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When I was a student, Woody Allen hadn't become the bloke who married his ex-wife's daughter and been accused of abusing his ex's other kid. In those simpler times he just made films. The Sunday Times magazine did an article about him and had a big photo of his face on the cover. One day this was on my friend's bed, and for a laugh we put it on the pillow so it looked like he was in the bed. Then we plumped up the bed clothes so he had a body. It was a bit spooky. He lay there, eyes eide open, not asleep but not moving either. Other people who came in would suddenly notice him, and comment on how unsettling he was.
So we went further. We stuck the photo to a coat hanger, hung clothes from the hanger, and put the hanger on a cupboard door handle so that he appeared to be standing at the side of the room. The trousers almost reached the ground, and we put some shoes beneath.
With the layout of the room, by the time you'd come in he was almost behind you, and just in your peripheral vision. He was tall, and silent, and unmoving. If you looked at him straight on, he was obviously just some clothes hanging below a photo. But out of the corner of your eye he was bloody scary. Everyone who came in had a jump scare. That included me. I knew he was there because I'd helped make him, but there was something unworldly about him lurking there.
One girl came into the room in a hurry to talk to us, and was past him before she noticed he was there. So my friend pointed and said "Have you seen Woody?" She had the biggest scare of all.
A few days later I dropped in and he'd gone.
"Where's Woody?"
"I had to take him down. The cleaners wouldn't come in my room while he was there."