"The Smile That Lied":
When I was ten, my family moved to a quiet little house on Maple Street. It was the kind of small-town street where the summer air always smelled like fresh-cut grass and barbecued hot dogs. Where kids rode their bikes until the sky turned indigo and porch lights flicked on one by one, like stars catching fire. The houses stood close together, each one with its own little yard and painted shutters, and neighbors waved at each other like it was a part of the daily ritual. We didn’t lock our doors during the day. People borrowed cups of sugar, left pies cooling on windowsills, and trusted each other with their spare keys. It seemed perfect.
Our house was a modest, two-story place with chipped white paint and a wraparound porch. It wasn’t fancy, but it felt warm, lived-in. There was a big backyard that dipped into a gentle slope, a perfect place for me and my little sister Lily to run wild. Lily was five, full of life and light, with big blue eyes and the kind of laughter that made you forget the world could ever be cruel. She had this habit of narrating her pretend games in a singsong voice and talking to her stuffed animals like they were her advisory council. She was my best friend back then, before everything changed.
Next door lived Mark. He was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with sandy hair and a square jaw. He kept his lawn trimmed like a golf course and always seemed to have something baking—cookies, banana bread, sometimes brownies that made the whole street smell like chocolate. From the start, he seemed like the kind of neighbor you’d be lucky to have. He smiled easily, waved when we passed, and leaned over the fence to ask how we were settling in.
At first, I liked him. He seemed... normal. Just a friendly guy living alone, always around, always willing to help. When my soccer ball rolled into his yard, he’d toss it back with a wink. “You’re gonna be the next Beckham, huh?” he’d say. And when Mom baked her first batch of apple pie in the new oven, he brought over a compliment and a dish of warm snickerdoodles in return. Lily adored him. She’d call out “Hi, Mark!” in her sing-song voice and run up to his porch to show him her drawings or ask if she could water his flowers again. He always said yes. Always.
Sometimes he’d come over and sit on the porch with my parents. He talked a lot about how he’d grown up in the same town, how quiet and safe it used to be. He had this rehearsed charm, like he was used to impressing people. “This street’s still one of the best,” he’d say, leaning on the railing with his coffee. “Great place for kids.” My dad liked him. “You’re a good guy, Mark,” he’d say more than once. My mom would smile, tell him he should come over for dinner sometime. And he did. Once, he even hosted a barbecue. The food was good, too—grilled burgers and soda in glass bottles. The kind of afternoon you’d want to remember.
But I did remember something different. Something that sat wrong in my gut. I remembered how, during that barbecue, Mark’s eyes followed Lily wherever she went. Not in a casual, neighborly way. Not like a family friend watching a child play. It was... fixed. Intent. Every bounce of her pigtails, every giggle, every time she bent over to pick up a dropped chip or skipped past with bare feet, he watched her like she was a fragile, shiny thing he couldn’t wait to get his hands on.
I didn’t know what to call the feeling back then. I was just a kid. But even at ten, I could tell something about it was wrong. My stomach twisted, even if I didn’t understand why.
Over the next few months, things got weirder. Mark started inviting Lily over more often. Always Lily. Never me. He’d catch her outside and say things like, “Got some chocolate chip ice cream, Lily. Want to come try it?” Or, “I’ve got a new cartoon DVD. Just got it yesterday.” She’d giggle and run to his porch. I tried to go with her once, but he placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me this too-wide grin. “Not today, champ. This is our special time.”
His hand lingered just a second too long.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
I didn’t know what to do. I told my mom one night while she was washing dishes, her hands in soapy water, the window open to the cool evening breeze. “I don’t like how Mark’s always with Lily,” I said. My voice was quiet. Unsure. She looked over her shoulder at me, her smile fading a bit, but not enough. “Honey,” she said, drying her hands, “Mark’s just being kind. He’s a lonely guy. It’s nice for Lily to have someone to play with. Your dad’s always working late. Don’t worry so much.”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the unease was growing—slow, constant, gnawing.
Then came the scream.
It was a Saturday. The sun was hot, the kind that made the grass smell sweet. I was in the backyard, kicking my ball around. Then I heard it—Lily, screaming. Not playing. Not giggling. Screaming. High-pitched. Terrified.
My blood went cold.
I dropped the ball and ran. I didn’t even think—I just sprinted across the yard and up to Mark’s front door, slamming my fists against it. “LILY! Are you okay? LILY!”
Mark opened the door. His face was flushed, sweat on his brow, his shirt wrinkled and damp. “She’s fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Just tripped and scraped her knee.” His voice had a forced calm, like someone trying to keep a secret from slipping out. I pushed past him. I didn’t care if it was rude.
