The Salt Mannequin

My name is June, and I never believed in the supernatural. It wasn’t that I was closed-minded; I just thought that every strange occurrence had a logical explanation. So when my friends Ella and Marcus started swapping tales of haunted dorm rooms and whispered messages in the static of old radios, I rolled my eyes. We were in the common room of our university’s arts building, supposedly studying for finals, but the conversation had devolved into a horror story contest.

I listened for a while, growing more and more irritated by their credulity. Finally, I excused myself to the restroom, needing a break from their nonsense. The hallway was dim, lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that flickered in a rhythm that set my teeth on edge. I pushed open the door to the women’s restroom and stepped inside. The air was cold, colder than the hallway, and smelled faintly of bleach and something else, something metallic.

As I washed my hands, I heard a sound that made me freeze: a soft, shuddering sniffle, like a child crying. I called out, ‘Hello? Are you okay?’ But there was no reply. I checked under the stalls, but all were empty. I dismissed it as the pipes groaning, but the sound had been too human.

That night, back in my apartment, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. I sat at my laptop, trying to focus on my research paper, but I found myself on a website dedicated to urban legends. I clicked on a story about a sculptor who used salt to preserve his victims, a tale that was disturbingly detailed. As I read, I felt a sharp pinch on my arm. I yelped and turned, expecting to see my roommate Sara, but she was at work. No one was there.

My heart pounded. I tried to rationalize it: a stray hair elastic snapping, a muscle twitch. But then I felt a breath on the back of my neck, warm and moist, like someone standing close behind me. I spun around, my chair scraping the floor, but the room was empty. The only sound was the hum of my computer fan.

I began to shake. The door to my room, which I had closed, creaked open slowly. My cat, Miso, was sitting in the hallway, staring at me with wide eyes. I sighed in relief and went to close the door, but then I saw it: on my desk, next to my laptop, was a small pile of salt. I had never bought salt, never used it. I felt a chill run down my spine.

My older sister, Lena, came home later that night. She found me huddled on the couch, my laptop closed, the lights on full brightness. She asked what was wrong, and I tried to tell her, but the words came out as a stammer. She laughed and said it was just my imagination, but I saw her glance at the salt on my desk and frown.

The next day, I decided to investigate. I went back to the arts building, to the studio where a sculpture class was held. The professor, a gaunt man named Dr. Rask, was known for his obsession with classical techniques. I asked him about the salt story, and he went pale. He said that a student had died in that studio years ago, a girl named Claire, who had been making a salt sculpture of her own face. The sculpture had collapsed on her, suffocating her. The police ruled it an accident, but some said she was murdered.

I returned to my apartment that evening, feeling a growing dread. I found another pile of salt on my kitchen counter, shaped like a handprint. I called Lena, but she didn’t answer. I tried to leave, but the front door wouldn’t budge, as if something was holding it shut. I heard a faint laughter, high and childish, coming from my bedroom.

I slowly walked to the bedroom and saw, standing in the corner, a figure made of salt. It was roughly human-shaped, but featureless, with a thin layer of dust falling from it. As I watched, it turned its head toward me, and I saw my own face etched into the salt, starting to crack.

I screamed and ran to the window, but it was sealed shut. The figure advanced, each step leaving a trail of salt crystals. I grabbed my phone to call for help, but the screen showed only static. The figure reached out a hand, and I felt the pinch again, harder this time, drawing blood.

A voice, Claire’s voice, whispered in my ear, ‘I was a skeptic too. Now I make everyone believe.’

The last thing I saw was the salt figure’s face morphing into a perfect replica of my own, and then everything went white.