u/LaOfrenda

It starts just like a yawn.

That’s what they’ve said across online forums and all through the rumor mill. And now they’re saying it on the news, too.

Just like a yawn. You take a deep breath, and your jaw opens wide. It happens without you even thinking about it. But then you can’t close your mouth. The muscles in your face stiffen, and they keep pulling your mouth open, wider and wider until they tear your jaw loose.

“Involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles” is what the CDC calls it. They have an epidemiologist on screen now, wearing a very worried face for their interview.

A reporter asks questions from the safety of his home office. “Has anyone determined a cause?”

“At this time,” the epidemiologist sighs, “it’s still unclear. I know there are a lot of theories floating around, but no one knows for certain.”

“Do you know how it spreads?”

The epidemiologist looks away from their monitor like he’s avoiding eye contact. “We don’t know.”

I’ll never forget the first time I saw it. I was standing on a subway platform a few days after the first confirmed cases cropped up in my city. I had just missed my ride, and as the doors closed in my face, I heard someone scream.

Through the window, I saw people leaping from their seats and running off in a panic. In the middle of it all, a woman sat shivering, head tilted up and mouth open as wide as it could go. And then something snapped. I know I couldn’t hear it, but I could nearly feel the pop as her body flinched and her jaw dropped down to her collarbone.

I stopped taking the subway after that.

I had to stop driving soon after, too.

One morning, I was heading to work, and the car in the next lane over started swerving. I figured it was a distracted driver, but when I turned to offer a helpful gesture, I saw the fear in his eyes.

That wide, quivering wail was spreading across his face, lips splitting at the corners. Shaky hands were clawing at his jaw, trying to close it.

And that’s all I saw. A moment later, he swerved into the oncoming lane.

I insisted on working remotely after that. My request wasn’t approved, but I haven’t been to the office in weeks. I’ve barely been anywhere lately. I try to stock up on groceries, but everybody else has the same idea, and groceries were already expensive. I’ve been eating a lot of rice and ramen.

And I do my best to keep from yawning. I try to go to bed early, but it’s hard to fall asleep. Maybe it’s all the coffee. Maybe it’s the anxious internal flinch I feel every time someone around me yawns. I never look. As soon as I see someone’s mouth open, their chest rising to inhale, I leave. It’s alienating and it’s exhausting, but at least I can keep my mouth shut.

Of course, some people say I’m overreacting. There are plenty of folks who insist that the sickness isn’t even contagious. If the experts don’t know what’s going on, the rest of us can only guess.

Have you ever played that game where everyone puts their hands on something in the dark and tries to guess what it is? Nobody’s wrong until you turn the lights on, and right now, we’re still in the dark.

But I’m afraid of what I’ll see when the lights come on, everyone I love dead and slack-jawed like mummies in the catacombs. I miss my friends and family, but the thought of them going through that awful death stings my eyes with tears. It burns my throat. I feel a pulling in my neck. It’s tugging at my lips. I try not to think about it. I keep my mouth shut.

When the sickness became too widespread to ignore, Senator Howell held an outdoor rally. I hate election years. I already planned to vote for the other guy, so I wasn’t really listening. It was just something to watch. He was saying something about “fear itself,” but he started to slow his speech.

Then he stopped talking. His jaw shivered and he held a hand to his lips. He yawned, long and silent, then his teeth clacked as he shut his mouth.

“Excuse me. It’s been a long day,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The crowd gathered under his tent responded with low whispers and uneasy laughter.

But the senator never resumed his speech. His face shivered like he was fighting back a cough. He clasped both hands on his podium, the state seal rattling like it was the center of its own little earthquake. The muscles around his mouth bulged as his face burned red. Then his jaw swung open with a dry gasp.

In obscene call and response, the crowd shivered and groaned, heads whipping back and jaws separating, a chorus of screams, tears, and snaps.

After that, the CDC had to name the sickness, so they’re going with “involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles.” Nobody calls it that.

“Howell’s Disease” made rounds for a while, but that’s still a mouthful, and nobody wants to waste their breath saying the senator’s name. Somewhere along the way, we shortened it to “the howls.”

That’s enough news for today. I should turn off my TV and go to bed. It’s not too early. My body just needs sleep. I sense how badly it wants rest. I can feel fatigue coming on. That’s all. I can feel it pulling in my throat, suppressing my tongue, and tugging at the corners of my lips. I know I’m just tired. 

It starts just like a yawn.

