Plastic Girls

by Spencer Maxwell

  Plastic Girls

  A Thriller

  Spencer Maxwell

  Copyright © 2019 by Spencer Maxwell

  Cover Design © 2019 by Carmen DeVeau

  Edited by Sonya Bateman

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions email: fm@flintmaxwell.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read his work.

  To strong women everywhere

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  He loses his power when we know his face.

  Michelle McNamara, I’ll Be Gone in the Dark

  One

  There is a darkness inside of my head, growing, digging into my brain like roots.

  And it’s all because of what I saw five years ago.

  That horrible crime. The girl’s face, the mannequin, the staple gun, the blood.

  The blood.

  I’m standing in my kitchen, waiting for the coffee to be done. Mornings are not the best for me. It’s just past six a.m. and I have to be at the office early today to help sort a bunch of files. Busywork, really. I hate it, but it pays the bills. For a college dropout, I think I’m doing all right.

  The coffee maker chimes. The smell of hazelnut roast fills the kitchen. My cat, Chester, is on the counter, and he’s sniffing curiously at the air. This is his morning ritual as much as it’s mine. If ever a day came where he wasn’t on the counter, I’d be worried.

  I scratch him behind the ears, and he purrs. He looks tired, sleepy after a night of running around the apartment and meowing at the strays outside. Sometimes I think that I should catch one and bring them in so Chester has company. I’ve tried setting food out for them, waiting, but they never come around while I’m sitting on the outside steps. In the morning, I check the cans of tuna I’ve left, and they’re always scraped clean. Could be a raccoon. I don’t know. I hope it’s the strays, I hope I’m doing some good.

  I think that’s what life’s about, doing good, being better than you were the day before. Cliché, maybe.

  Since I saw him, since I ripped off his mask, I’ve done my best to be good.

  But I don’t know if it’s worked.

  I pour coffee into my only mug. It’s white. There’s a heart on it. It holds no special significance, my mother didn’t gift it for Christmas, neither did an ex on a misbegotten anniversary; it’s just a mug I picked up on sale at TJ Maxx on a gray day.

  The steam rises and invigorates me. I love the smell of coffee in the morning, especially on a day like today, one where I’m way in over my head, fighting against a deadline. On top of all this, I couldn’t find my favorite outfit. I checked the closet, scoured the dresser. A pencil skirt and a peacock-styled blouse. I look damn good in the skirt—

  My phone beeps.

  Somehow, that awakens me more than the coffee. The sun’s not even up. No one should be texting me.

  This is odd.

  I turn away from Chester, purring, and the coffee, steaming, and face the kitchen table where my phone sits.

  My feet move on their own accord, taking me across the black and white kitchen tile.

  Another beep.

  I can’t help but think: Shit.

  I know it’s not ladylike, but I’m not an optimist. After seeing the things I’ve seen, I don’t think many people would be either.

  My hand hovers over the phone. I can guess the name that will flash across it when I tap the screen. I dreamt about it last night.

  Am I still dreaming?

  Klonowski. Detective Roger Klonowski, the lead investigator on the case. I know him too well.

  My fingers grip the phone. Sure enough, the name that flashes across the screen next to a (2) is Klonowski.

  I unlock the phone with my thumbprint. Instead of iMessage on the screen, the words of Klonowski’s text are revealed.

  The first message: Don’t watch the news. Stay away from the media.

  The second message: I’m sorry, Melanie. That’s not fair. In this day and age… Below this text is a link to the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Better from me than trolls on the internet.

  My finger hovers over the link.

  My stomach turns.

  I shouldn’t click on it. I know I shouldn’t. The only thing that can come of following the link is bad.

  Fear and anger.

  In my head: The flash of the man’s face, the flash of the victim’s face.

  But my finger acts on its own accord.

  And I press down on the screen.

  The headline: Mannequin Man Strikes Again.

  Two

  My name is Melanie Padgett.

  Five years ago, I saw the serial killer known as the “The Mannequin Man” in person, face-to-face.

  I was nineteen. Still in college, and studying fashion merchandising. This was before I dropped out.

  I worked at a chic boutique on the south side of town called Cocoa’s, and the cheapest thing there would cost me a month’s worth of paychecks now. Cocoa’s has since closed. I don’t blame Greta, the owner, for doing that. After what occurred inside her store, I would have done the same thing. In fact, I would’ve burned the place down if I could’ve gotten away with it. People came and looked, but they never bought. Gawkers. True crime enthusiasts. It was almost something of a tourist spot.

  Allow me to tell you the story of that fateful night, the night that has changed my life so completely.

  I was assistant manager. All title, no pay. This meant I had the keys to the kingdom. Literally.

