The Smiling Man

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but sometimes those windows look in on an empty room. And that is more terrifying than the most twisted soul could ever be.

My name is Amelia Roberts. I live in Los Angeles, and I am twenty-one years old. Overall, I've had a pretty normal life, maybe even a good one. I made good grades. I had some close friends, but all of that changed the day I ventured down the wrong street.

 

I've always been a night person. My college roommate, Liz, isn't, so I embarked on my nightly walks alone. Something about the darkness is comforting. Well, it was. It isn't anymore. It will never be comforting -or even tolerable- ever again. Not after that night.

 

That night started as any other night would. I strolled down the sidewalk with my hands in the pockets of my jacket, letting the cool, October air fill my lungs with each relaxing breath I took. The fall breeze cut through the air, sending leaves drifting across the ground. The moonlight gracefully fell upon me, dimly illuminating the inky sky.

 

I took my usual route, which snaked through a few quiet neighborhoods. When I was a little girl, I always dreamed of living in one of these houses. I needed a break from the crappy apartments my father and I stayed in. Maybe some part of me still wanted to live in the quiet suburbs, but I can't handle the silence anymore. Not since that night. The quiet most people found soothing left me alone.

 

Alone to relieve the memories I would give anything in the world to forget.

 

I noticed a street I'd never seen before, and my curiosity got the better of me. I found myself near the city. I knew the area pretty well, and I was surprised to have never noticed this street before. About a block or two away, there was a few bars, restaurants, and a store or two.

 

As I continued down the sidewalk, I saw someone walking toward me. The way he moved was odd. It seemed as though he was waltzing, but with a weird, forward stride at the end. My first thought was that he must be drunk. I veered closer to the edge of the path, giving him ample room to pass me.

 

As he got closer, I noticed just how graceful each of his movements actually were. They were far to complicated for most sober people to complete, yet he carried them out flawlessly. When he passed under a street lamp, I got a good look at his face. His eyes were pointed up at the sky, never once looking ahead of him. Those eyes were vacant, yet focused.

 

But what stood out most, was his smile. I will never forget that smile. It was almost as wide as his face. It was a psychotic grin, one that revealed every last tooth in his mouth. It was the kind of smile that seemed to grow wider with each second you stared at it. The man stopped. His lanky figure, which stood over six feet, loomed over me. His eyes turned to look at me. I found myself at a loss for words. I just hoped and prayed that he would go away.

 

"What the hell do you want?" I asked, trying to keep my voice from faltering as I did. The pure fear I heard in that sentence was deeply unnerving. I knew he heard it too, and he liked it. He f*****g liked it. Is this what he wanted? To see the terror practically dripping off me? 'Cause that's sure as hell what he's gonna get.

 

I was hoping to see my friends burst out of their hiding places, laughing and pointing, holing a camera. I hoped that my biggest problem was trying to convince them not to put it on the internet, but they never came. No one came.

 

I received no response. The man just began his little dance-walk again and went past me, moving down the street as if nothing had ever happened. I watched him waltz down the sidewalk. His steps echoed loudly around me, cutting like knives through the night. I couldn't turn around until I knew he was a safe distance away from me. Even then, I wasn't sure I would be able to walk home. Once he was far enough away, I turned and started walking again.

 

The sounds of his dance found their way inside my head and kept reverberating off the walls of my skull, constantly reminding me of the man, of those eyes, and of that smile. Suddenly, I found myself in silence. Complete silence. The sounds of his dance had ceased. He's gone. Just keep walking. You're almost home. Don't turn around.

 

I slowly spun around, wishing the man would be gone, but he was still there, smile as wide as ever. Except, he wasn't dancing anymore -or moving at all. He was crouched down under the faint glow of a street lamp, staring at me not with his eyes, but with his grin. I just stood there, gawking.

 

He rose and started toward me, but he wasn't dancing this time. He was running. And I just stood there, staring like an idiot. I am always the one to laugh at the people in horror movies who open the closet with the murderer inside, or the people who just stand and watch the serial killer come at them with an axe. Yet, here I am, doing the exact same thing I swore I would never do.

 

I wanted to move, but I couldn't. The fear held me here, paralyzing every muscle and instinct I had in me. It was as though my mind and body were two separate beings, one having no control of the other, and that terrified me. I could hear my mind screaming at me to move, but my legs didn't seem to work. Oh God. He's getting closer.

 

Finally, something brought me back to reality, and I took off sprinting in the other direction. The only sounds I heard were that of out feet slapping on the pavement. I ran out into the street, glancing over my shoulder every few feet to see if he was still coming. Much to my dismay, he was. He moved much faster than I anticipated. The man was getting closer, and I wasn't sure how much longer I could keep running.