Lily was on the couch. Her eyes were huge, wet with tears. A Band-Aid was slapped on her leg, but it was crooked and not even covering the scrape. She wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t speak. “What happened?” I asked. She barely whispered, “I fell.”
Mark stood behind me, arms crossed tight over his chest. “She’s fine,” he said again, clipped and sharp this time. “You should take her home.”
I grabbed her hand and didn’t let go until we were back in our yard. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
After that, I didn’t let her out of my sight.
Mark started watching from his porch more often, his eyes tracking her like always. He’d call out to her, coax her with treats, projects, little chores. “Lily, want to help me paint the birdhouse?” “Lily, my fish need feeding again!” But I stepped in every time. “No,” I’d say. “Come play soccer with me, Lily. Let’s draw inside. I need your help with a game.” She’d whine sometimes, not understanding why I was suddenly so strict, but I didn’t care.
I told Dad one night, the words catching in my throat. “Mark’s creepy. He watches Lily all the time. He doesn’t ask me to come over. Just her.”
Dad sighed, like I’d just told him a ghost story. “You’re being dramatic,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Mark’s been nothing but good to us. Don’t stir up trouble, okay?”
But it wasn’t trouble I was stirring. It was truth. And no one wanted to hear it.
And then... Lily was gone.
She was playing in the front yard while I sat inside, doing math homework I didn’t care about. Mom called her for dinner. No answer. “Lily! Come eat!” she called again. Still nothing.
It was like the air collapsed. A thick silence settled over the house.
We searched. The yard, the street, the park. Nothing.
My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.
The police came. The sirens shattered the calm. Our street lit up like a crime scene from a movie. Neighbors whispered. Search dogs arrived. Helicopters swept overhead. I remember Mark standing on his porch, arms folded. Calm. Too calm. “I haven’t seen her,” he said to the officer. “I was home all day.” But his hands trembled. He wouldn’t look anyone in the eye. I saw it. I knew.
But no one listened.
Weeks passed. Then months.
Hope died.
We moved away a year later. The house felt haunted. Not by ghosts, but by the silence Lily left behind.
I was sixteen when it came out. A text from Mom during school: Come home after class. We need to talk.
Mark had been arrested.
The police had been watching him for years. He’d moved towns before. Always friendly. Always helpful. Always alone. They found pictures. Videos. Personal belongings of girls long gone. He’d kept them like trophies. Lily was one of them.
She had tried to run. He had stopped her.
They found her body buried in a field, wrapped in an old sheet with her favorite stuffed bunny.
I couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop screaming.
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” I shouted, my throat raw. “I told you!”
My mom collapsed into sobs. “We thought he was safe... We failed her.” My dad stared at the floor, shattered.
Mark was sentenced to life, no parole. Over a hundred victims. A monster in plain sight.
That year killed the boy I was.
Now, I don’t trust easy smiles. I don’t believe in safe streets. And I don’t stop watching the shadows.
Because evil doesn’t come with a snarl. It comes with cookies, smiles, and stories about a quiet town where nothing bad ever happens—until it does.
And sometimes, the monster lives right next door.
"The Gifts":
I used to love my little house on Maple Street.
It was the kind of place you dream about when you're tired of city noise and endless traffic—just a small, two-bedroom cottage with ivy creeping along the white picket fence and sun filtering through the trees that lined the sidewalk. There was a narrow brick path leading to a modest front porch where I kept two flowerpots filled with lavender and rosemary. I’d spent so many peaceful mornings there, coffee cup in hand, listening to the birds. The garden in the backyard was my sanctuary. I’d plant marigolds, petunias, and daisies in neat rows, losing myself in the dirt and the gentle rhythm of weeding and watering. It was quiet. Safe. Comforting.
The neighborhood was something out of a storybook—kids riding bikes in crooked little circles, laughter echoing in the late afternoon. Retired couples took slow evening walks, and neighbors always waved when they saw me. I was just Emily, the local elementary school teacher with an affinity for plants and a predictable routine.
Then Mark moved in next door, and everything changed.
He arrived in early spring, driving a silver SUV with California plates. I noticed him unloading furniture one Saturday morning—boxes stacked haphazardly on the driveway, a black leather couch, a couple of abstract paintings. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. Clean-cut. Tall, with dark hair and a build that suggested he spent time at the gym. I gave him a polite wave as I trimmed my rose bushes, and he waved back with a bright, toothy smile.
I didn’t think much of it. New neighbors came and went. But over the next few weeks, I started seeing him more often—always outside when I was, always ready with a smile or a comment. The kind of friendly that just skirts the edge of too much.
