The Great Mall Mirage

Mannequin Hearts

It's different here. Calm, almost. You take a deep breath and feel false relief wash over you like soap bubbles in a steaming bath. Part of your mind is still scrambling to stay alert, to process what's going on. Extra oxygen? Nitrous oxide? Chloroform? But you feel yourself relax anyway.

The ground is fake stone that clinks with every step you take. There are chalk drawings on the ground — hopscotch squares and hearts and rainbows and everything else a child would draw. Mr. Aspen takes particular care to smudge the doodles with his steel-toed boots.

Up ahead of you is a little girl in a baby pink dress with pigtails who's clinging to the hand of her mother. She skips from one drawing to another, hopping through the squares and dancing around the doodles. Her mother's squeezing her hand and guiding her through the rows of shops.

And oh, so many shops there are. Children's clothes stores bursting with pink and glitter. Formal wear stores. Pajama stores. Bridal gown stores. Scarf stores. And the jewelry shops that shine blindingly at you in their gold and silver and sparkly gemstone. It's enough to make anyone dizzy.

You're not the only one disoriented. Jack's not walking straight anymore and Mr. Roots's eyes wander everywhere. Only Mr. Aspen seems immune. He marches on as if the world is a blank hallway, heading straight for the elevators.

"Whoa," Jack whispers, pointing. "Look at that."

You follow his finger for a moment, then freeze, your eyes stuck in front of you. The little girl has stopped skipping and instead turned around to face you.

She doesn't have a void for a face.

But she doesn't have a face either.

Her skin isn't skin, but rather smooth, cold plastic. Her pigtails aren't human hair, but rather fine polyester strands. Only her clothes are really clothes.

Around you, you hear the squeaking of plastic on plastic. Of joints unbending. Of feet marching towards you. You look around, but you already know what you'll see.

The dozens of mannequins are marching towards you. Their faces are blank, but you don't like what their intent could be.

"Run," Jack whispers.

"Run," you echo.

The four of you take off running. Three pairs of sneakers squeaking along the stone floor. One pair of boots pounding the chalk drawings into dust. All of you leave behind footprints in pink, blue, and yellow: the markings of the chalk that you had stepped on.

You curse, scraping your feet on the ground to get rid of the footprints. With those, wherever you go, the mannequins will find you.

"Forget it," Mr. Aspen yells. "They'll catch us anyway. We need to get to the elevators."

You spring to keep up with him, gasping. There's a stitch in your side that threatens to split you apart. The fog in your brain isn't helping either.

You don't dare look back, but the footsteps behind you sound like they're only a dozen paces away. A handful of heartbeats before they reach you. You put on another burst of speed, leaning into the sprint, until you feel something give way.

There was a puddle. A slick, soapy puddle just in your way. Your foot slides out from under you, and you go sprawling onto your knees. You turn around, and get a good look at your chasers.

The mannequins close in around you, not more than three paces away. They reach out their arms, caging you.

Jack stops and yells your name, running back towards you. Mr. Roots and Mr. Aspen follow, but the mannequins have already cut them off. They've surrounded you.