The Lipstick Lady in 11403: A Mannequin Mystery

The Lipstick Lady in 11403:

A Mannequin Mystery

Behind every door, there's a story... and a to-do list.

Let me just start by saying: I’ve seen a lot in this job.

I've dealt with tenants who tried to flush socks, used dishwashers to clean shoes, and once found a raccoon sleeping in the laundry room (still wearing someone’s scarf). But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what I found in Unit 11403 on a Tuesday morning that started, as all horror stories do, with: “This should be a quick inspection.”

🧹 The Setup

The tenant had vacated over the weekend. She left the keys in the office mailbox with a polite little note that read:

“Thank you! Everything is cleaned and ready. Enjoy!”

Charming, right?

I walked into the unit alone—clipboard in hand, gloves in back pocket, espresso in bloodstream. Unit 403 had always been calm. No drama. No noise complaints. No emergency work orders titled “Weird Buzzing From My Toilet.”

Just a quiet little one-bedroom with a balcony and very beige walls.

At first glance, it looked fine. Living room? Empty. Kitchen? Wiped down. Floors? Swiffered into a glossy finish. A+ effort.

And then I opened the bedroom door.

🫦 The Discovery (and My Near Heart Attack)

There she was.

Standing silently in the corner of the room, casting a long shadow against the closet door.

A full adult mannequin.
Pale. Life-sized. Female form.
But the best—or worst—part?

She was wearing bright red lipstick. Matte. Perfectly applied. Honestly, better than I do on a good day. No clothes. No wig. Just glossy plastic limbs and a pout that said, “Yeah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

I gasped. Out loud.
Then I backed out of the room like she was about to lunge at me.

My heart was pounding. I stood in the hallway for a good minute just trying to breathe like a normal person again. You think you’re a seasoned property manager until you lock eyes with a naked mannequin at 9 a.m. and start questioning your career choices.

📞 Reinforcements

I called my husband immediately.

I didn’t even explain. I just said, “You need to come up to 403. Right now. I am not touching this thing.”

When he arrived and saw her, he blinked once and said flatly,

“Nope. We’re moving her. Now.”

He picked her up—carefully, like she might break or bite, we weren’t sure—and carried her down the hallway. Arms outstretched, legs stiff, that bright red smirk glowing under the fluorescent lights like she knew we were rattled.

We didn’t want her anywhere near the office, and we definitely weren’t leaving her by the dumpsters (can you imagine the 911 calls that would’ve triggered?). So my husband brought her down to the room behind the cleaning supply area. At the time, it doubled as a staff room—where we kept lightbulbs, paint trays, and a really old radio nobody knew how to turn off.

He leaned her against the back wall, right beside the mop sink and a box of toilet seat covers. And there she stood—silent, plastic, lipstick-perfect—like she was ready to supervise every supply run from that day forward.

🧼 What Came Next

We emailed the former tenant.

“Hi there! We completed the move-out inspection and noticed you may have accidentally left behind a mannequin. Let us know if you’d like to retrieve it.”

No reply.
Not a word.

She never came back for her. Never even acknowledged the message. No “Oops, forgot my plastic roommate!” No “Please take care of her; her name’s Clara.”

Just… radio silence.

So we named her ourselves.

🪆 Margot, Our Mascot

She became Margot.

We made her a caution tape scarf. Someone gave her a mop handle to hold like a staff. Every time someone new opened the supply room, we’d hear a yelp followed by nervous laughter.

Margot was terrifying—but also weirdly comforting. Like a haunted doll you grow attached to.

She stayed with us for weeks. Oversaw paint touch-ups. Guarded the cleaning rags. Judged us quietly. I swear she started leaning forward just a little more every time I opened the door.

Eventually, we had to say goodbye. Maintenance wheeled her out one morning—covered respectfully with a sheet—and that was the end of Margot’s reign.

But even now, when I walk by that room, I still glance over my shoulder.

Just in case.

🧛‍♀️ The Mystery Lives On

We never found out why the tenant had a mannequin.
We never asked.
We didn’t want to know.

Some stories in property management don’t need answers.
They just need disinfectant, a strong coffee, and a willingness to act like carrying around a lipstick-wearing mannequin is completely normal.

And if you think this story is strange?
Oh honey. This was Tuesday.

Love these stories? Subscribe to Lily Daily Dwelling for more behind-the-door chaos, unexpected discoveries, and the bizarre realities of rental life.

Got a mannequin mystery of your own? I’m listening. Bonus points if she had shoes.