The Anatomy of a Borrowed Smile

I first met Erlend when I was twelve, on a Tuesday, in the back of my mother’s minivan. He was sitting in the third row, buckled in, staring at me with eyes that were the color of old pennies. He looked like a boy my age, with hair so black it seemed to drink the light, and a face that was almost too pretty. But there was something off. He didn’t blink. And when he smiled, it was like he was remembering a joke that had died.

“You’re late,” he said, though we were on time for school. “And you’ve got a bit of jam on your chin. From your toast. You always leave the crusts. Disgusting.”

I wiped my chin. He was right. I’d had toast with strawberry jam, and I’d left the crusts. I’d never told anyone that. My skin prickled. “Who are you?” I asked.

He leaned forward, his breath cold against my ear. “I’m the one who keeps you from walking into traffic. Now, let’s go. Math test. You’re going to fail.”

And he was right about that too.

That was the beginning. Erlend wasn’t a ghost, or a demon, or a figment of my imagination. He was something else. Something that had attached itself to me, like a barnacle to a ship. He was sardonic, cruel in a playful way, and he knew things he had no right to know. He predicted my grades, my friends’ betrayals, the exact moment my father would lose his job. He never explained how. He just existed, a constant, sharp-edged presence.

He saved my life for the first time when I was fourteen. My family had gone to visit my aunt in a small coastal town called Greyport. The town was built on a cliff, with a rickety boardwalk that stretched over the churning sea. My cousin, Mira, and I had wandered out onto the pier, ignoring the warning signs about the rotting planks. The wind was fierce, whipping our hair across our faces. Mira was laughing, leaning over the railing to see the waves. I was about to join her when Erlend appeared beside me, his face suddenly grim.

“Don’t go near the railing,” he said, his voice low.

“Why?” I asked, annoyed.

“Because I say so,” he snapped. “And because if you do, you’ll fall through. There’s a loose section about three feet to your left. You’ll go in. And you won’t come back up.”

He was right. Later, we found out that the railing had given way in that exact spot just weeks before, and a tourist had drowned. I never walked near the edge of anything again, not without Erlend’s warning.

The second time was more dramatic. In Las Vegas, of all places. My older sister, her husband, my two nieces, and my nephew had dragged me along on a trip. They wanted to hit the theme park at Circus Circus. I was fifteen, terminally bored, and my youngest niece, Polly, who was ten, had begged me to go on the ‘scariest ride in the building’ with her. It was called the ‘Ring of Fire’, a giant pendulum that swung you upside down at the top of its arc.

I was reluctant, but Polly gave me those puppy-dog eyes, and Erlend, who was sitting on a bench nearby, eating a hot dog that no one else seemed to see, smirked. “Go on,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

I should have known better. The ride was a newer model, with sleek seats and hydraulic arms. I sat down, and the harness came down over my shoulders. It felt snug. Polly was next to me, squealing with excitement. The operator, a tired-looking man with a greasy cap, checked the safety bars and went to the control panel.

As the ride began to swing, I felt a strange vibration. Erlend appeared, standing in the aisle of the empty seats. He wasn’t smirking. “Your harness is faulty,” he said, his voice carrying over the creaks and the screams of other riders. “The lock didn’t click. On the next swing, it’s going to open.”

My heart turned to ice. I grabbed the harness with both hands, but it was already starting to loosen. I could see the ground far below, the spinning lights of the Strip. “Erlend, help!” I yelled, but he just stood there, tilting his head.

“What’s it worth to you?” he asked.

“What? Anything!”

“I want to eat your brother’s birthday cake for the next year,” he said. “You’ll sneak me a piece every night.”

“Fine!” I screamed.

The ride reached the top of its arc, and I felt the harness give way. I was falling, and Polly was screaming, and the world was a blur of color. But then, something cold wrapped around my chest. Erlend was there, his fingers digging into my shoulders, pulling me back into the seat. The harness snapped back into place with a loud click. The ride continued, and when I got off, I was shaking. Erlend was waiting by the exit, licking his lips.

“Remember our deal,” he said.

I kept my promise. Every night, I’d steal a slice of my brother’s birthday cake from the fridge and leave it on the windowsill. Erlend would appear, take it, and disappear. He never said thank you. But for a while, he was quiet.

Over the years, I grew used to Erlend’s presence. He was a constant, annoying, and strangely comforting companion. He knew everything about me, things I’d never told anyone. He saw my weaknesses, my fears, my secret desires. And he used them to mock me, to tease me, to keep me on my toes. He was my shadow, my curse, my savior. I never told anyone about him, because who would believe me? I thought I was the only one who saw him.

Until I found the diary in my grandmother’s attic.

It was hidden in a dusty trunk, wrapped in an old shawl. The pages were yellowed, the handwriting spidery and faint. It was her diary from 1932, when she was a girl. And in it, she wrote about someone named Eirik. A boy with black hair and penny-colored eyes, who appeared to her on a rainy day, who knew her secrets, who saved her from a fire in the barn. She described him as ‘sardonic’, a word I’d never heard until I met Erlend.

My hands trembled. I flipped through the pages. She mentioned Eirik often. He made her life miserable, but he also kept her safe. She wrote about a bargain she made with him, a promise to leave him offerings of bread and honey every full moon. In return, he gave her warnings. She never said what happened to him, but the diary ended abruptly in 1943, with a single line: ‘He is leaving me now. I think I will miss him.’

I closed the diary, my mind racing. Erlend was not just my demon. He had been with my grandmother too. And maybe with others before her. I thought of all the times I’d seen him touch things, move objects, make small changes in the world. Was he real? Or was he something that was passed down, like a family heirloom?

I confronted him that night. I was in my room, and he was sitting on my bed, playing with the zipper of my backpack. “Who are you?” I demanded. “What are you?”

He looked up, and for the first time, his smile faded. “You found the diary,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. Did you know my grandmother?”

“I knew many,” he said, his voice distant. “I have been here longer than you can imagine. But you, you were the first to see me, truly see me. The others… they only felt me. They knew I was there, but they couldn’t look at me. You can.”

“Why me?”

“Because you were born with a hole in you,” he said. “A missing piece. And I fit. I am the shape of your loneliness.”

I didn’t understand then. But over the years, I’ve come to realize that Erlend is not a ghost or a demon. He is a part of me, a companion born from my deepest need, but he has his own will, his own desires. He stays with me, sometimes out of cruelty, sometimes out of kindness. He has saved my life many times, but I know that one day, he might let me die. Or he might take my place, and I will become him.

I still don’t know what he wants. He won’t say. But sometimes, late at night, when I can’t sleep, I see him standing by the window, looking out at the stars, and his face is sad. And I wonder if he is what I will become, this sardonic, eternal presence, attached to some other lonely soul, passing on the burden.

For now, though, he is mine. And I am his. We are bound together, this strange boy of shadows and dry humor, and me. And I know, no matter what happens, he will be there, ready to save me or mock me, until the very end.