The Smiling Man

The first time I noticed him was on a Tuesday evening. The park had nearly emptied as dusk settled in, painting the sky in muted purples and deep blues. I was cutting through on my way home from work, taking advantage of the shortcut rather than walking the long way around.

He stood beneath an old oak tree, perfectly still, his face illuminated by the park's dim lighting. What caught my attention wasn't his presence—plenty of people lingered in the park after hours—but his smile. It stretched across his face unnaturally wide, exposing too many teeth, the corners of his mouth pulled taut. Our eyes met briefly before I quickened my pace, that familiar prickle of unease crawling up my spine.

It was nothing, I told myself. Just another stranger in a city full of them.

But the next evening, he was there again. Same spot, same unsettling smile. This time, when I passed, his head turned slowly, following my movement. I pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the sound of my shoes against the pavement, counting each step until I reached the park exit.

Twenty-three steps later, I risked a glance back. He was gone.

By Friday, I'd convinced myself to take the longer route home. It added fifteen minutes to my commute, but it seemed worth the peace of mind. I was being paranoid, letting an odd stranger get under my skin—but something about that smile haunted me.

I managed to avoid the park for three days before the heavy rain forced my hand. Ducking under my umbrella, I rushed through the park entrance, determined to make it home quickly. The paths were nearly deserted; even the most dedicated joggers had abandoned their routines in favor of staying dry.

I was halfway through when I saw him—standing in the rain without a coat or umbrella, completely soaked. That same grotesque smile plastered across his face. Water streamed down his features, but the smile never faltered. He turned toward me the moment I appeared, as if he'd been waiting.

This time, he moved.

Each step he took was deliberate, measured, closing the distance between us. I abandoned all pretense and ran, splashing through puddles, my umbrella forgotten somewhere behind me. When I reached the park exit, I finally dared to look back.

The path behind me was empty.

That night, I double-checked every lock in my apartment, drew the blinds, and tried to convince myself I was overreacting. Maybe he was just a local eccentric, someone with an unusual condition or mental health issues. Not everyone with odd behavior was dangerous.

Sleep came fitfully, interrupted by dreams of teeth and stretched skin.

Morning brought clarity and sunlight. I felt foolish for my fear—until I left for work and saw him across the street from my apartment building. The same fixed smile, the same unsettling stillness. My heart hammered against my ribs as I retreated inside and called in sick to work.

Through a slit in my blinds, I watched him. For hours, he didn't move, didn't seem to blink. Occasionally, someone would walk past him, giving him a wide berth but otherwise paying him little mind. Was I the only one who noticed how wrong that smile was?

As the day wore on, I grew increasingly desperate. I called a friend who lived nearby, voice shaking as I explained the situation.

"Just some creep," she assured me. "Want me to come over? We can call the police if he's still there."

By the time she arrived, he was gone. She stayed with me anyway, but I could tell she thought I was overreacting. Maybe I was.

But the next morning, there he was again. And the morning after that. Always with that same terrible smile, always watching my building. I began to notice details about him—his clothes never changed, a simple gray suit that hung too loosely on his frame. His skin had an almost waxy quality to it. And most disturbing of all, I never saw him blink.

A week into this nightmare, I'd had enough. I marched across the street, heart pounding but determined to confront him, to demand to know what he wanted from me.

He turned and walked away before I could reach him.

I followed, calling out, "Hey! Stop! What do you want?"

He moved with unnatural grace, always keeping the same distance between us no matter how fast I walked. Eventually, I realized with horror that he was leading me toward the park—our first meeting place. Something told me not to follow him there, so I stopped and watched as he disappeared among the trees.

That night, I packed a bag. I needed to get away, stay with my parents in the suburbs for a while. As I left my building, hustling toward the subway with my overnight bag, I spotted him again—this time standing at the corner beneath a streetlight.

When he saw me notice him, for the first time, his smile changed. It grew wider, impossibly so, until it seemed to split his face in half. Then he began walking in my direction.

I ran.

The subway station was three blocks away. I made it in record time, heart thundering in my chest, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. He followed at the same measured pace, never running but somehow keeping up.

