Ethan Matthews adjusted the strap of his camera bag as his Jeep crested the final hill before the town. The morning light struggled through the fog, draping everything in a colorless wash. Pines leaned close to the road, their branches heavy with mist, dripping rhythmically onto the hood.
"Raven's Creek – A Town Full of Smiles," the weathered sign read.
The paint peeled; the cartoon grin beside the words had cracked into something grotesque.
Ethan smirked. "Perfect headline material."
He rolled down the window slightly, letting in a breath of air so cold it burned. The smell of rain and pine mixed with something else — faint, metallic, almost like rust. He ignored it, his mind already composing the lede for his article.
"A quiet town with a happy name hides a story that refuses to die."
That would grab attention.
He was here chasing a rumor — a viral thread about a killer spirit in a porcelain mask who asked strangers if they thought she was beautiful. Clickbait gold. Seattle Journalist Debunks the Red Smile Legend. The story had spread across forums, Reddit, TikTok — teenagers daring each other to say her name in the mirror three times.
But every story had an origin. Ethan's job was to find it — and strip it of mystery.
As he drove through the narrow main street, his skepticism faltered. People on porches stared too long. Curtains twitched. Faces smiled without warmth. Every passerby seemed to pause just slightly too long, as though waiting for something.
He slowed near a row of old storefronts — the butcher, the pharmacy, a small library whose windows reflected only fog. The clock above the general store was stuck at 2:15.
Something about their silence pressed on him heavier than the mist.
The neon sign buzzed weakly above the diner: Martha's Pie & Coffee.
Ethan parked outside, the Jeep's tires crunching gravel. The bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside, and warmth hit him — stale but comforting. The scent of brewed coffee clashed faintly with the metallic tang of something old and wet.
The diner looked frozen in time — checkerboard floor faded gray, cracked red booths patched with duct tape, a jukebox that hadn't played in years. A few locals sat scattered, sipping quietly, avoiding each other's eyes. The fog outside pressed against the glass like a living thing.
Behind the counter stood a woman in her fifties, polishing a mug. She looked up briefly, eyes cautious, smile automatic.
"Morning, sir. You just passing through? What'll you have?"
"Coffee's fine. Black." Ethan smiled easily, his tone rehearsed. "I'm a reporter — Seattle Chronicle. Doing a feature on small-town legends. Heard something about… the Slit-Smile killings?"
The woman's hand stilled on the mug. The air in the diner seemed to still with it.
"Strange thing to come asking about," she said finally.
"That's what they call it online, right? Some woman with a cracked mask, asking if she's beautiful?"
Her expression darkened. "My cousin met her once. Or said she did."
Ethan leaned forward, notebook ready. "Really?"
She hesitated, voice trembling just slightly. "She asked her, 'Do you think I'm beautiful?' My cousin said yes. The woman laughed. Then… she took off the mask."
Ethan's brow furrowed. "And?"
"She stopped smiling after that night. Never talked again."
He forced a chuckle, hiding the unease creeping under his skin. "Sounds like something out of Reddit."
The woman didn't laugh. "Tall tale," she said softly, "until she knocks on your door."
The words lingered, heavy as the steam curling from his untouched cup.
Ethan scribbled a note — locals know the story too well, won't joke about it.
He noticed a small photo pinned near the register — a smiling girl, maybe nineteen, with sunlight hair and green eyes. Below it, faded ink read: Samantha Monroe – Gone but Never Forgotten.
He didn't ask. Something about the stillness in the woman's posture told him not to.
When he finally stepped back into the damp gray of morning, the cold bit sharper than before.
The Hollow Inn sat at the edge of town, a crooked building with warped siding and one dim light over the porch. A faded "Vacancy" sign flickered faintly, half its letters dead.
The receptionist — a thin woman with a tight bun and paper-thin smile — handed him a brass key. "Room 6," she said. Her lips curled faintly upward. "Try not to stare at the mirrors too long."
Ethan paused, searching her face for irony. She offered none.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood polish and something faintly chemical — ammonia maybe. The wallpaper peeled like old skin, revealing darker stains beneath.
He dropped his gear on the creaky bed, opened his laptop, and scrolled through the photos he'd taken.
Nothing unusual — except for one.
In a window's reflection, a face.
Half-seen. Porcelain white. Smiling too wide.
He zoomed in, heart quickening, but the image distorted into static.
He muttered under his breath, "Must be a lens glitch." But even as he said it, he found himself glancing toward the bathroom mirror.
It was old, clouded at the edges, warped enough to make his reflection look… wrong.
He turned it face-down against the wall.
Later that night, the inn groaned softly in the wind. The fog outside seemed thicker, pressing against the glass like a living presence.
Ethan was half-asleep when he heard it — a knock.
Soft. Deliberate. Three times.
He froze.
A giggle followed — high, airy, almost childlike.
He waited, breath shallow, pulse racing in his ears.
No one knocked again.
Grabbing his camera, he replayed the footage from earlier that day, hoping to distract himself, to prove the fear wrong.
Static. Then — movement.
Something behind him, in the reflection of the motel mirror he'd turned.
A white blur leaning closer, almost… smiling.
He blinked — and it was gone.
The silence that followed was suffocating. He closed his laptop, exhaled, rubbed his face.
"Get a grip, Matthews," he muttered. "You're chasing fog."
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The pipes moaned softly — or was that laughter?
Outside, a low hum rose from the woods beyond town, like wind moving through hollow bones.
Sleep never came.
Just before dawn, he sat by the window, camera on his lap. Through the fog, he thought he saw movement on the road — a silhouette, slender and still, facing the inn.
The mist swallowed it before he could be sure.
The sun rose pale and weak over Raven's Creek, but the fog refused to lift.
Somewhere deep inside, Ethan felt the story shifting.
It wasn't about a myth anymore.
It was about whatever still smiled when no one was left to see.