Mannequins from the Emergency Stairs
Room 906 of the Ghost Story Apartment, the site of the haunted appliances ghost story. And the moment I first used the emergency flashlight. From that instant, I harbored a doubt. Why write warnings meant for survivors in a way that only a UV light could reveal? If they were truly for survivors, wouldn't it be far easier—both to leave and to read them—using ordinary red paint that stands out plainly?
The answer was simple. There was a reason they couldn't use red paint for the warnings. Even if it meant extra hassle for themselves, even if it raised the risk of others stumbling into the ghost story unaware and dying. There had to be a reason to make the warnings unreadable by normal means.
A ghost story existed that could read writing. And that suspicion turned to certainty when I entered room 105 and read the diary left by the survivor. Just as the fake Shin Jong-min had said, there was no mention in it of a ghost story mimicking humans. Or so it seemed.
But the moment I shone the UV light on the diary, the hidden text emerged. It contained a warning about that very ghost story—one that perfectly mimicked human appearances, conversed in human language, even faked human emotions.
The mannequin who had first identified itself as Shin Jong-min had emerged from the apartment's emergency stairs. And the survivor had said those stairs connected to hell. I didn't know what that "hell" truly meant... but something crawling up from hell right from the start couldn't possibly be a normal person.
Could a single crudely patched hazmat suit really let someone endure if it was truly hell? That thing had instantly transformed into a mannequin with the texture of rubber clay. Why had I ever mistaken such rubber clay for a real person just moments ago?
No—we hadn't mistaken the rubber clay for a person. Because we believed it was a person, it took on a perfect human form. And now, because we no longer believed it was human, it no longer looked human.
Even now, staring at it, the survivor's face—Shin Jong-min's—overlapped with the mannequin's in my vision.
Kkiiik! Kkiiik! The revealed mannequin moved its joints with a repulsive screech, like an old wooden doll creaking.
Its expression was utterly blank, a chilling contrast to its lively demeanor moments before. But when I thought of the desperate scrawl in Shin Jong-min's survival log from room 105, this felt like the more fitting appearance.
"Huh? You've figured me out..."
"Sorry, but that's the second time we've seen that pattern!"
"..."
The mannequin cut off mid-sentence at my shout, then charged silently. No more pointless theatrics now that identities were exposed—it went straight for the main event.
Its creaking movements belied unbelievable speed.
"Kyaaak! What is that thing?!"
"Teacher, what do we do?!"
"Teacher!"
"Don't panic! We outnumber it! Stay calm and move carefully!"
Every time the mannequin recovered its stance and swung an arm, the air whistled eerily. But we had the numbers advantage—four against one. That gap was impossible to ignore.
Mimicking humans was a powerful weapon for a ghost story, but also a weakness. Human arms numbered only two, human eyes only faced forward.
Sure, this mannequin's arms could swing unnaturally outward from the joints, and its head could rotate 180 degrees—minor differences, but still.
As Rone swiftly dodged the mannequin's grasp and flipped backward, it naturally twisted its head 180 degrees, all joints bending outward in pursuit.
"Turning its head 180 degrees means, in other words, it can only see by turning its head!"
The instant it did, I gripped the flashlight with both hands and smashed it down on the mannequin's head. Elaine and Rozalia joined in, seizing its arms on either side. A few more blows to the head, and the strength drained from its body.
They released its arms, and the mannequin slumped powerlessly to the floor. Reduced to a shapeless lump of rubber clay. It was impossible to believe this had worn a human guise and conversed with us moments ago.
"Haa, haa... Did we get it? Numbers really are unbeatable, huh!" Rozalia panted, staring at the mannequin's shattered head.
"Rozalia! Don't say stuff like that!"
I yelled urgently at her. Tempting fate like that never ended well!
Kwaaang!
And sure enough, it didn't. The emergency stairs door burst open, unleashing a horde.
They were mannequins mimicking survivors who'd once visited this Ghost Story Apartment—or residents who'd lived here—just like the one that had impersonated Shin Jong-min moments ago.
An overwhelming swarm, incomparable to our 4-to-1 odds.
"Kyaaaak!! Teacher! What now?!"
"What now? We run."
My answer was curt.
"Kyaaaak! No plan at all!"
Rozalia's scream erupted.
