Plastic Girls

by Spencer Maxwell

  He’s laughing. He’s stepping toward me.

  “Maybe I’ll wear your pretty little face when I’m done with you. I’ll put it on top of Lola’s, and then I’ll be so gorgeous, so, so beautiful. The voices will have nothing to say then, huh? WILL THEY? And my mommy will be so proud of me.”

  I count his steps. One, two, three—

  On five, when he is close enough for me to smell the blood and the meat and the stench of his body odor, I lunge with all my might, with all the strength I have left in my body.

  It’s not much.

  But it’s enough.

  The metal rod pierces the Mannequin Man’s neck. There’s a great explosion of blood. It sprays me, wet and warm, and then the knife falls from his grip and goes clattering somewhere in the shadows.

  He drops to his knees, gurgling.

  Four or five inches of the rod stick out from his throat. I was able to bury about half of it.

  Heaving, I watch him gasp for breath. His lungs rattle and sound as if they’re filling with liquid.

  Lola’s face, the girl I loved for just a small part of my life, slides from his own and catches on the rod like a flag.

  Then the Mannequin Man falls forward. His own ugly face smacks the stone, the rod driving deeper into the side of his neck, and he lay unmoving just inches away.

  Please let me have hit a major artery. Please just let him be dead.

  The rats in the back have crept forward, not scared, but intrigued by the prospect of fresh meat—fresh unmoving meat.

  I’m more alert than I’ve been throughout the entirety of my stay down here. For a long moment, I watch for the rising and falling of the Mannequin Man’s back.

  He doesn’t move.

  I have to go. I have to find the keys.

  Despite the pain wracking my body, I drop to my knees and reach out. It is like touching a live wire; any moment now, I think the Mannequin Man will jolt and electrocute me, and this will all be for nothing.

  I’ll die in this shitty basement in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by his plastic girls.

  But—in his pocket, I feel something metal.

  Grunting, biting back my screams, I drag it out.

  It is keys.

  The keys to the cuffs.

  I’m thinking: I am free, I’ve done it, I’m going to live—

  Until his hand shoots up and grabs my wrist.

  Fifty-One

  He’s twisting. I can feel the bones, the weak bones in my arm, grinding together.

  “No!” I say, trying to hit him with my right hand, but it’s useless and doesn’t listen to my brain’s directions.

  “You dumb bitch,” he wheezes. “It’s—gonn-gonna be s-s-s-sssssso much worse now. I’m gonna flay you, I’m gonna pull ev-every single t-tooth out with rusty pliers, gonna turn your skull into a cereal bowl. Gun-gonna have so, s-so much fun with you.”

  And I believe him. The fire in his eyes: this is the first time I’ve ever seen him look alive.

  “You’re m-mine. My m-masterpiece, and I can do whatever I want with…you.”

  Somehow, he seems to only be getting stronger.

  I try to pull away, but I’m no match for his strength.

  Chittering behind me.

  I see, out of the corner of my eyes, which are flooded with terrible tears, an army of rats coming forward. There’s at least twenty of them—big, fat, menacing, their golden eyes glowing even in the light. Some are hairless, naked and pink, their tails as long as worms. Chipped teeth protrude from their maws, saliva drip-dripping.

  In their beady eyes is hunger.

  They wash over the Mannequin Man in a wave of sickly pink and black. Up his legs, his spine, all going for the sweet spot at his neck.

  I see one sink its teeth into the exposed wound there; another starts digging with its finger-like claws at his flesh. More surround him and lap at the blood that has fallen—mine, his, Lola’s. Two more are fighting over Lola’s face.

  He’s screaming.

  I pull away from his grip.

  He rolls, crushes rats beneath him, their blood and guts shooting from their noses and eyes like smashed jelly donuts. I look away. I can’t take any more gore and destruction.

  Fumbling the keys, I shove them into the cuffs. The right comes unlocked, and then I get both of the shackles around my ankles. For my left wrist, I can’t use my right hand. It’s shot. So I put the keys in my mouth and unlock it that way.

  I’m free.

  I can barely walk.

  But I have to. I force myself on rubbery, weak legs.

  Then I climb the ladder toward the hatch, toward my freedom.

  “It’s not over!” the Mannequin Man shouts. “YOU’RE MINE!”

  I’ve reached the top rung of the ladder, and I hook my legs in for support as I push upward with my left arm and my head, nearly losing my balance.

  I climb out of the hole in the floor onto an old, dusty rug.

  Lola is sitting in a chair, slumped, blood-soaked, faceless. There are multiple stab wounds all over her body, as if he was beyond angry when he attacked her.

  I scream and look away.

  Keep going. I have to keep going.

