The Mannequin

In an abandoned city somewhere in the dark somewhen, a man makes a discovery that will change everything he knows...

Rain thrashed the windows outside, flaying them with slivers of icy water as the storm squatted overhead. Broken light fittings watched mutely as lightning briefly illuminated the awkwardly piled mannequins and carelessly strewn dresses, a split second before thunder’s distinctive two-toned crack rattled the already beleaguered windows and darkness engulfed the room once more. Just above the pounding of the rain, the sound of a rat’s scratching feet wavered thinly across the concrete floor, drowned out as the thunder roared once more.

A weak beam of light flitted across the windowpanes, throwing a wan spotlight across the mannequins. Having passed by without hesitation, the light flickered back; the ajar front door caught its attention, rain edging its way past to form a small puddle inside. With a weary bounce, the light approached the doorway. Pushing the door open heavily, a dark-coated figure staggered inside, jacket hood pulled up over his head to ward off the rain that sloughed from him. Turning, he pushed the door closed, the weak beam of light drooping to the floor as he leant against the sealed portal. Heavy breaths, dripping raindrops and the occasional scrabbling of the rat were the only sounds in the dark room.

The boom of thunder rattled the windows against their wooden frames like so many spears being shaken against shields, causing the man to stagger away from the momentarily brightened door, startled. His sneakers scuffed along the floor, colliding with a dismembered mannequin arm. It skidded along noisily, coming to a halt as it hit its' parent display only inches away from the rat. With a burst of frightened speed, the rodent scrambled away from the silent rows of wooden bodies with their eerily vacant stares. Its' claws scratched at the concrete floor as it squirmed through a hole in the wall, leaving the man alone with the thunder and the mannequins.

Having transfixed the wooden limb and escaping rat in the hazy beam of his torch, the man breathed a sigh of relief; running his spare hand up to his hair, he pushed back the hood of his coat with a shower of raindrops to reveal the scragged mane which it had clearly failed to protect. The shadows obscured most of the man’s face, leaving only a general impression of lean features and a nervous edge as he glanced about the room.

Moving to the nearest coat-rack, he began rummaging through moth-eaten garments with one hand, illuminating them with the other. Metal rasped against metal as he pushed coat hangers to one side, visually discarding them with practiced speed; one pair of pants crumbled part-way to rags, the bottom half dropping softly to the ground while the top was whisked to one side to join that which had already been identified as useless. Before long, he had ruffled through the whole rack and, having found nothing of use, moved onto the wooden bench beside it, pushing aside tools and tattered wigs carelessly.

Outside, the dark tumult of clouds had reached its critical point once more. With an electrifying crack, lightning stabbed from above, striking the top of one of the city’s skyscrapers with enormous force, shattering concrete and glass about the snapped-off lightning rod, hurling the blackened pieces into the air.

Below, light flooded the small shop, a blinding camera-flash of huge proportions freezing the whole world in that split-second. Instinctively, the man’s eyes darted upwards towards the windows, his face now revealed in its unshaven Arabic heritage, but his glance was arrested partway through.

The disembodied head of a wooden mannequin gazed sightlessly, eyelessly, at the man, riveting him in place as he stared back. The unpainted wooden eyes watched him from the desk, unblinkingly, for an eternity between heartbeats as the lightning raged. As soon as it had come the light disappeared as though turned off by a switch, replaced by the shudder of thunder rumbling through the foundations of the building. Outside, chunks of concrete slammed into the road with a dull thud, counter pointed by the gentle chime of falling glass, barely heard in the aftermath of the thunder.

The man’s flashlight whipped upwards, thrusting outwards at the wooden head that rested on the table. Leaning over, he examined its asexual, bare wooden features and hairless scalp, but peer though he might into its perpetually open eyes the eerie stare of the lightning flash remained hidden. With a sigh, the man stood straight again, to move onto the next bench. With a half-hearted flicker, the wan beam from his torch died, the decrepit batteries within finally giving up their tenuous grip on life.

