Chapter 273

The town of Fushimura sat alone in the mountains, lost to time. It was an unremarkable place, almost forgotten, but for one thing: the mannequins. Every year, a group of thrill-seekers, vloggers, and explorers made their way there, hoping to capture something strange, to document the eerie town on their cameras.

They would talk about how no one ever came back, but no one really cared. It was just another place to film, just another story to sell.

Matsuoka Yuki had heard about it from his friends. "The Mannequin Town," they'd called it, laughing behind their hands. The stories, the rumors, they were all the same. No one had returned from there. People went, filmed, took pictures, then vanished. There were no police reports, no news stories, no official investigations. Just people vanishing.

He wasn't interested in those stories. He had his own reasons for going. The promise of adventure, of something thrilling, was enough to get him moving. The cameras were secondary. The rumors were just that—rumors.

Fushimura lay ahead, nestled between jagged mountains, hidden by the heavy mist that clung to the slopes. He didn't see any signs of life as he pulled his motorcycle to a stop at the outskirts of town.

A road twisted its way through the forest, narrow and overgrown. It had been years since anyone had bothered with this place, but it looked like it had once been a small, peaceful town. Maybe it still was, in some way.

The first mannequin he saw stood in front of a small house, frozen mid-step as though it had been caught in a mundane action. Its head was turned slightly, as if looking at Yuki as he passed. He stopped, his breath catching in his throat. There was something about it that felt… wrong. It wasn't just the way it was positioned—there was a coldness to it, a stillness that didn't belong.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the feeling. He was here to explore, to record something for his YouTube channel, to laugh at the horror stories that had become so cliché. It would make for a good video. That's all it was.

The town stretched out before him, the streets littered with the same strange figures. The mannequins were everywhere: standing on porches, in windows, in front of stores. All of them were posed as if they were waiting, expecting something. The longer Yuki looked at them, the more it felt as if they were watching him.

He took out his camera and began filming. His voice broke through the silence. "Alright, so here we are, Fushimura. They call it Mannequin Town. Some weird stuff happens here, like people come to visit, record stuff, and… they never leave. I know, sounds like a ghost story, but we'll see if we find anything weird. I'll keep you all posted."

As he made his way deeper into town, he noticed the air grew colder, heavier. His breath came out in visible puffs, though the day was still young. He didn't want to admit it, but there was something about this place that made his skin crawl.

He found a small shrine near the center of town. The stone lanterns were overgrown with moss, and the wooden structure looked like it had been abandoned for years. The mannequins around the shrine were different.

Their clothes were older, and their faces were more worn. The cracks in their porcelain skin were like deep scars, but it was the eyes that unsettled him the most. They were empty, hollow eyes, as if something had been taken from them.

Yuki's heart raced, but he forced himself to keep filming. His voice faltered slightly, but he didn't care. "This is the shrine. Pretty messed up, right? Look at these mannequins. They're not just posed—they look… old. Like they've been here forever."

He looked around, expecting to see something, anything, that would confirm the stories. But nothing happened. The town remained still. The mannequins stayed frozen. No movement. No sound.

He turned and walked towards an old, decaying shopfront, its windows fogged and opaque. Inside, he could just make out shapes—more mannequins. But there was something different about these ones. They weren't posed in any normal way. Some were slumped, others were half-fallen, broken at the legs, the arms. A few were leaning against the walls as if they had been moved recently.

The unease that had been building in his stomach twisted into something heavier. This didn't feel like just an abandoned town. It felt wrong. Every mannequin he passed, every movement of his camera, made him more aware of the silence, the deep, suffocating silence that swallowed everything. It was as though he wasn't alone, but wasn't meant to be there.

He stepped into the shop. His footsteps echoed in the empty space, but there was no response from the mannequins. None of them seemed to move. He walked through aisles of cracked plastic faces, broken limbs, and old clothes.

His camera caught a figure in the corner of the room. A mannequin, seated on a chair, its back to him. Yuki's pulse quickened, and his hand trembled slightly as he adjusted the lens. He couldn't help himself—he wanted to get the best shot. He aimed the camera at the figure and stepped closer.

That's when he saw it. A faint, dark streak running down the mannequin's cheek, like something had once been there and had since dried. His heart skipped a beat. He took a step back. The camera dropped slightly.

It wasn't just the mannequin. There were more of them—small, subtle details that made them feel more real. The way their limbs bent, the way they were placed, the empty eyes that were turned just enough to make him uncomfortable. It was all too much.

He turned and ran out of the shop, his breath coming in harsh bursts. He couldn't explain it, but he knew he needed to leave. The mannequins—they weren't just mannequins anymore. They were something else.

But as he reached the street, a loud crash rang out behind him. He spun around. The shop door slammed open, and he saw them—more mannequins, stumbling out, their arms twitching, their heads jerking unnaturally. They moved with an eerie, disjointed rhythm, jerking like puppets on strings.

Yuki's legs felt like lead as he tried to run, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the camera. He had to get out. He had to leave. But the town stretched out in every direction, the streets winding into nowhere. No matter where he looked, more mannequins appeared, filling the gaps, standing in doorways, leaning from windows.

The sound of their movement—the scraping of plastic against stone—grew louder. He ran faster, his breath catching in his throat. It was like they were closing in on him, surrounding him. The mannequins, they were all around him. There was no escape.

He reached the edge of the town. The mist had thickened, and the road that had once led him in now seemed endless, stretching into the fog. But there, standing just ahead, was another mannequin. Its head was turned in his direction, its empty gaze locked on him.

Yuki froze. The world around him fell silent again, except for the sound of his heart thundering in his chest. Slowly, the mannequin began to move. It walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps.

His feet wouldn't move. His body was paralyzed, caught between fear and disbelief. The mannequin reached him, its hand outstretched, and he could feel the cold, smooth plastic against his skin. It grabbed his wrist, and the world around him seemed to distort. The mist, the fog, the town—it all twisted, became darker, more oppressive.

Yuki tried to scream, but his throat felt tight. He pulled away, but the grip was too strong. The mannequin's fingers tightened around his wrist, pulling him forward. The others closed in behind him, their eyes fixed on him.

And then, as the mannequins surrounded him, they all did the same thing. They moved, not like mannequins, but like people. With purpose. With intention.

He fought, but it was useless. They overwhelmed him, their bodies cold and unyielding. And as they dragged him into the heart of the town, he could feel the darkness closing around him. There was no escape. He was one of them now. A mannequin, lost in the fog, frozen in time, waiting for the next person to come.

They would laugh about it. Make a video. But no one would ever leave Fushimura. Not really.