It started innocently enough.
One warm afternoon, I was kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds and humming under my breath when I heard his voice.
“Hey, Emily! Your flowers look amazing. Need a hand?”
I looked up, startled, to see him leaning over the wooden fence that separated our yards. His arms were crossed on the top rail, and he was watching me closely. Smiling, yes—but something in his eyes held too long, like he wasn’t just looking at me, but studying me.
“Oh—thanks, Mark, but I’m good,” I said, brushing dirt from my palms. “Just keeping busy.”
We chatted briefly. He asked about the neighborhood, commented on how peaceful it seemed. I told him I was a teacher, and he said he worked in tech—something vague involving remote contracts and cybersecurity.
Then he asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime.
I hesitated. It didn’t seem like a big deal—he was new in town, probably just trying to be social. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
We met that weekend at a café downtown, the kind with brick walls and chalkboard menus. He was polite—well-dressed, articulate—but the conversation was lopsided. He talked about himself nearly the entire time. His job. His move. His favorite horror movies, of all things. He said he loved old slasher films, especially ones “where the creepy guy is actually misunderstood.”
Something about the way he said that made my stomach twist.
I smiled politely, nodded where appropriate, but by the end, I was sure—there was no connection. Whatever spark he hoped for just wasn’t there.
“Thanks for the coffee, Mark,” I said as we stepped outside. “It was nice, but I don’t think we’re really a match.”
His smile didn’t fade, but it felt… tighter. More deliberate. “No worries, Emily. Friends, then?”
“Yeah. Friends,” I said. But even then, I had this prickling feeling between my shoulders—like I’d just missed something.
A few days later, I came home to find a small white box sitting on my front step. There was no note at first, just a silver bracelet nestled in blue tissue paper. When I opened it, a folded card dropped out: For you, Emily. – M.
My stomach sank. It had to be Mark.
Why would he send a gift after I’d already told him I wasn’t interested?
I tucked the bracelet into a drawer in the hallway and tried to forget it, but more gifts followed.
A bouquet of daisies, my favorite. A vanilla-scented candle. A novel I’d once mentioned I loved when we chatted. Each came with a note, handwritten in neat block letters. You’re always on my mind. We belong together. Don’t fight what’s meant to be.
The notes made my skin crawl.
I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he was just bad at taking hints—but the insistence, the intimacy in the notes, was too much. This wasn’t about friendship or even affection. It was control. Possession.
So I confronted him.
He was out in his yard trimming hedges when I marched over with the latest note in hand. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Mark, we need to talk,” I said. “These gifts—you need to stop. I told you I wasn’t interested.”
He looked up, blinking. “Gifts? Emily, what are you talking about?”
I held up the note. “This. These. The bracelet. The flowers. The candle.”
His face didn’t change. “Wasn’t me. Maybe someone else has a crush on you.”
I stared at him. “The notes are signed ‘M.’ Who else could it be?”
He shrugged. “Could be anyone. Maybe a secret admirer. You’d be surprised how many people notice you.”
Something in his voice chilled me. The way he said you’d be surprised—as if he knew exactly how much attention I received, even when I thought I was alone.
I walked away, unsure what to believe. But that night, I called my best friend Jenna.
“This is weird,” I said, pacing my kitchen. “Mark swears it’s not him, but who else would do this?”
Jenna was quiet for a second. “That’s creepy, Em. Could it be a prank?”
“The notes are too specific. And who else signs with ‘M’?”
“Be careful. Seriously. Maybe talk to him again, or call the cops if it keeps up.”
I didn’t want to escalate things, but I started noticing more and more… off things.
Footprints outside my bedroom window in the muddy flowerbed—prints too large to be mine. My mailbox left open, even though I was always careful to close it. A faint tapping at the back door late one night, barely audible over the hum of the fridge. I grabbed a flashlight and checked, but no one was there. Just stillness and the rustle of leaves.
I bought a cheap security camera off Amazon and installed it facing the backyard. I also started double-checking my locks—twice, sometimes three times—before going to bed. But I couldn’t sleep. Not really. Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow beneath the door made my heart jump.
Then came the text: You looked beautiful in that blue dress today.
I stopped breathing. I had worn that exact dress to work. No photos posted. No one else saw me leave the house that morning except—
I blocked the number. But others followed.
I see you.
You can’t ignore me forever.
We’re meant to be.
I broke down. Called Jenna in tears. Her voice was urgent, panicked.
“You need to go to the police. Now. This isn’t normal. This is dangerous.”
