The Smiling Man

The Smiling Man

It started with a knock.

Three gentle raps at the door of the third-floor apartment, just after midnight.

Nina lived alone. She wasn’t expecting anyone—certainly not at that hour. She muted the late-night crime documentary playing on her laptop and froze, listening.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She tiptoed to the peephole.

Nobody there.

She waited. Five minutes. Ten. Still nothing. She returned to her couch, heart a little unsettled but not panicked.

Until she heard it again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She looked again.

This time, someone was there.

A man. But not just any man.

He was tall, rail-thin, dressed in a black suit that looked several decades out of date. His skin was pale, almost paper-white, and stretched tightly over his bones. His eyes were too wide. His mouth—twisted into a grin so wide, so wrong, it didn’t seem physically possible.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, grinning.

Nina stepped back from the door, heart racing.

“Who are you?” she called through the door.

Silence.

“I’m calling the police!”

The man’s smile widened. A twitch at the corners, like something crawling underneath his skin.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Nina scrambled to her phone. No signal. She looked at the bars—none. Wi-Fi: dead.

Her breath caught. This had to be a prank. A costume. Someone messing with her.

But something about that face... it didn’t feel human.

She waited an hour.

Eventually, she peeked again.

Gone.

Relief crashed over her like a wave. She locked every bolt, drew every curtain, turned on every light, and fell asleep with her back against the bedroom door, kitchen knife in hand.

She told herself it was over.

It wasn’t.

The next night, the knocking returned.

This time, it came from her bedroom window.

She lived on the third floor.

The blinds fluttered gently, as if disturbed by a breeze—but the window was closed. Locked. She stepped back, terrified to look.

But she had to know.

She parted the blinds just enough to peek through.

There he was.

The Smiling Man.

Hovering.

His face pressed to the glass, eyes unblinking, smile growing by the second.

Nina screamed and stumbled backward. When she looked again, he was gone.

She left the apartment that night. Slept in her car. The next morning, she filed a police report. They searched her apartment. No signs of forced entry. No prints. No evidence of anyone.

The officer called it a nightmare. Suggested stress. Maybe too much caffeine and crime documentaries.

She moved in with her sister the next day.

It helped.

For a while.

Then her niece began waking up at night, crying about a “smiling man” at her window.

Her sister lived in a gated neighborhood. Second story.

Nina felt sick.

She tried to stay awake every night. Tried to catch him. But he was patient.

He didn’t knock anymore. He didn’t have to.

He was inside.

She saw glimpses of him in mirrors, in the reflection of dark windows, in the blackness of the TV screen before it turned on. Always grinning. Always watching.

One night, Nina’s niece disappeared.

No signs of struggle.

Window locked from the inside.

The only thing left was a message, scrawled on the mirror in something dark:

“Smile for me.”

The police were baffled. No leads. No suspects.

But Nina knew.

The Smiling Man had chosen her—and now, he was spreading.

She’s writing this from a motel three states away, every mirror covered, every window sealed with black plastic.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because tonight, she saw him again.

Standing by the vending machine.

Grinning.

If you ever hear knocking with no one there, don’t look.

Don’t smile back.

And never, ever ask who it is.