the diary. We took them into the backyard, poured gasoline on them, and set them ablaze. The flames turned blue, and I heard a shrieking sound that was not human. When the fire died, we buried the ashes near the well.

After that, the ghostly visits ceased. The weight in the air lifted, and the house felt empty. We never spoke of the woman again, and my parents decided to sell the farmhouse. We moved away that winter. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear that tapping on my window. And I know that she is still out there, waiting for someone to share her lonely vigil.

Now, as an adult, I still carry that brooch. It’s the only evidence that it happened. And sometimes, when I look at it, I see the woman’s face in the cameo, and she smiles at me. I know that one day, she will come back, and I will have to face her again. But for now, I lock the doors, I close the curtains, and I try not to look at any windows after dark.