I filed a report. The officer who took my statement was kind but cautious. “We’ll keep an eye on things, but unless he makes a direct threat or enters your property, there’s only so much we can do.”
So I documented everything. Every gift. Every text. Every unexplained footprint and shadow. I filled a spiral notebook with dates, times, screenshots, photos.
Then the camera caught something.
Grainy footage. A tall figure creeping along the side of my house just after midnight. The image was too dark to see a face, but the silhouette was familiar. That height. That posture.
I brought the footage to the police. They were interested, but not convinced. “Could be anyone,” they said. “But it helps. Keep us posted.”
And then—one night—I came home late from a parent-teacher conference.
As I fit my key into the lock, I noticed the door felt… wrong. Loose, like the frame had been tampered with. My chest tightened.
I pushed it open slowly.
The house was dark, but not empty.
Standing in the middle of my living room, illuminated by the faint blue light of the TV screen, was Mark. He was holding one of my scarves—my favorite one. He ran the fabric between his fingers like it was something delicate. Sacred.
“Emily,” he said calmly. “We need to talk.”
I backed away, fumbling for my phone with shaking hands. “Get out of my house. Now.”
He stepped toward me. “You don’t get it. We’re perfect for each other. I’ve been watching you. I know you feel it too.”
“Stay away!” I screamed, hitting the emergency dial. “I’m calling the police!”
He froze for a second—then bolted, disappearing through the back door just as the dispatcher picked up.
The police arrived within minutes. They found pry marks on the doorframe and a muddy footprint on the kitchen tile. When they compared it to a print from Mark’s yard, it matched. Combined with my notes, the texts, the footage—it was enough. They arrested him the next morning.
I later learned that Mark had a disturbing past. Years ago, he’d been charged with stalking another woman. He broke into her home, too. Spent time in a psychiatric facility. No one had flagged it when he moved here.
He’s back in a facility now. Facing charges. But I still triple-check my locks. I still flinch when my phone buzzes unexpectedly. And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, I wonder—
What if I hadn’t come home when I did?
What if I’d been too tired to notice the door?
What if he hadn’t stopped?
Maple Street doesn’t feel safe anymore. My little house, my sanctuary—it’s just a building now. The garden is overgrown. I don’t sit on the porch. I keep the curtains closed.
And I don’t wave at new neighbors.
Not anymore.
"Whiskers and the Woman":
I never imagined my quiet little house on Maple Street would become the setting for a nightmare.
The neighborhood was the kind of place people moved to when they wanted peace—neatly trimmed hedges, picket fences, the faint smell of coffee and baked goods on Saturday mornings. My house was modest, two bedrooms and a sunroom, just enough space for me and Whiskers, my gray fluffball of a cat who had been my closest companion since college. He had a way of curling up against my side with the exact weight and warmth of calm. His little routines—pawing at the cupboard for treats, hopping onto the windowsill at 3 p.m. sharp—were comforting in ways I never fully realized until the morning he was gone.
It was a Tuesday, early spring, the kind of morning when the light filters through the blinds with just enough gentleness to make you think the world is still kind. But when I rolled over in bed, the usual sound of Whiskers purring against my ribs was missing. At first, I thought maybe he was just off in some corner of the house, sulking because I’d forgotten to refill his water dish again. But when I walked through each room, calling his name, the silence became oppressive. No soft rustle of fur, no claws on wood floors. Just an emptiness that made the walls feel wider, colder.
Panic set in fast. I dropped to my knees and peered under the couch, checked behind the dryer, opened every cupboard. I even pulled open the drawers in the kitchen, as if he might’ve somehow gotten wedged behind the utensils. Outside, I searched the yard, the alley behind the house, and even crawled under the porch, calling his name until my voice cracked. Still nothing.
For the next two days, I barely ate. I printed dozens of flyers with his photo—his big green eyes, the lopsided smudge of white on his nose—and taped them to every telephone pole and stop sign I could find. I knocked on doors up and down the block, asking if anyone had seen him. Most people were polite, a few even sympathetic. But not one person had seen Whiskers.
I couldn’t sleep. I kept waking in the middle of the night, certain I’d heard a faint meow or the sound of claws scratching at the back door, only to find the house still and empty. By the third day, I felt hollow. That morning, I sat by the kitchen window with a mug of lukewarm coffee cradled in my hands, staring into the backyard with red-rimmed eyes, when I heard it—a faint, familiar meow.
I froze.
At first, I thought I’d imagined it, just another hallucination born from grief. But there it was again—soft, plaintive, undeniably real. I shot to my feet, knocking over the chair, and raced outside.
