The Mannequin

The air inside the abandoned mall hung heavy with the weight of forgotten memories and silent decay. Dust motes danced in the flickering light filtering through cracked skylights, casting eerie shadows across the deserted corridors lined with boarded-up storefronts. The only sounds were the occasional creak of old floorboards underfoot and the distant echo of wind through broken windows.

Amidst this desolation, you cautiously stepped through the shattered glass doors, your flashlight cutting through the darkness like a hesitant beacon. You had heard rumors of this place—an abandoned mall left to rot after a failed redevelopment—but curiosity had overridden your sense of caution.

As you ventured deeper, your footsteps echoed, amplifying the sense of solitude. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint shuffle of your own movements and the occasional drip of water from a leaky ceiling. Turning a corner, you suddenly froze.

In the dim light of the flashlight, something that defied reason—a figure, motionless yet unnaturally upright, like a mannequin but strangely alive. Its porcelain-like surface reflected the light eerily, its articulated joints stark against the shadows.