  I look back down the long opening, at the rats, at the Mannequin Man scrambling to be free, blood pouring from his neck, from the new wounds all over his body.

  “Goodbye, you son of a bitch,” I say, and I close the hatch.

  A padlock hangs unclasped. I clasp it, and the feeling that ripples through me is unlike any high that could ever exist.

  I am free.

  And I hope the rats are hungry. I hope they tear him apart until he is nothing but bones.

  Fifty-Two

  There’s a phone on the wall. I pick it up and dial 911 with weak fingers, leave it off the hook after I hear ringing, and then I exit the house, coming out to a long dirt road.

  I wish I could set the place on fire because I’m not staying here. I’m not risking getting caught by him again.

  I don’t know how long I walk. It seems like hours, but eventually a car stops and picks me up.

  I’m delirious, covered in blood as I’m screaming for help. The man says something like, “Oh God… Miss, are you okay?”

  A dumb question.

  “H-hosp—” I say hoarsely.

  Another car pulls up, a Good Samaritan. A woman. They argue about what to do with me. The man calls the police.

  I say, “Already di-did it.”

  The woman puts me in the backseat of her car.

  Trees go by in a blur. Power lines follow along. I see stars.

  Let me live. Please.

  The next thing I know, I’m in a white room, covered with a white blanket, an IV sticking out of my arm, bandages all over my body. Flowers and cards sit on the table between my bed and an empty one.

  I smile and fall back asleep.

  Epilogue

  It has been seventeen years since I’ve escaped the Mannequin Man.

  His real name is Randall Carpenter.

  But who cares?

  He’s a piece of shit.

  The cops found him in the basement, almost dead, somehow still hanging on.

  He was sentenced to death. And he’s sat on death row for nearly two decades.

  Today is the day.

  So many years ago, I was at his trial. I took the witness stand, I looked him right in his dead eyes, but he didn’t look back. I didn’t expect him to.

  Randall Carpenter was charged and found guilty of ten murders, including Lola’s. And he admitted to all of them, though he is suspected of three others throughout the Midwest and has yet to come clean about them.

  He probably never will.

  I think he has killed many more than thirteen.

  I’m driving to the prison now. Both of my hands are on the steering wheel. I’m older, more wrinkled, a little heavier—not perfect—and that’s the way I like it.

  Perfection is a lie.

  Beauty is more than what�
�s on the surface.

  The Mannequin Man is set to be executed at 12:01 a.m. tonight.

  I will be there; I’ll be looking him in the eyes again. I will watch them until they are truly dead.

  Me? Well, I’ve had a pretty normal life since my kidnapping. After many surgeries, I was put back together again…mostly. You’ll never see me on a basketball court or a soccer field. My mobility is not good, and I can only lift my right arm as high as my shoulders and bend the elbow about fifteen degrees, but I manage.

  And I’m alive.

  My mother and father are too. Mom’s cancer never came back. Dad doesn’t drink at all anymore, not even on special occasions.

  Chester lived a long and happy life. He had to be put down three years ago. He was skinny and not eating, half-blind, and could hardly hear. I miss him, but it was the right thing to do.

  Klonowski, he retired. After he saw what was in the Mannequin Man’s basement, I don’t blame him. We rarely keep in touch. From time to time I’ll get the occasional letter and I’ll reply, but it’s always just pleasantries.

  We never talk about the murders.

  I don’t want to, and neither does he.

  I went back to college a few years after the madness settled down. I got my degree in finance. I work at a normal job, making a steady paycheck, living the nine-to-five like a regular person. Nothing extravagant. I’ve had girlfriends, relationships, but no wedding bells yet. I’m in my forties, healthy. I have plenty of time, I think, to find the right one.

  I live on the same street as my parents. They sold their house and we moved south, to Georgia. It’s beautiful there. I love it.

  But tonight I am back in Ohio.

  I sit in the viewing room. Some of the victims’ family members are here. Members from the press, too, and other people in suits I don’t recognize.

  The curtains open.

  The Mannequin Man lays on a table, hooked to an IV. He is older and much, much uglier.

  The rats did quite a number on him. As did I. The scar on his neck is a puckered white mouth.

  He has gotten fat in his middle-age. For some reason, that makes me happy.

  Perfection? It may be an illusion, yes, but if it was real, then he would be the furthest thing from it.

  12:01. The clock strikes death, and the doctors behind the glass administer the injection. The Mannequin Man mumbles something I can’t hear.

  His lips then stretch into a grin.

  And a few minutes later, he dies with his eyes wide open.

  I hope he smiles all the way to hell.

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  About the Author

  Spencer Maxwell lives in Ohio with his beautiful wife and their five furry best friends. When not writing or reading, he’s probably sleeping.