That’s what they’ve said across online forums and all through the rumor mill. And now they’re saying it on the news, too.

Just like a yawn. You take a deep breath, and your jaw opens wide. It happens without you even thinking about it. But then you can’t close your mouth. The muscles in your face stiffen, and they keep pulling your mouth open, wider and wider until they tear your jaw loose.

“Involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles” is what the CDC calls it. They have an epidemiologist on screen now, wearing a very worried face for their interview.

A reporter asks questions from the safety of his home office. “Has anyone determined a cause?”

“At this time,” the epidemiologist sighs, “it’s still unclear. I know there are a lot of theories floating around, but no one knows for certain.”

“Do you know how it spreads?”

The epidemiologist looks away from their monitor like he’s avoiding eye contact. “We don’t know.”

I’ll never forget the first time I saw it. I was standing on a subway platform a few days after the first confirmed cases cropped up in my city. I had just missed my ride, and as the doors closed in my face, I heard someone scream.

Through the window, I saw people leaping from their seats and running off in a panic. In the middle of it all, a woman sat shivering, head tilted up and mouth open as wide as it could go. And then something snapped. I know I couldn’t hear it, but I could nearly feel the pop as her body flinched and her jaw dropped down to her collarbone.

I stopped taking the subway after that.

I had to stop driving soon after, too.

One morning, I was heading to work, and the car in the next lane over started swerving. I figured it was a distracted driver, but when I turned to offer a helpful gesture, I saw the fear in his eyes.

That wide, quivering wail was spreading across his face, lips splitting at the corners. Shaky hands were clawing at his jaw, trying to close it.

And that’s all I saw. A moment later, he swerved into the oncoming lane.

I insisted on working remotely after that. My request wasn’t approved, but I haven’t been to the office in weeks. I’ve barely been anywhere lately. I try to stock up on groceries, but everybody else has the same idea, and groceries were already expensive. I’ve been eating a lot of rice and ramen.

And I do my best to keep from yawning. I try to go to bed early, but it’s hard to fall asleep. Maybe it’s all the coffee. Maybe it’s the anxious internal flinch I feel every time someone around me yawns. I never look. As soon as I see someone’s mouth open, their chest rising to inhale, I leave. It’s alienating and it’s exhausting, but at least I can keep my mouth shut.

Of course, some people say I’m overreacting. There are plenty of folks who insist that the sickness isn’t even contagious. If the experts don’t know what’s going on, the rest of us can only guess.

Have you ever played that game where everyone puts their hands on something in the dark and tries to guess what it is? Nobody’s wrong until you turn the lights on, and right now, we’re still in the dark.

But I’m afraid of what I’ll see when the lights come on, everyone I love dead and slack-jawed like mummies in the catacombs. I miss my friends and family, but the thought of them going through that awful death stings my eyes with tears. It burns my throat. I feel a pulling in my neck. It’s tugging at my lips. I try not to think about it. I keep my mouth shut.

When the sickness became too widespread to ignore, Senator Howell held an outdoor rally. I hate election years. I already planned to vote for the other guy, so I wasn’t really listening. It was just something to watch. He was saying something about “fear itself,” but he started to slow his speech.

Then he stopped talking. His jaw shivered and he held a hand to his lips. He yawned, long and silent, then his teeth clacked as he shut his mouth.

“Excuse me. It’s been a long day,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

The crowd gathered under his tent responded with low whispers and uneasy laughter.

But the senator never resumed his speech. His face shivered like he was fighting back a cough. He clasped both hands on his podium, the state seal rattling like it was the center of its own little earthquake. The muscles around his mouth bulged as his face burned red. Then his jaw swung open with a dry gasp.

In obscene call and response, the crowd shivered and groaned, heads whipping back and jaws separating, a chorus of screams, tears, and snaps.

After that, the CDC had to name the sickness, so they’re going with “involuntary contraction of the pterygoid muscles.” Nobody calls it that.

“Howell’s Disease” made rounds for a while, but that’s still a mouthful, and nobody wants to waste their breath saying the senator’s name. Somewhere along the way, we shortened it to “the howls.”

That’s enough news for today. I should turn off my TV and go to bed. It’s not too early. My body just needs sleep. I sense how badly it wants rest. I can feel fatigue coming on. That’s all. I can feel it pulling in my throat, suppressing my tongue, and tugging at the corners of my lips. I know I’m just tired. 

There’s a trail near my house. It leads through town and into the woods. Now that the weather’s nice and warm, I’ve started going on walks in the afternoon.