  I had just worked an eight-hour shift. A shift like that in an upscale store in a town that can’t afford it only brings one thing—boredom. I had my phone, which I used to browse Instagram and Facebook—you know, typical teenage girl stuff—until my battery flashed across my screen, warning me there was only twenty percent left. Luckily for me, I’d anticipated this. iPhones are not known for their ability to hold a charge. So I brought my charger, plugged in, and kept scrolling. It was just me. No coworkers. A store like that didn’t need countless employees because we didn’t get countless customers. Besides, it was a Tuesday. I remember that because I had a quiz in Earth Science the next day. That was my worst subject. It didn’t interest me much.

  I closed up about fifteen minutes early. Counted the drawer, locked the register up, put the money and receipt slips in the safe, and pulled the shutters over the front door and display windows down.

  Then I went home.

  If only I had stayed home.

  Around eleven o’clock that night, two hours after I’d gone back to my apartment, my phone lit up with a low battery warning. I bent down from my usual spot in my bedroom, reaching for the charger only to find…nothing.

  I’d forgotten it at the store. How dumb.

  I didn’t work for the next three days, and the girl who’d be stuck there all eight hours tomorrow didn’t get along with me. I actually don’t think she got along with anyone, not even her own mother. Of course, after all of what happened, happened, she would send me text messages saying she was so sorry, and that she prayed for me.

  Really, I think she was grateful it wasn’t her who’d forgotten her phone charger and been forced to go back in the middle of t
he night.

  My mom always talked about fate and destiny before she got sick. I guess going back and having to experience and see what I saw was just my destiny.

  Chester was just a kitten then. He was sleeping right beside me. I said, “Damn it,” aloud and woke him up. I remember that. There was a long moment where I considered just going to the store the next day and buying a new charger. My roommate, Carmen, had an Android. Not compatible with my iPhone, so borrowing hers was out of the question.

  Remember, I’m nineteen at this time. A college student living off leftover pizza and ramen noodles, not exactly rolling in dough. During the semester I only worked part-time at Cocoa’s. I wasn’t getting many hours. Come summer, I’d be there almost 24/7, but it wasn’t summer yet, and I was still fighting my C average in Earth Science, which meant I was also fighting a chance at being enrolled in summer classes so I could graduate on time.

  And buying a new charger was really out of the question. My iPhone was my drug back then, and short of driving fifteen miles and spending twenty bucks I didn’t have at the Walmart in Brimfield, the only place open that late, I couldn’t get a new one.

  I had to go back.

  So I slipped on a pair of tennis shoes, my old cross-country faithfuls, threw my jacket on, got into my Honda Accord, and drove back downtown to Cocoa’s.

  The night was cold. My heater was broken, I remember that, and the windshield kept fogging over and I had to keep wiping the condensation away. Now, when I look back…the cold weather, the fogging windshield, the fact I had a killer headache…those, I think, were all warning signs not to go.

  I shouldn’t have.

  I should’ve stayed home, warm and snuggled up against Chester. Enjoyed my three days off. Studied and then aced my Earth Science quiz.

  But, like my mom was wont to say, fate wouldn’t have that.

  I parked in front of the store. Got out. The wind hit me like a punch. I pulled my hood up, let my hair drape over my face. I took my key off the keyring and plunged it into the door, opened it, unlocked the shutters, lifted them enough for me to squeeze in. The alarm didn’t start beeping. I thought that was weird. Had I forgotten to set it?

  The lights weren’t on and I didn’t bother turning them on because I didn’t have far to go. My charger was plugged into an outlet behind the only cashier’s island. I walked toward it, past the lifeless mannequins wearing clothes I could never hope to afford, the racks of pantsuits and blouses, and that’s when I heard him.

  He was laughing.

  Well…not exactly laughing.

  Chuckling.

  My blood froze along with the rest of my body. I couldn’t breathe.

  Someone was inside the store after-hours.

  My first thought was Greta. It made sense at the time, she was the owner after all, but then my mind refocused and told me that was impossible because she was in the Bahamas for another four days with that gray-haired lawyer she’d met at a country club. No way she would’ve came back early.

  At this point, if you knew the Mannequin Man’s history, you would’ve been like Duh! it’s so obvious. Of course it was him. Except, I was a nineteen-year-old girl obsessed with frat boys, cheap wine, and Instagram. I didn’t follow the news much. CNN and Fox were the channels my grandma and grandpa watched for fun. But I did see the occasional mention of him on social media. It was almost impossible to miss. Then again, I’m not much of a reader. I mean, I would see the headlines retweeted on Twitter and shared on Facebook, but I’d skip over the articles. Maybe that was my subconscious telling me not to read about him, not to find out the true horror lurking out there.

  The chuckling didn’t stop. In fact, it seemed to ramp up to something more like psychotic laughter.

  I was scared. Yes. Petrified. But I walked toward the sound. The back of the store.

  It was not a very big place, but there were enough clothes and twists and turns to disguise him. He was in the far right corner, the place we had displayed summer clothes because we knew no one ever went back there.

  My first instinct was to call out, to say hello. I’m glad I didn’t. If I did, I don’t think I would’ve gotten away.

  I crept on, following the chuckling, and there I came upon him.