The darkness reclaimed the room entirely; shadows welcomed the mannequins and dress racks back to its arms smoothly as the man cursed his torch, hitting it against the desk twice in the hope it would work again. Though the bulb flared ever-so-slightly on the first try, by the second it had passed beyond any hope of revival. Dropping it into his pocket, the man awkwardly continued his search of the table by touch, hands haltingly patting their way along its surface.

Lightning struck once more; the store was thrown into sharp relief, the man’s questing hands seizing up as the same mannequin head now stared from the shelf mere inches in front of him.

The rumble of thunder masked the crash of the man staggering back into another rack of clothes, throwing both of them to the ground in a tangle of coat hangers and shirts. The windows rattled once more, and the shadows reclaimed both the store and the mannequin head. Despite the blinding darkness, the man dared not to move from his place on the ground, staring fearfully at the place where the he had last seen the head. Long seconds passed with nothing to be heard but the sound of his own breathing; that there was nothing to be seen goes without saying. Slowly, he relaxed his muscles, calming his pulse.

“S**t...”

Disentangling himself from the shirts, the man rolled to one side, placing his free hand on the ground to steady him. In a position of relative strength, the man judged it safe to look up to plan where to put his hands next, but instead saw only the familiar blank stare of the mannequin head outlined in the gloom.

With a frightened shout, he dove backwards amongst the shirts, limbs scrambling desperately as he tried to put distance between himself and this eerie head. Somewhere in the mad backwards dash, he awkwardly managed to draw the pistol hidden in his jacket. His back hit the edge of the shirt-rack, nearly knocking over. With no more room to run, the man raised his battered pistol in an awkward, absurd two-handed grip aimed at the unmoving head.

 

The head didn't move. Slightly belatedly, the man flicked the safety off of his pistol, before switching it back on a moment later when the mannequin still made no sign of being anything other than an inanimate chunk of wood. That observation was shattered, however, when the mannequin head opened its mouth and spoke.

“Where the First Man was born again by tasting the Apple whole, the Second Man will be bitten by the Apple ruined, and remade.”

The voice was deep and gravely, masculine and ancient - and it had not finished speaking.

“Where the First was thrust away from God by Knowledge,” the disembodied head continued, voice reverberating off the walls, “The Second will be brought closer to Him through Ignorance, and where the First Man was expelled from Eden, the Second Man will be drawn towards it. Thus begins the journey of the Second Man.”

As the head finished speaking, the room fell silent save for the thudding of the man’s heart and the rush of his heavy breathing. He dared not move, but instead stared at the now still mannequin head, wondering if he had just imagined it talking.

“The Hounds approach.”

The deep voice issued from the mannequin’s lips once more.

“What…” The man wet his lips. “What did you say?”

“The Hounds approach.”

There was a faint murmur, all around the room in time with the mannequin speaking; a deep rumble, not quite thunder, but something the man couldn’t put his finger on. For a moment, he peered about the room, lost in trying to figure out what it was.

“THE HOUNDS APPROACH!”

Lightning snapped across the city, throwing the room into brilliance once more; this time, the voice was tenfold louder, and sounded from all around. For, as the lightning showed for that brief moment, the rest of the mannequins had joined in; whether strewn in piles or standing stiff beside the walls, complete or dismembered, their lips moved in an unnatural wooden chorus. That same flash of lightning threw shadows onto the roof from the outside; shadows that moved, shadows that walked on all fours and sniffed at the window panes, before the lightning died and the thunder shook the room.

“Oh s**t,” the man breathed, scrambling to his feet. Glancing about for another escape, he spied a fire escape at the back; he took a half-step forwards before he stopped, and turned to glance at the wooden head on the ground. It was silent for the moment, features blank; but only seconds before, it had spoken – it, and all of the other mannequins in the room. After a second’s indecision, he bent down hurriedly and scooped the head up in one arm before dashing for the fire escape.

The steel door crashed loudly against the alley wall as the man stumbled through, shoes slapping the asphalt. High buildings lined either side of the narrow passage, sheltering it from the otherwise merciless rain and leaving it in murky darkness. Nearly blind, he ran as fast as he could without falling over, one hand stretched out in front of him while the other clutched the mannequin’s head to his chest. Lightning stabbed the thin slit of sky above, revealing the shadows and outlines that inhabited the alley. With a surge of hope he staggered to the other side of the street, searching hand finding the familiar, squat shape he had glimpsed in that split second. Heedless of the gagging smell, he holstered his pistol and heaved up the rusted dumpster lid with his newly freed hand before clambered inside.

