The Burlap Smile

I was twelve when I first stayed over at my friend Eliza’s house, and thirteen when I finally told someone what I saw. The house itself was a weather-beaten Victorian on the edge of a scrubby field, and the garden was dominated by a monstrous sycamore, its trunk as thick as a car and branches that hung low, casting the whole yard into a permanent gloom.

We’d had a fine evening—cake, movies, gossip about classmates—and by midnight, Eliza was out cold, snoring softly beside me. But I couldn’t sleep. The unfamiliar creaks of an old house, the way the moonlight filtered through the curtains, and that tree pressing its dark fingers against the window all kept me alert. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, then turned onto my side to face the doorway.

The room had a strange architectural quirk: a wide, rounded arch that led into a small, empty dressing room. It was filled with shadows, but as my eyes adjusted, I saw something that made my breath catch in my throat.

A man stood under the arch. He was tall, wearing mud-caked work boots and faded overalls over a plaid shirt—like a farmer from a forgotten era. His head was tilted sharply to the right, and his face was partly obscured by shadow, but his expression was unmistakable. He was grinning, a grin so wide it seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of human anatomy, pulling his cheeks into taut, unnatural arcs. It wasn’t a menacing grin in the normal sense; it was absurd, almost comical, but that made it worse.

I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten, then opened them again. He was still there, head tilted, that grin unwavering. I didn’t scream. I didn’t move. I just stared, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would wake Eliza. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to turn over, burying my face in the pillow, and somehow, I fell asleep.

The next morning, I said nothing. The man under the arch became a half-remembered nightmare, something I rationalized as a trick of the dark. I went back to my normal life, but I never returned to Eliza’s house. I made excuses, and eventually, we drifted apart.

A year passed, and I thought I’d put it behind me. Then, last month, I was helping my father clear out our attic. Among old boxes and dusty photo albums, I found a newspaper clipping from the 1950s. The headline read: ‘LOCAL FARMER DIES IN FREAK ACCIDENT.’ The accompanying photo showed a man in overalls, and even though the print was grainy, I recognized the shape of his face. The article said he had been found dead in a field, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, a grotesque smile frozen on his lips. The cause of death was listed as ‘twisting of the neck,’ which the coroner called ‘impossible by natural means.’

I dropped the clipping as if it were on fire. The man in the archway had been dead for decades. But why had he come to me? And why was he smiling? The worst part is, I know now that he wasn’t just grinning at me. He was giving me a warning. And last night, I saw him again—this time standing at the foot of my bed, head tilted to the right, that same over-the-top smile. Only this time, his mouth moved, forming words without sound. I read his lips: ‘You’re next.’

I haven’t slept since. And when I close my eyes, I see that arch, and the empty space beneath it, waiting for me to come back.