The Uninvited Smile

It was a Tuesday evening, and the Okafor family had just finished dinner. The air in their modest Lagos apartment was thick with the scent of jollof rice and fried plantains. As was their custom, they gathered in the living room, where a single fluorescent bulb cast a stark light on the worn leather sofa and the framed portrait of their late grandmother. They knelt on the threadbare rug, facing the small wooden altar with its crucifix and a faded image of the Virgin Mary.

Marta, the eldest daughter, always found this part of the evening tedious. She was sixteen, and her mind was filled with schoolwork, music, and the secret crush she harbored for a boy in her chemistry class. But she never complained. Her father, Daniel, a stern man with a deep voice, led the Rosary, and her mother, Grace, followed, her voice a soft murmur. Her younger brother, Samuel, fidgeted, his knees already sore.

They were halfway through the Sorrowful Mysteries when it was Daniel’s turn to offer a personal intention. He bowed his head, his voice low and earnest, asking for protection for his family, for his job, and for the health of his aging mother. As he spoke, Marta felt a strange sensation creeping over her. It started as a warmth in her chest, then spread to her face. Her lips began to twitch, and before she knew it, a wide, unnatural smile stretched across her face. It was not her smile. It felt alien, like a mask being pulled over her features.

She tried to stop it, but her facial muscles wouldn’t obey. A low giggle escaped her throat, and she clamped her hand over her mouth. Her father paused, his eyes narrowing. Her mother looked up, her brow furrowed in confusion. Samuel stared, his mouth agape. Marta’s eyes widened with terror. She was not happy. She felt a cold dread curling in her stomach. But her face was frozen in that terrible grin, and her laughter, though muffled, was unmistakable.

Daniel stopped praying. The room fell silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. Marta’s giggle turned into a snort, and she felt tears streaming down her cheeks, not from laughter, but from sheer horror. She was losing control. It was as if something else was inside her, something that found the sacred moment hilarious. She tried to speak, to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but all that came out was a burbling laugh.

Her father’s face turned ashen. He reached for the Bible on the side table and held it up, as if warding off an unseen evil. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,’ he intoned. But Marta’s laughter grew louder. She began to shake, her body convulsing with silent, horrifying mirth. Samuel started to cry. Grace whispered a frantic Hail Mary.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the laughter stopped. Marta’s face relaxed, the smile vanished, and she slumped forward, gasping. She looked up, her eyes filled with confusion and shame. ‘I… I don’t know what happened,’ she stammered. Her father’s grip on the Bible was white-knuckled. ‘We need to pray,’ he said, his voice strained. ‘We need to pray for protection.’

They resumed the Rosary, but Marta could not concentrate. She could feel something wrong in the air, a subtle wrongness that had nothing to do with the laughter. That night, she couldn’t sleep. She lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment in her mind. She had not been smiling. Something had smiled through her.

The next day, she found a strange mark on her wrist, a faint, bruise-like ring, as if something had held her tightly. She tried to ignore it, but over the following weeks, the smiles returned, always during moments of reverence or prayer. Each time, they were harder to suppress, and each time, a wave of nausea followed. She began to avoid the nightly Rosary, claiming headaches and fatigue.

One night, she woke to find herself standing at the window, her forehead pressed against the cool glass, a smile on her face. Outside, in the moonlit street, a figure stood perfectly still, looking up at her. It was a tall, gaunt shape, featureless in the dark, but she knew with chilling certainty that it was waiting for her to let it in. And for the first time, she heard a voice, not in her ears, but in her mind, whispering, ‘Let me in, Marta. I want to play.’

She stumbled back, her hand over her mouth, but the smile remained. She felt a pull, a desire to open the window, to let the figure in. With all her strength, she clenched her fists and screamed until her father burst through the door. The figure was gone, but the smile remained, and so did the voice, growing fainter but persistent: ‘I’ll wait for you.’

From that night on, Marta lived in fear. She knew the smile was not hers. It was a gateway, an invitation. And she feared that one day, she would not be able to resist. The Okafor family prayed harder, but Marta could feel the thing growing inside her, feeding on her terror. And every night, at the window, the figure would appear, patient and hungry, waiting for the moment when she would finally smile and open the door.

She began to lose weight. Her skin took on a pallid hue. Her parents took her to church, to a priest who performed an exorcism, but the smile only grew wider during the rites. The priest, an old man with kind eyes, told her, ‘The only way to defeat it is to find the source of your fear and face it.’ But Marta didn’t know what she was afraid of. She was afraid of everything now.

Then, one night, she dreamed of her grandmother. In the dream, her grandmother sat in the living room, knitting, her face serene. ‘Marta,’ she said, ‘the smile is the lock, but your heart is the key. You must find what you truly love to break it.’ Marta woke with a jolt. The figure was at the window, closer than before. And she realized with a start that she hadn’t smiled in days. She had been so afraid that she’d forgotten to smile. And yet, the figure was still there.

She looked at her wrist, at the bruise that had never faded. It pulsed slightly, as if alive. She touched it, and a searing pain shot through her arm. She cried out, and then she felt it—a surge of anger, of defiance. She was tired of being afraid. She was tired of the thing that had stolen her peace. She looked at the figure and, for the first time, she glared at it. ‘You are not welcome here,’ she said, her voice steady.

The figure tilted its head, and she heard the voice again, but now it sounded surprised. ‘But you invited me.’

‘I take it back,’ she said. ‘I take back the smile.’ And she forced her lips into a firm line, feeling the corners of her mouth resist, but she pushed through the resistance. The pain in her wrist intensified, and she saw the bruise beginning to fade, as if the hold was loosening. The figure at the window let out a sound—a high-pitched wail like a kettle—and then it dissolved into mist, leaving only the moonlight.

She collapsed, exhausted, but alive. The next morning, the bruise was gone. She never smiled during prayer again, but she also never felt the terror. She had faced it, and she had won. But sometimes, late at night, she would catch a flicker of movement outside her window, and she would remember the cost of that victory. She had invited something in, and even though she had banished it, she knew it would always be looking for another way in. And she would always be watching for it, her smile carefully guarded, lest she give it a new invitation.