The mannequin horde clattered after us, joints creaking like wooden dolls.
Unlucky for us, they poured out right in front of the emergency stairs—and the elevator was right beside it. To reach the elevator, we'd have to break through them.
No choice—we bolted back toward room 105 without looking back. The eerie joint sounds closed in from behind.
Reaching the door, I gasped for breath and yanked the handle with all my strength.
Click!
The moment it opened, an unexpected sight unfolded before us.
"Kyaaaak!"
The students' screams rang out.
The room was utterly void. Nothing beneath our feet—just an abyssal emptiness welcoming us.
Rozalia and Elaine, lunging inside in panic, nearly tumbled into the void, feet slipping.
"No!"
I shouted, thrusting out my arms to barely grab Elaine's wrist and Rozalia's collar. The falling jolt nearly yanked me over, but Rone gripped my waist from behind.
By a hair's breadth, we avoided plummeting into the abyss.
"The nameplate...!"
My eyes shot to the nameplate by the door. The '105' I'd just written was completely erased.
Rooms without nameplates erased their numbers upon entry. That's why a marker was always there—to rewrite the room number each time!
"Teacher, hurry, hurry!"
Rone's desperate cry snapped me back. I snatched the marker hanging by the nameplate.
Then, a detail from the diary flashed in my mind.
A plan ignited.
I scribbled numbers frantically on the nameplate, then hurled myself into the room beyond with the students. I slammed the door shut—but a pursuing mannequin jammed its arm between.
Wajik!
Its arm shattered with a grotesque crunch, but it showed no pain, ignoring it.
"The door... it won't close!!"
"...Damn it!"
The broken arm wedged it open. No matter how hard we pushed, more mannequins shoved arms into the growing gap.
We wrestled against them, but with the arm stuck, closing it fully was impossible.
"Damn! Forget closing it! Hide in the corner of the room for now!"
"They'll catch us right away!" Elaine cried in despair.
"I have a plan! Trust me!"
I shouted at her. Our eyes met.
"Teacher...!!"
"We can't hold it anymore!!"
Rone and Rozalia's cries. Hearing them, Elaine nodded, trusting me.
I released the handle and hooked the door chain. That should buy a little time.
I led the students to hide in the room's corner. Splash, splash—wet footsteps echoed as we entered the inner room and locked its door.
The chain held the front door only briefly. In under a minute, the mannequins smashed through and invaded.
Huddled in the wardrobe, we peered through the crack, holding our breath.
Clatter, clatter.
The mannequins entered, joints creaking.
"Hmm, where'd they go? They were right here."
One murmured lazily, its voice as ordinary as a neighbor you'd just shared tea with.
"Bathroom maybe? Wasn't there."
Another tossed out casually.
"Aigoo, come on, young man. Enough hide-and-seek—come out."
Yet another called warmly.
They mimicked their impersonated humans, conversing in peaceful, everyday tones as if searching for a friend in normal life. But no matter how calm the words, they were just mannequins faking humanity—utterly chilling.
The pitch-black apartment room at night made it hard to see, apparently. They couldn't spot us easily.
"Too dark to see. Turn on the lights?"
"Good idea. Hiding in the dark is cowardly, right? Heh heh."
"Ah, the switch."
One reached for the light switch.
Click, click.
Nothing happened.
"What? Why won't the light turn on?"
"Ha! These guys pulled the main breaker. Thought we couldn't turn on the lights, huh?"
Their mocking laughter echoed. Then, the breaker box cover creaked open.
Click!
As the switch flipped—
Vrrr, zzzzt! Appliances roared to life throughout the house. The washer spun wildly, the fridge door rattled, the kitchen blender whirred on its own.
"Wh-what is this?!"
"Aigoo! What's happening?!"
"Neighbors! Look at this!"
The panicking mannequins—and the appliances baring "teeth" at them.
Yes. This wasn't room 105.
The diary's UV-revealed secrets weren't just about the mannequins. Among details on other floors and rooms—beyond basics—were extras on specific ones.
Including nameless rooms.
They didn't just connect to normal, ghost-story-free rooms. They could also link to any room a human writer had visited at least once.
Of course, normal people wouldn't visit haunted rooms, so not super useful. But in certain situations—like now, luring ghost stories into traps—it was invaluable.
This was room 906.