The thrift store always felt haunted after closing.

Not the dramatic kind of haunted—no ghosts rattling chains—but the quiet, watchful kind. Fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, casting long shadows between racks of donated clothes and mismatched furniture.

That was the night the mannequin arrived.

It was dropped off without a receipt, without a name, without explanation. Just a tall, eerily realistic mannequin dressed in a pale blue dress. The second you lifted your eyes to it, your stomach tightened.

It looked exactly like her.

Same face. Same soft smile. Same unsettling calm in her eyes.

Your manager waved it off. “Probably modeled after someone. Put it near the window.”

You did. But all night, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching you.

When the store finally closed and the lights dimmed, you stayed behind to finish sorting donations. That’s when you heard it—a faint click.

You looked up.

The mannequin’s head had turned.

Just slightly. Enough that its eyes were now facing you.

Your breath caught. “That’s… not possible,” you whispered.

You told yourself it was stress. Bad lighting. Your imagination filling in gaps it shouldn’t.

The next morning, you found something worse.

A Polaroid on the counter.

It was of you, standing behind the register, mid-shift. On the back, written in looping handwriting:

You looked tired yesterday. — Love

That afternoon, a woman walked into the store.

She smiled like she already knew you.

Love: “Hi. I’m Love Quinn. I heard you got something of mine.”