There, perched on the edge of my neighbor’s porch, was Whiskers. He looked thinner, scruffier than usual, but alive. My heart surged. I sprinted to him, dropped to my knees, and scooped him into my arms. He pressed his face against my neck and purred weakly, his little body trembling.
“Oh, my god, Whiskers,” I whispered, tears prickling at my eyes. “Where’ve you been?”
The screen door creaked open behind me.
Mrs. Jenkins stepped out, wiping her hands on a stained apron. She was in her sixties, with wiry gray hair pulled into a tight bun and a peculiar smile that made my skin itch. Something about her posture always seemed off—too straight, too still, like she was waiting for a cue that never came.
“Oh, there you are, dear,” she said, her voice sweet but syrupy, like something that sticks to your throat. “I found your cat wandering the other morning and took him in. Meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind.”
Slipped her mind? For two days? My grip on Whiskers tightened.
I forced a polite smile. “Thanks for looking after him,” I said, even as my stomach twisted. “Please, if he ever ends up here again, just let me know right away.”
“Of course, dear,” she said, her eyes scanning me slowly, lingering longer than they should have on my face, my chest, my hands. Then she leaned in closer, her breath oddly sweet, like spoiled fruit. “Say, are you seeing anyone? I haven’t noticed any ladies coming by.”
The question hit like a slap. “Uh, no, I’m single,” I muttered, inching back with Whiskers in my arms.
“Good to know,” she replied, her smile stretching, revealing yellowed teeth that seemed too large for her mouth. I mumbled a quick goodbye and hurried back across the yard, locking the door behind me with trembling fingers.
After that day, something shifted. She didn’t just feel like an odd neighbor anymore. She felt like something watching. Waiting.
Over the next few weeks, I started seeing her at strange hours—5:30 a.m., standing in her front yard in a tattered bra and a pair of shorts that sagged low on her hips, trimming hedges that didn’t need trimming. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as if she were performing for someone. For me. I’d see her from my window, standing perfectly still on her porch, arms hanging loosely by her sides, just staring at my house for minutes at a time.
One day, she knocked on my door with a plate of cookies that smelled slightly off—too sweet, with a faint metallic tang underneath. Her long, cracked fingernails curled around the plate like claws.
“Baked these for you,” she said with a tight smile, trying to peer past me into the hallway. “You’re home a lot, aren’t you? All alone.”
I took the plate but stayed planted in the doorway. “Thanks. I’m… uh, working today.”
“Anytime, dear,” she whispered, not moving until I shut the door. I dumped the cookies into the trash immediately.
Then the notes began.
Slipped under my door, always folded neatly, always written in a strange looping script that reminded me of an old diary. The first was innocent enough: Hope you’re having a nice day. But then came: Are you home tonight? I’d love to chat. And another: Saw you come home late last night. Everything okay?
I never responded. I hoped silence would be enough to send a message. It wasn’t.
One night, while watching TV, I heard a faint rustling outside. I killed the volume and crept to the blinds. My heart leapt into my throat.
Mrs. Jenkins was standing in my backyard.
In the pale glow of the moonlight, her face looked almost skeletal, her mouth curled into a grin that didn’t touch her eyes. She stared directly at the window. When she saw me, she raised one slow hand and waved.
I yanked the curtains closed and backed away, my pulse thundering. That night, I called the police.
They came quickly, but by the time they arrived, she was gone. The officer was understanding, but ultimately dismissive.
“She hasn’t technically broken any laws,” he said. “Maybe she’s just lonely. Keep an eye out. Let us know if anything else happens.”
Something else happened.
A few days later, I returned home from work to find the front door ajar.
I always locked it. Always.
My mouth went dry as I stepped inside. The lights were off. The air was too still.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. No reply.
I grabbed the baseball bat from the hall closet and crept upstairs, every step creaking like it might betray me. My bedroom door was slightly open. I pushed it gently.
There she was.
Mrs. Jenkins, standing in the middle of the room, holding Whiskers against her chest. Her fingers tangled in his fur, her head tilted like a curious child.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I shouted, raising the bat.
She turned to face me slowly, her expression eerily calm. “I just wanted to check on you,” she said. “Your cat was meowing. I thought you might need help.”
“Get out,” I growled. “Now.”
She set Whiskers down carefully, then walked past me, brushing my shoulder with her bony fingers. Her breath touched my neck as she whispered, “You really shouldn’t be alone so much.”
Then she was gone.
I locked every door and window. I called the police again. This time, I demanded a report be filed.
But deep down, I knew a piece of her had already gotten in.
And she wasn’t leaving.