Here’s the thing about The Twilight Zone. It’s one of those shows that’s supposed to be dated, quaint even—an artifact from the monochrome past, watched by teenagers in dorm rooms or late-night insomniacs with a fascination for nostalgia. But every now and then, Rod Serling gives you something that slaps you in the face with relevance, like it was written just yesterday to mess with your head. Case in point: The After Hours.
If you don’t remember this particular episode, let me catch you up. Marsha White, your typical 1960s woman, finds herself wandering through an eerily empty department store, looking for something—an item, a connection, a purpose? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she ends up on the ninth floor, a place that technically doesn’t even exist, surrounded by mannequins who suddenly seem a little too alive. In a twist that only The Twilight Zone can pull off, Marsha slowly realizes that she’s not human at all—she’s a mannequin, given a brief time to live like a real person, and now her turn is up. She has to go back.
Now, Serling plays it like a supernatural horror show with a tight little narrative bow, but what’s really going on here is an existential metaphor with the subtlety of a hammer to the skull. Marsha’s “vacation” from being a mannequin is a microcosm of what we’re all going through—life, in its weirdly absurd glory, is just a temporary loan. We’re mannequins who’ve been let loose in the department store, wandering around, buying things, talking to each other, forgetting that any moment now, someone’s going to come along and say, “Okay, your time’s up. Back to the ninth floor.”
That’s where it gets tricky, because humans have this fascinating ability to ignore the ticking clock. We know time is limited, but we act like it’s endless. We fill our days with routine, distractions, and a sense of permanence that doesn’t actually exist. We’re all mannequins pretending we’re not, convincing ourselves that we’re more important or special than the others, when really we’re all just waiting for someone to turn the lights out.
The After Hours nails that anxiety, but it also taps into something a little more uncomfortable: what if we want to be mannequins? What if, deep down, we don’t want the responsibility of being aware of our mortality? Marsha’s amnesia about her true nature feels almost like a gift. Imagine how much easier life would be if we could all forget that the clock is ticking—if we didn’t have to think about the fact that every decision, every moment, every breath, is pushing us closer to the end of our lease.
But, of course, that’s not how it works. We do know. And we still have to live with it. So, what do we do with that information? Do we spend our time wisely, crafting some meaningful existence? Or do we binge-watch Netflix and scroll through social media, numbing ourselves to the reality that none of this lasts? The mannequins in The After Hours have it easy—they know they get to go back to their static, unchanging existence after their time is up. They don’t have to deal with the aftermath of their brief adventure as a real person. But us? We don’t get to go back to the ninth floor. We just disappear.
And that’s the most unsettling part. We have no idea what’s next. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. But either way, our time as “alive” things is so ridiculously short. So what’s the point? What are we doing here? Is it to live a life of meaning, connection, and love, or are we just mannequins killing time in the store?
The truth is, we’re not supposed to know. It’s the uncertainty that makes us human. But The After Hours forces you to reckon with the reality that our time here is limited—just a blip. And in that brief moment we’re given, the best we can do is make peace with the fact that we’ll never know if we’re supposed to be anything more than glorified mannequins.
Maybe that’s enough. Or maybe it’s not. But either way, the lights are going out, and we’re all heading back to the ninth floor eventually.