The Smiling Thing
April 6, 2025
It started with the photographs.
Amara loved her vintage Polaroid. She took it everywhere—capturing everyday moments in soft, dreamy tones. But a week ago, things began to change.
The first strange photo was of her cat, Nimbus, perched on the windowsill. In the printed picture, Nimbus wasn’t alone. A figure stood outside the window.
Grinning.
Amara blinked at the photo. There’d been no one there.
She chalked it up to glare, maybe a weird shadow. Threw it away.
But the next day, it happened again.
This time, it was a photo of her breakfast table. Nothing unusual—except, at the edge of the frame, a hand. Long fingers. Blackened nails.
Gripping the back of a chair.
She hadn’t seen anyone. There was no one in her apartment. No one ever visited.
Amara stopped using the Polaroid. She shoved it into a drawer and tried to forget.
Three days later, she found a new photo on her kitchen counter.
She hadn’t taken any.
It was a picture of her sleeping.
The angle was wrong—high up, from the ceiling corner. Like someone—or something—had been watching.
She locked every door. Checked every window. Slept with a knife under her pillow.
Another photo appeared the next morning. Again, of her asleep.
Only this time, her mouth was open, and a shadowy hand was reaching toward it.
She could barely breathe.
She called the police.
They found no signs of a break-in. Told her it was probably some stalker prank. “Install a camera,” they said. “Lock your windows.”
That night, she stayed awake. Knife in hand. Camera on.
At 3:41 a.m., the hallway light turned on by itself.
She crept out of her room, heart pounding, phone flashlight cutting through the dark.
Nothing.
Just the soft creak of the hallway floor under her own feet.
Until—
Click.
The sound of a photo printing.
She ran to the drawer, yanked it open.
The Polaroid sat there, warm, a fresh picture sliding out.
Her fingers shook as she picked it up.
It was a picture of her. Standing in the hallway.
Behind her—barely visible in the grainy print—was the Smiling Thing.
Its head touched the ceiling. Mouth wide, too wide. Eyes like holes.
She turned slowly.
Nothing.
She backed into her room, slammed the door, locked it.
Click.
Another photo landed at her feet.
This one was of the bedroom.
She was in it.
So was it.
Standing right behind her.
Amara turned, knife raised—
Darkness.
The camera feed cut out.
The next day, a neighbor called the police after noticing her lights had been on for over 24 hours.
They found her apartment empty.
Every surface was covered in Polaroids.
Every single one showed Amara, smiling. Unmoving. Unblinking.
In every photo, just behind her—
The Smiling Thing grinned.
Waiting for someone new.