In one of Cebu’s oldest universities stands a nursing building that few dare to enter after dark. By day, it’s filled with students in pristine white uniforms, practicing CPR and emergency care on life-sized mannequins. But when the last light flickers off and the corridors fall silent, something else takes over.
The story begins with Norman, a security guard known for his discipline and skepticism. He was assigned the graveyard shift, responsible for checking every classroom and lab on the upper floors. Most guards disliked that task. There were too many rooms, too many shadows, and those pale mannequins that always seemed to stare.
It was past midnight when Norman began his rounds. The air was still, thick with the sterile smell of alcohol and latex. His flashlight beam slid along the tiled floor, then caught the faint outlines of the mannequins inside the simulation room. They stood in neat rows, their blank faces turned toward the door, lifeless and still.
He counted them, six, just as always. Then he turned away to check the window locks. When he looked back, he froze.
There were seven.
The seventh mannequin stood near the wall, its head tilted downward, its hands slightly apart as if ready to move. Norman’s chest tightened. He blinked hard, thinking his tired eyes were playing tricks on him. But when he took a step forward, he heard it, a faint creak of plastic, followed by the slow drag of a foot across the floor.
The light above him flickered once, then again. The air grew colder, heavy enough that he could see his breath fogging in front of him. The mannequin’s head jerked slightly to the side. Then, all at once, the lights went out.
Norman’s flashlight snapped back on after a few seconds, and every mannequin in the room was now facing him. Their heads were tilted, their pale eyes reflecting the weak glow of his light. Some had their arms raised. Others leaned forward as if listening.
He tried to back away, but something was blocking the exit. His hand met only the flat, frozen surface of the wall where the door had been. Panic set in. He turned, desperate for any way out, and felt a cold grip clamp around his wrist.
A hand. Smooth, plastic, and impossibly strong.
The flashlight fell to the floor. The beam rolled across the room and caught glimpses of movement, stiff, jerking limbs, twisting necks, and hollow faces bending toward him. The sound that followed was unmistakable: the hollow thud of dozens of feet stepping closer.
When morning came, Norman was gone. Only his flashlight remained near the entrance, its beam faintly flickering. The logbook he carried was open to a half-written line, smudged and uneven, as if written in shaking hands.
It read only three words.
“They followed me.”
Since that night, the nursing building has remained eerily quiet after dark. The janitors refuse to clean the upper floor past sundown. The guards never volunteer for the midnight rounds.
But sometimes, when someone passes by the building late at night, they swear they see a figure standing just behind the glass, not one of the mannequins, but something wearing a guard’s uniform, head bowed, as if waiting for another round.
And if you look too long, you might see the mannequins slowly turning toward the door.