 

I kept running until I found myself on the block with the bars, restaurants, and a few stores. I sprinted into the nearest building, which happened to be a bar. I sat on the bar stool, panting as I tried to catch my breath. I was sitting by the window. I peered out of it, looking for the smiling man. A sigh of relief escaped my lips as I saw the empty street.

 

"What'll it be?" the bar tender asked. I looked around for a clock. It was after two A.M. I realized no one would be picking me up for a few minutes.

 

"Beer," I responded, pulling out my phone. The bottle was placed in front me as I slid over some cash and showed the man my ID. I brought the bottle to my mouth, drinking deeply. Immediately, I felt some of the anxiety wash away, but not all of it. Not enough to make me feel better, anyways. I decided to call Liz, not caring that she was probably asleep.

 

"Liz, can you pick me up? I'm at a pub on 10th street," I said

 

"Why can't you just walk home? It's like five minutes away," Liz complained. I could hear the exhaustion in her voice.

 

"I am not walking. Just please come get me. I'll explain on the way home," I begged.

 

"Fine," Liz sighed, hanging up the phone.

I rushed into Liz's car the minute it appeared outside the window. I didn't want to spend any more time than necessary outside, for fear the he might come. She was surprised at my hurried entrance.

 

"What's so important that you had to wake me up at two in the morning for?" Liz asked, driving off.

 

"This creepy guy was following me," I lied. Well, it wasn't a complete lie. It just wasn't the whole truth, and in my mind, what I said wasn't dishonest. It was just making sure my best friend didn't think I was insane.

 

"Oh," Liz replied.

...

 

"Why didn't you tell her about the man you saw?" Dr. Miller asks me. I don't even know why I signed up for a psychiatrist. I thought I needed it at the time, but now I know there is no one who can help me. No number of hours at

a therapist will make the smiling man go away.

 

"Because I didn't want her to think I'm crazy. I'm not crazy," I say. This has become somewhat of my personal mantra. I just keep telling myself I'm not crazy -that I'm normal- but I know that isn't true.

 

I had a good life. It was as apple-pie-normal as any life could be. I can never go back to that life now. Boy, I wish I could, but I can't. And that's just the new reality I'll have to accept.

 

"Amelia, this 'smiling man is not real. You just imagined him," Dr. Miller tells me. I just laugh. It's not a normal laugh. It's maniacal, and it scares me. It scares me to know what this man has done.

 

I haven't slept in days. I just can't take it anymore. Every damn night I dream of him. I dream of the way he stared at me. I dream of those eyes, the way the don't look at me. And I dream of that God awful smile, the way it stares into the very depths of my soul.

 

"Yes he is," I look out the window, and I see him dancing down the street under the moonlight. He looks at me. And when I see that smile, I know what has to be done.

 

After my session, I drive home. I slowly ascend the stairs until I reach the roof. I look down at the city from the top of my eleven story apartment building. I look at the things I will never see again.

 

My gun rests in my hand, shining in the moonlight. I hold it under my chin, finger hovering over the trigger. Come on, just do it. Pull the damn trigger. Do it. Now. I want to. I so desperately want to, but I can't. I don't know why, but I can't. I set the gun down and pull out a piece of paper. I begin to write.

 

If you're reading this, then you know I killed myself. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. You wouldn't understand. I just can't take it anymore.

Because everywhere I go, he's watching me. I can feel it.

I guess this is the time when I write my last wishes or something. I don't really have many. Just two.

Whatever you do, don't go looking for The Smiling Man. Trust me when I say you won't like what you find. And don't walk outside after dark.

 

~Amelia Rogers~

 

I put the gun back in my pocket and crumpled the note in my hand. I stood on the ledge, ever so slightly teetering forward. Tears fill my eyes, but I push them away, because when this is over, I will have peace. I look down at the street once more. I am drawing a crowd. People gather around the building, pointing. I know I better hurry if I don't want to be stopped.

 

I point my eyes to the sky, just the way he does, and I find myself smiling. Not a normal smile, but the kind of grin that widens with each second you stare at it.

 

"You lose," I say, more to myself than to the man. But I can see him. He is standing among the crowd. And with that, I pitch myself forward, falling through the cool, October air. It fills my lungs with each relaxing breath I take.

 

The darkness wraps its reassuring arms around me, and I find it comforting again. Because I realize I wasn't afraid of the dark. I never was. I was afraid of what's in the dark. I was afraid of the things that lurk, waiting for their next victim. I will not be a victim anymore.

 

Because I am free.