I bounded down the station steps two at a time, fumbled with my metro card, and pushed through the turnstile. A train was just arriving—perfect timing. I rushed inside, the doors closing seconds after I entered. Through the window, I saw him standing on the platform, that hideous smile still fixed on his face as the train pulled away.

Relief washed over me as the station disappeared from view. I'd escaped. For now.

My parents' concern was evident when I arrived at their doorstep, disheveled and exhausted. I gave them a sanitized version of events—a strange man had been following me, and I needed a break from the city. They welcomed me with open arms and hot chocolate, just as they had when I was a child frightened by nightmares.

For three days, I breathed easier. The suburbs were quiet, normal. No smiling men, no stalkers. I began to wonder if I'd somehow imagined the whole thing, if stress had manufactured a boogeyman out of an ordinary stranger.

On the fourth day, I saw him standing across the street from my parents' house.

The same suit. The same smile. The same unblinking stare.

My father didn't see him when I pointed frantically out the window. By the time my mother came to look, he was gone. I knew then that this was something beyond ordinary harassment.

That night, I woke to the sound of tapping on my bedroom window. Tap, tap, tap. A gentle, almost polite request for entry. I lay frozen under my covers, unwilling to look, already knowing what I would see.

The tapping continued until dawn.

When I finally found the courage to peek through the curtains after sunrise, there was nothing there—but on the window glass, visible from the inside, was a perfect impression of that terrible smile, as if someone had pressed their stretched lips and teeth against the pane with enough force to leave a mark.

I left my parents' house that afternoon, ignoring their pleas to stay. I couldn't put them in danger, couldn't make them part of whatever this was. Instead, I checked into a hotel downtown, paid cash, and used a fake name.

He found me anyway.

I saw him in the hotel lobby that evening, standing perfectly still among the bustling guests, his eyes fixed on the elevator I had just entered. As the doors closed, I caught one last glimpse of that smile.

That night, lying in my hotel bed, I finally accepted the truth I'd been avoiding: this was not a human stalker. No person could have found me so easily, could appear and disappear at will, could leave impossible impressions on seventh-story windows.

Whatever was following me—whatever wore that horrible smile—wanted something from me. And it was patient.

I checked out the next morning and went home. If I couldn't escape, I would confront this thing on my own terms, in familiar territory.

He was waiting outside my building, of course. This time, I didn't run. I walked straight up to him, close enough to see the unnatural smoothness of his skin, the too-perfect whiteness of his teeth.

"What do you want?" I asked, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

For the first time, he spoke. His voice was like dry leaves rustling, like paper being slowly torn.

"I've been waiting for someone to ask," he said, the smile never faltering, never changing as the words emerged. "I've been waiting for you to invite me in."

A chill ran down my spine. "I'm not inviting you anywhere."

"You already have," he replied. "You saw me. You acknowledged me. You followed me. Three times you've engaged with me of your own free will. Three invitations."

I shook my head, backing away. "That's not how it works."

"It is for me," he said simply. "I follow rules older than your understanding."

He followed me up the stairs to my apartment, keeping a perfect three steps behind. I could feel his presence, cold and wrong, like a void that moved. When I reached my door, I turned to face him.

"Stay away from me."

"I can't," he said, almost regretfully, though the smile remained fixed. "Not anymore. Not until I've fulfilled my purpose."

"What purpose?"

The smile widened then, stretching beyond the confines of what a human face should allow. "To show you what lies beneath all our smiles, beneath the masks we wear. To show you the truth."

I slammed the door in his face and locked it, adding the deadbolt and chain for good measure. Through the door, I heard him laugh—a sound like glass breaking in slow motion.

"Doors don't matter to me anymore," he said. "Neither do walls. I'll see you soon."

That was three days ago. I haven't left my apartment since. I've pushed furniture against the doors and windows. I've called in sick to work. I've ignored the knocks and the tapping that come at random hours.

But just now, as I was writing this, I caught my reflection in my computer screen. For a split second—just the briefest moment—I saw my own face with that same terrible, stretched smile.

He's getting closer. And I think, deep down, I finally understand what he meant.

Behind every smile, there's something darker waiting. Even mine.

Especially mine.