Night of the Mannequins

by Stephen Graham Jones

“I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t him,” she said, close to me now. “Do you know how I know, Sawyer? Cousin of mine? Do you want me to tell you?”

In the middle of all this swirling chaos and death, all this screaming and crazy everywhere light, my face actually went slack, matching the mask I was wearing.

all from this destruction Manny was causing, all from this destruction that didn’t even have to be happening.

She’d tried to step in and be the final girl, the one who rises at the last moment, finds a strength she didn’t know she had, but come on, right? She was already dead.

angry storm Manny was swirling up all around us.

Two minutes later I was paddling that boat out here, Manny.

But, just come to the water, Manny. Come to the lake.

then you’re going to see one of your old friends out here waiting for you, just bobbing up and down, his plastic face so pleasant and lips-together just like yours always was, his hands holding tight to the side of his little boat. It’s me in here.

I just want to go with you and sleep, and wait for the next group of kids to find us, the mannequin with the falling-apart legs and the boy mannequin beside him, his face blanked out with pleasure from all the fun that’s coming. We’ll play all summer long, and it’ll never go over, I know.

I love you, Manny. I never stopped, man. You were the best friend we ever could have had. Sacrifices had to be made, yeah, but that’s all over now, that’s all done with. Roll credits, please.