  The Mannequin Man.

  He stood on a display platform, wearing a ski mask, a dark jacket, and black jeans. On his feet were leather military style boots. They were dotted with blood.

  I looked down and saw more blood had dribbled on the floor. Had this man not been in a mask, my first inclination would be to ask him if he was okay. I thought it may have been him that was bleeding.

  I was very wrong.

  At this point, his back was to me. He held a shiny silver object in his right hand.

  My mind screamed with warning.

  Gun! He’s got a gun!

  But it wasn’t a gun. Not the type of gun I’d originally thought, anyhow. It was a staple gun.

  And he pressed it to the mannequin on the platform modeling last summer’s fashion, right to its head.

  When he shifted, still chuckling, I saw what he had stapled there.

  It was a face.

  A young woman’s face.

  Blood ran from the corners of the eyeholes like red tears. The nose was mostly gone, the shape jagged, but the rest of the face was almost perfectly intact. It was as if it had been surgically removed.

  That’s when I couldn’t help myself.

  I screamed. Just a rush of air from my lungs at first, so quiet that the man hadn’t heard me over his laughter. Then the next scream came, and it was a full-on shriek. A wailing alarm.

  The man jumped, dropping his stapler, nearly losing his balance on the platform. It wouldn’t have been a long fall, but if he’d hit the floor at the right angle, he might’ve cracked his skull or broken his neck.

  Oh, how I wish.

  He kept his footing and spun around to look at me. I only saw him out of my peripherals. I was too busy looking at the stretched-out face on the mannequin’s head.

  It’s a mask that’s all it is—it has to be and the blood that’s all for shock value—to make it look more realistic Halloween’s—coming up soon isn’t it—yes a mask a mask a mask a mask—

  But it wasn’t a mask. I knew because I had never seen one so realistic in all my life.

  It was a face. Real skin. Real blood. Real eyebrows. Real scars. Real pores.

  The man’s eyes widened. Caught in the act. I’d thrown a wrench in his plans, and I could tell for the short moment our eyes met that he was unsure of what to do.

  Then something changed in those eyes. They glazed over, became beady. They were now the eyes of a stone-cold killer.

  He would have to get rid of me. His ritual was interrupted, and he would have to dispose of this nuisance if he wanted to get back to it.

  I was bolted to the floor; my feet wouldn’t move. It was as if he’d stapled through my ASICS.

  I thought maybe it was all a nightmare. The blood, the mask, the man, the face.

  I’d fallen asleep on the couch with Chester purring on my stomach, my phone forgotten in the cushions. Only dreaming. Just a dream. I was sure I’d wake up soon.

  I had to wake up.

  The man came toward me. He moved the way a person would approach a frightened animal, slow, calm, one arm coming up to show how he meant no harm.

  He wore thin leather gloves. They were black, but shining with something.

  Blood. It’s blood, I thought.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said to me. “Thin, but your face is full. Beautiful.”

  My tongue weighed a hundred pounds. Lifting it to form words seemed an impossibility. Somehow, though, I managed to speak. A weak threat, almost as weak as my first airy scream.

  “I’ve already called the police. They’ll be here any second!”

  “Oh, darling…no, they won’t. You haven’t called the police.” I couldn’t see his mouth, but the glazed-over eyes narrowed. Beneath his mask, I
knew he was smiling. “Now, come here, little kitten. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  A few more steps in my direction.

  My knees slowly unlocked. I rolled onto the balls of my feet.

  He started clucking his tongue—tsk, tsk, tsk. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Come on.”

  That was when I ran. I spun and took off toward the front entrance.

  “You fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled from behind.

  The slapping of his boots on the tile. My harsh breathing.

  I got about fifteen feet away from the door before he grabbed my hair and yanked me down. He wasn’t a big man. Not in my memory, at least, when I replay what happened and change the outcome, where instead of him getting away, I kill him so he can no longer hurt any more girls. But he was bigger than me. He smelled blood, too, and that gave him strength a normal person could never fully comprehend.

  I flailed and kicked, beat at his jacket, my hands coming back red and glistening but to no avail. He pressed his knees onto my chest. Grabbed my arms with one gloved hand. With his other hand, he pulled a knife off his belt. It was huge, serrated, the kind of knife used for gutting animals.

  Now he was going to gut me.

  I had to do something. I couldn’t give up. Couldn’t just let him do this.

  I don’t know where it came from, probably the will to stay alive, but a burst of manic strength ran through my body. I broke free of his grip and swiped at his head. The mask came partially up, enough for me to get a good look at his face.

  It was terrifying.

  But not in the way you might think. He had no scars or disfigurations. Nothing distinctive. This wasn’t the face of a monster at all. This was the face of a normal human being. This man would blend in with society. He could be your accountant, your doctor, the nice guy at the grocery store who offers to bring your shopping cart back for you on a chilly winter’s day. All the while, you wouldn’t know the evil that lurks beneath the surface, under that ordinary face.