The Town Where Everyone Has the Same Face

When journalist Darren Cole received an anonymous tip about a town in rural Washington where “everyone has the same face,” he assumed it was a joke. Maybe a performance art village or some cultish cosplay community. But curiosity — and a dry spell in his freelance assignments — nudged him into his rusted Ford and down the foggy Pacific Northwest highway. What he found was far stranger than anything he'd imagined.

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Darren arrived in Marrowick just before sunset. The town, nestled between moss-draped pines and cloud-choked hills, was eerily quiet. Its buildings looked decades behind the times: faded signage, wood-paneled diners, and a gas station that still sold soda in glass bottles.

He stopped at the diner first. The waitress behind the counter turned to greet him with a smile—and that’s when the first jolt hit.

She looked… off. Too smooth. Too symmetrical. Her eyes a little too wide, her smile stretched just a little too far. She poured his coffee with mechanical grace.

Then Darren noticed the cook in the kitchen. Same face. Same impossibly smooth skin, same vacant cheerfulness. His heart stuttered.

Two identical people. Not similar—identical.

At first, he tried to rationalize. Maybe twins. Maybe a bizarre plastic surgery experiment gone too far. Maybe an elaborate prank. But when he stepped outside again, he saw them everywhere: a woman walking her dog, a group of teens loitering by a store, an old man sweeping his porch. All of them wore the same face. The same too-perfect face.

He snapped a few discreet photos with his phone, though he wasn't sure why. Who would believe him?

At the Marrowick Inn, the receptionist greeted him with that same, unnerving smile. Darren hesitated before asking:
“Hey… do you have any family photos? Of the town, I mean.”
The receptionist tilted her head. “Of course,” she said, voice soft and melodic. She reached beneath the desk and handed him a worn photo album.

Every single person in every photo — from school events to weddings to picnics — had the same face.

“I… I don’t understand,” Darren muttered.
The receptionist smiled wider. “You will.”

---

That night, in the musty inn room, Darren tried to call his editor. No service. He connected to the inn’s Wi-Fi—only to find every website redirected to a single landing page that read:
Welcome Home.

The lights flickered. Then went out.

A soft knock came at the door.

He opened it to find a group of townspeople standing in the hallway, their eyes shining in the dark, all wearing that same, dreadful mask of a face.

“You’re special, Darren,” the one in front said. “You still have yours.”

Darren slammed the door and bolted it. He didn’t sleep.

---

He fled at first light. Or tried to. The road that led in now curled back on itself. Every turn brought him back to the town square. His GPS spun without direction. Even the forest seemed to shift unnaturally, guiding him back.

By noon, he was back at the diner. Waiting for him was the waitress.

“You’re resisting. That’s normal.”

“What are you?” he gasped.

She leaned close. “We were human. Long ago. But we transcended the chaos of individuality. No more conflict. No more loneliness. One face. One mind. One peace.”

“I don’t want that!”

“You will.”

---

By the end of the week, Darren Cole’s blog published a strange, cheerful article titled “Marrowick: The Town That Time Forgot, But You Shouldn’t.”

Attached was a photo of Darren, beaming with the same smooth, symmetrical face as every other resident.

He never left.

And those who read the article — the ones who clicked through, curious and unsuspecting — began to receive emails. Invitations. Job offers. Free stays.

Some even went.

None came back.

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If you ever get an invite to Marrowick, don’t go. No story is worth losing your face.