I just don’t go into the woods anymore.

You could almost tell when something was about to go wrong out there. The further you went into the woods, the rougher the trail became, like nobody bothered to maintain it.

It was beautiful, though. Everything grew free and unchecked. Trees towered overhead and formed a shady canopy above the trail, and the brush on either side was dense and tangled. You could never see very far in any direction. When I wandered out there, I left the rest of the world behind.

And the weird, wild sounds of the forest were music to my ears. The rustling breeze and the singing birds. There was a stream out there somewhere, and in a few places, it wound close enough to the trail to let you hear it.

You could even hear something you shouldn’t, but you might not even notice.  

You might not find anything strange about it at first. I didn’t.

I was on the trail one afternoon, just past the line where the pavement gave way to dirt. Somewhere above, nesting birds fussed over a hawk. Out to my left, a woodpecker rattled away at some stubborn bark.

As I continued down the path, the hawk screeched and disappeared into the canopy empty-taloned. The woodpecker hammered away just to my left.

Shadows crawled lazily across the path as the sun traveled overhead. Further down the trail, I listened out for the stream. A covered bridge waited ahead, and if I paid attention, I could hear the water running before I saw it.

I slowed my pace and realized that there were no more birds singing. No cicadas, no crickets, none of the usual woodland chorus. But the woodpecker still rattled, still just to my left.

That didn’t seem right. I should’ve been far past the tree it had been working on. More confused than curious, I stopped and peered out into the woods.

The hair on my neck stood on end. They say your brain can recognize when you’re being watched even if you don’t consciously see the threat. Something out there was pressing on that instinctual nerve. Holding my breath, I scanned the forest as if it were looking back. I never saw any woodpecker in the trees.

As my eyes descended the trees to the brush, I saw something I didn’t expect. At first, I thought I was looking at a dead body. But the eyes were fixed on me.

It looked like a small, thin man, hidden from the waist down and stock-still. Swirls and streaks like wood grain covered its body. Its head was smooth like a skull carved from walnut. The eyes were bulging and unblinking, like they’d been painted onto marbles and set into the hollow skull. And the teeth—the teeth were nearly human, yellow and worn flat. They were bare in its lipless mouth, open as if it were about to speak.

Staring back at me with those lifeless eyes, it chattered its jaw. It sounded just like a woodpecker rattling away on stubborn bark.

I learned something about myself that day. In a fight or flight situation, it turns out I’m a flyer. I took off running, kicking up a cloud of grey dust behind me. I looked back just once to see the wooden man duck into the brush. I couldn’t see it anymore, but I had no doubt it was following me.

As I scrambled back up the trail, I could hear that incessant rattle just behind and to the side, keeping pace in the thickets and the tall grass. When the paved trail was in sight, the brush thinned and I could catch awful flashes of the thing whipping through the leaves, gnashing its teeth.

I closed in on the pavement and the chattering was right in my ear. With every stride, it felt like the noise was growing louder, and if the wooden man could breathe, I’m sure I would have felt its breath on my neck.

Suddenly, I saw stars. A sharp sting seized me and those yellow teeth clamped down on my ear. I took a swing to swat it away, but lost my balance and fell. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears as the asphalt greeted me like a cheese grater, skinning my knee and smearing blood across my palms.

I threw my arms over my head as the dust settled around me, but the chattering had stopped.

“Are you ok?”

Sweat stung my eyes as I looked ahead. Two joggers stood a few yards away wearing looks of concern.

I stood on trembling legs and wiped my hands against my shirt. That hurt. The joggers waited without saying a word as I looked back down the trail. There was no sign of the wooden man, just a single set of panicked footprints leading from the woods.

“I think so,” I finally answered. “I thought…”

If I told them what I saw, they’d think I was crazy.

“I just overdid it.”

“Your head’s bleeding,” they told me.

I reached back to find a small notch in the cartilage of my ear.

“Oh,” my pause seemed to make them nervous. “I just scraped my ear. That’s all.”

Once they were sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, the joggers went on their way. I limped my way home and carefully cleaned my wounds.

I spent the evening trying to make sense of what happened. The joggers didn’t seem to see anything unusual. Nobody’s ever said anything about a chattering man in the woods. But I was sure that something terrible was hiding along the trail. And now it’s had a taste of me.

There’s a trail near my house. It leads through town and into the woods. Now that the weather’s nice and warm, I’ve started going on walks in the afternoon.

I just don’t go into the woods anymore.

