Terror Mannequin by Douglas Hackle

Terror Mannequin by Douglas Hackle

Author:Douglas Hackle [Hackle, Douglas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-10-19T21:00:00+00:00


Chapter 16

A fter they floated through the archway, Weak Bitch scanned the room quickly with the flashlight, his breathing short and heartbeat rapid as he swung the cone of light around the room like a lighthouse beacon. Fuck all this helpless sitting around and waiting in dread bullshit, he thought. If there was something waiting for them, he just wanted to see it already.

From what he saw, the room was empty. Back in happier times, when it wasn’t Halloween and the weather was fair, Old Man Cruthers had used the ground floor of his house for entertaining guests. The basement-like chamber had been furnished with lounge furniture, billiard tables, televisions, stereo equipment, and a long wet bar with two shelves of liquor set against a mirrored wall and a polished marble countertop flanked by a dozen leather-wrapped stools. All those things were gone now. Instead, there was only the bare concrete expanse of floor, the sandstone and mortar walls, and the three evenly spaced concrete support columns. Stained here and there with blots and streaks of greenish-black mold, every visible surface sweated a patina of dampness that glistened in the flashlight’s pale beam. Visible as a rectangle of brickwork, the former doorway to the staircase that lead up to the second floor had been sealed off with brick and mortar long ago.

No one else appeared to be in the room—either human or inhuman. However, the flashlight beam failed to reach behind the support columns. As such, Weak Bitch couldn’t rule out the possibility that someone was hiding behind one of them.

The canoe bumped to a stop at the closed, mostly submerged swing gate that ran across the stream at about halfway across the chamber, the canoe’s nose nudging between two of the dozen or so ring-shaped buoys tied to the top of the gate and floating atop the water.

“See, guys?” Weak Bitch asked uneasily, his still-bleeding eyes darting from one column to the next. “Nothing to be afraid of here. But let’s hurry it up anyway. Go ahead and set some candy on the ledge.”

Tom Two, still trembling with fear, climbed out from between his uncle’s legs.

Fighting his mounting fatigue, Weak Bitch leaned to the side, reached out with his free hand, and grabbed the swing gate lever. “Hurry up. Then I’ll pull the lever, and we’ll get the hell outta Dodge.”

That’s when it slid out from behind the middle column, facing them like a nightmare made real…

TERROR MANNEQUIN!

“Oh, sh-sh-sh—” Weak Bitch stuttered in an unsuccessful attempt to cuss. He pulled back on the swing gate lever with all his weight.

It wouldn’t budge.

Just like in the stories, the glowering, sallow, cadaverous-looking mannequin stood holding a grotesquely featured ventriloquist dummy on its left forearm, on whose lap sat a wax doll with a half-melted face, on whose lap sat a crude, faceless voodoo doll. An unopened jack-in-the-box occupied the voodoo doll’s lap—the end of one of its blunt little limbs rested on the ball-shaped handle of the box’s crank. The mannequin shuffled toward them, stiff legs advancing with short, jerky steps.



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