The refuse that he landed in had long since turned to compost and soft bulges that squelched disgustingly beneath his feet. Clamping a hand over his nose – the smell now overpowering – he tried to quieten his pounding heart, which seemed to beat louder than the thunder outside.

The scratch of paws on asphalt and the growls of wild creatures darted past his hiding place, too many to count. Crouched in the oppressive darkness, he counted slowly to ten before daring to lift the edge of the dumpster and peek out.

There was no sign of the canines anywhere. With a sigh of relief, he pushed the lid all the way up and rolled over the lip of the bin, careful not to let it slam closed while still holding the wooden head. He reeked of garbage, and his shoes were soaked in something he didn’t want to think about. Trying not to gag, he stumbled blindly down the alley, guided by the occasional flash of lightning.

He had only gone a dozen metres when he heard an ominous, throaty rumble from around the corner. The beast that emerged into the alley was enormous; the smouldering eyes hovered at the height of his belly, and it was so dark that he could only see the rest of its black-furred body when a flash of lightning flickered overhead, every inch of it muscle. It had seen him in an instant, its night-time eyes locking with his; slowly, it stepped towards him, savouring the moment.

He couldn’t run – not from this monstrosity. Desperately, he reached beneath his coat and drew the pistol, worn and heavy in his hand. By some animalistic instinct, the creature recognized the threat and leapt forwards, paws pounding across the asphalt.

A tongue of fire shot from the weapon, lighting up the entire alley, and then another, and another – but the beast did not slow. With a final leap, the beast struck the man in the chest, barrelling him over as its jaws sank into his frantically raised forearm. They hit the ground hard, the thud of the discarded mannequin head masked by the man’s scream of pain. With the pistol in his free hand, he pressed it hard against the monster’s head and pulled the trigger as many times as he could, the cacophony deafening. The weapon clicked onto an empty chamber, but he kept trying to fire, shouting desperately; slowly, the gap between each pull of the trigger widened, the shouts quietening. He was only dimly aware of the creature sliding limply off him as he slipped into unconsciousness, the pistol falling from numb fingers.

Author's Note

Constructive critique is HIGHLY appreciated. Any sort of suggestion will be welcomed and taken into consideration, both with regards to this piece and future pieces.

Reviews

[Larissa G.]

Wow. I was reminded of the style the author of I Am Legend used, it sounded very much like many of his short stories. I praise your use of language, it jumps off of the page and gives the story real life.

What I did notice was an occasional gramatical error here or there that a read through might find. I also kind of wanted some of the mystery cleared. It has to be a balance between the right questions and answers to make it a good horror story. What was the man looking for, what was his job, was it his home? Why was he being chased?

It was a very interesting read, though. Thank you for posting this descriptive adventure.
I look forward to reading the next one you have to share with all of us here. :)

[Legion]

I agree with Deseret. Now, look closely and see if you can figure out what is wrong with this paragraph in conjunction with the rest of the story:

"Disentangling himself from the shirts, the man rolled to one side, placing his free hand on the ground to steady him. In a position of relative strength, the man judged it safe to look up to plan where to put his hands next, but instead saw only the familiar blank stare of the mannequin head, illuminated in a stray beam of moonlight."

I do like the concept, but not sure if this ended correctly. Is this the first chapter of a story or an indiviual piece?

[Deseret]

this is a very interesting concept, i have a few suggestions, in the very first sentence you say rain twice, which makes it awkward, maybe you should switch one out with water, or something, make it flow, another suggestions i have is that you should make the first manikin contact quicker, focus less on the rain and the room, the first suggestion that there is a manikin in the room is a l little awkward, but i couldn't tell you why, who is the man? and why is he there? you might want to make this clearer some how,

ooh and if he had a gun why didn't he bring it out earlier?