The Smoker Man

Athour....shahjhan

When you grow up in a small town like Marlow Creek, you learn to live with the silence. Not just the lack of noise—but the quiet that creeps into your bones. People don’t talk about the past here, not unless they’re drunk or dying. But some stories... well, they never stay buried.

Ours begins—and maybe ends—with the Smoker Man.

A Stranger at the Edge of Town

He appeared out of nowhere one foggy morning, seated on the crumbling bench beside the old gas station that hadn’t pumped fuel since the '80s. He was tall, rail-thin, and always dressed in the same tattered gray trench coat and wide-brimmed hat. Nobody knew where he came from or when he arrived. He just was.

His cigarette was always lit. Always. Rain, wind, snow—didn’t matter. The smoke curled from his lips like it had a mind of its own, drifting lazily through the air, thick and bitter like burnt maple.

People called him the Smoker Man because no one knew what else to call him. He didn’t talk. He didn’t move much. He just sat, smoked, and watched.

Some folks tried to speak to him in the beginning. Pastor Gleeson offered him food; he didn’t touch it. Old Mrs. Harlow left a Bible on the bench; it vanished the next day. Sheriff Denny even checked for ID once, but came back shaking his head.

“Fella doesn’t exist,” was all he said. “Not in any system I can access.”

So we did what small towns do best. We ignored him.

Whispers and Warnings

Of course, kids talked. They made up stories—called him a ghost, a devil, a cursed veteran from some forgotten war. But some of us who'd lived long enough remembered things the kids didn’t.

Like how a man who looked exactly like him was seen in the background of a 1962 photograph taken after the train derailment near the canyon bridge. Or how he supposedly appeared in 1987, sitting on the same bench just weeks before the silo explosion killed four workers.

Mr. Halver, our unofficial historian, called him a "harbinger." Said his presence always meant something terrible was coming.

Nobody believed him—until the fires started.

The Fire Season

At first, it was just one abandoned barn. Then two. Then a field of dry hay. Always at night. Always suspicious. Fire crews never found the source.

And always, someone would say they’d seen the Smoker Man standing, for the first time, just before the flames lit up the sky.

People started getting nervous. Pastor Gleeson left town without warning. Sheriff Denny stopped leaving his house. A few families packed up and vanished overnight. The rest of us stayed, locked our doors, and prayed.

Then came the night of the school fire.

It burned fast, hotter than anyone thought possible. No injuries—thank God—but it gutted the entire west wing. That same night, teenager Abby Forester swore she saw the Smoker Man walking away from the school as the sirens screamed in the distance.

One Man’s Courage, or Folly

The next day, Deputy Russell—one of the only lawmen left—confronted him.

It was the only time anyone ever heard the Smoker Man speak.

Russell walked up, gun on his hip, and said, “We’ve had enough of your games.”

The Smoker Man looked up slowly, cigarette ember flaring, and said:

> “It’s not my fire you should fear. It’s what comes after.”

Then he took one last drag, flicked the butt into the gutter, and smiled.

Russell quit two days later. Moved to Arizona. Never spoke of it again.

Gone, But Never Far

One week later, the Smoker Man vanished.

The bench was empty. No cigarette butts, no ash, no signs he’d ever existed. Fires stopped. The town breathed a collective sigh of relief.

But peace in Marlow Creek doesn’t last.

Every year on the anniversary of his disappearance, someone swears they see him—standing at the tree line near the school ruins, smoke curling upward, hat low over his face.

Some say it’s a warning. Others say it’s a memory trying to claw its way back into the present.

Me? I say if you ever see the Smoker Man... don’t run.

Don’t speak.

Just turn around and walk away.

Because if he's back, something’s coming.

And this time, it might not be fire.