A face without an expression

An original description of an invented costume-store visit.

The mannequin stood between two rails of coats, facing the locked door. Someone had dressed it in a velvet jacket with one sleeve turned inside out. Its blank face reflected a narrow strip of light from the high window.

As I moved along the aisle, the strip crossed its cheek. Nothing else moved. A coat brushed my shoulder and swung back against the rail, but the mannequin continued its patient attention to the door. I knew it had no eyes. The smooth hollows where eyes might have been made that knowledge less useful than it should have been.

At the end of the aisle, I found the box of buttons I had come for. The label had faded, and I bent close to read it. Behind me, a hanger struck another hanger with a small metallic tap. I turned too quickly, scattering buttons across the floor.

The mannequin was exactly where it had been. Only the light had changed. Its face was now completely white, and the dark doorway behind it had acquired the depth of another room.

How does the writer make the mannequin seem unsettling?