The night air hung heavy in Happyhills, quiet and cold, the only sound being Y/N’s footsteps on the cracked pavement. Their car keys jingled faintly in hand as they searched the near-empty parking lot, headlights flickering from distant streets. News reports had warned about the “Pale Grin Killer,” but Y/N brushed it off — things like that didn’t happen to ordinary people. Yet every shadow seemed to breathe, and the silence pressed too tightly against their ears. They finally spotted their car under a flickering streetlamp, relief washing over them like a fragile promise of safety.

As they unlocked the door, the hairs on the back of their neck stood up. A faint sound metal dragging came from somewhere behind. Y/N turned, scanning the dim street, heart pounding, but saw nothing. Just the soft sway of the trees, the orange glow of the lamplight, and the hollow quiet of the suburbs. They shook it off, slid into the car, and turned the key. The engine coughed to life, headlights cutting through the darkness and for a split second, in the rearview mirror, there was movement. A white mask. A grin. Then nothing.

The drive home was an endless blur of paranoia. Every turn of the road looked the same, every shadow stretched too long. Y/N kept glancing in the mirror, whispering reassurances that this was all in their head. When they finally pulled into their driveway, exhaustion overtook fear. They stepped out, the comforting sight of their front porch waiting ahead. The air was still. Too still. The wind had stopped. Somewhere behind the bushes, something shifted soft, deliberate. Watching.

Inside the house, Y/N locked the door, sighing as they leaned against it. The porch light flickered once, then went out. A faint static crackled from the TV in the other room, though they were sure it had been off. The screen lit up grainy, distorted footage of a parking lot. Their parking lot. The camera panned shakily, stopping on their car. And behind it, the same pale grin gleamed in the dark. The screen glitched static, then black and a faint tap sounded from the window. Slow. Rhythmic. Like knuckles brushing glass