You could almost tell when something was about to go wrong out there. The further you went into the woods, the rougher the trail became, like nobody bothered to maintain it.

It was beautiful, though. Everything grew free and unchecked. Trees towered overhead and formed a shady canopy above the trail, and the brush on either side was dense and tangled. You could never see very far in any direction. When I wandered out there, I left the rest of the world behind.

And the weird, wild sounds of the forest were music to my ears. The rustling breeze and the singing birds. There was a stream out there somewhere, and in a few places, it wound close enough to the trail to let you hear it.

You could even hear something you shouldn’t, but you might not even notice.  

You might not find anything strange about it at first. I didn’t.

I was on the trail one afternoon, just past the line where the pavement gave way to dirt. Somewhere above, nesting birds fussed over a hawk. Out to my left, a woodpecker rattled away at some stubborn bark.

As I continued down the path, the hawk screeched and disappeared into the canopy empty-taloned. The woodpecker hammered away just to my left.

Shadows crawled lazily across the path as the sun traveled overhead. Further down the trail, I listened out for the stream. A covered bridge waited ahead, and if I paid attention, I could hear the water running before I saw it.

I slowed my pace and realized that there were no more birds singing. No cicadas, no crickets, none of the usual woodland chorus. But the woodpecker still rattled, still just to my left.

That didn’t seem right. I should’ve been far past the tree it had been working on. More confused than curious, I stopped and peered out into the woods.

The hair on my neck stood on end. They say your brain can recognize when you’re being watched even if you don’t consciously see the threat. Something out there was pressing on that instinctual nerve. Holding my breath, I scanned the forest as if it were looking back. I never saw any woodpecker in the trees.

As my eyes descended the trees to the brush, I saw something I didn’t expect. At first, I thought I was looking at a dead body. But the eyes were fixed on me.

It looked like a small, thin man, hidden from the waist down and stock-still. Swirls and streaks like wood grain covered its body. Its head was smooth like a skull carved from walnut. The eyes were bulging and unblinking, like they’d been painted onto marbles and set into the hollow skull. And the teeth—the teeth were nearly human, yellow and worn flat. They were bare in its lipless mouth, open as if it were about to speak.

Staring back at me with those lifeless eyes, it chattered its jaw. It sounded just like a woodpecker rattling away on stubborn bark.

I learned something about myself that day. In a fight or flight situation, it turns out I’m a flyer. I took off running, kicking up a cloud of grey dust behind me. I looked back just once to see the wooden man duck into the brush. I couldn’t see it anymore, but I had no doubt it was following me.

As I scrambled back up the trail, I could hear that incessant rattle just behind and to the side, keeping pace in the thickets and the tall grass. When the paved trail was in sight, the brush thinned and I could catch awful flashes of the thing whipping through the leaves, gnashing its teeth.

I closed in on the pavement and the chattering was right in my ear. With every stride, it felt like the noise was growing louder, and if the wooden man could breathe, I’m sure I would have felt its breath on my neck.

Suddenly, I saw stars. A sharp sting seized me and those yellow teeth clamped down on my ear. I took a swing to swat it away, but lost my balance and fell. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears as the asphalt greeted me like a cheese grater, skinning my knee and smearing blood across my palms.

I threw my arms over my head as the dust settled around me, but the chattering had stopped.

“Are you ok?”

Sweat stung my eyes as I looked ahead. Two joggers stood a few yards away wearing looks of concern.

I stood on trembling legs and wiped my hands against my shirt. That hurt. The joggers waited without saying a word as I looked back down the trail. There was no sign of the wooden man, just a single set of panicked footprints leading from the woods.

“I think so,” I finally answered. “I thought…”

If I told them what I saw, they’d think I was crazy.

“I just overdid it.”

“Your head’s bleeding,” they told me.

I reached back to find a small notch in the cartilage of my ear.

“Oh,” my pause seemed to make them nervous. “I just scraped my ear. That’s all.”

Once they were sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, the joggers went on their way. I limped my way home and carefully cleaned my wounds.

I spent the evening trying to make sense of what happened. The joggers didn’t seem to see anything unusual. Nobody’s ever said anything about a chattering man in the woods. But I was sure that something terrible was hiding along the trail. And now it’s had a taste of me.

There’s a trail near my house. It leads through town and into the woods. Now that the weather’s nice and warm, I’ve started going on walks in the afternoon.

I just don’t go into the woods anymore.

You could almost tell when something was about to go wrong out there. The further you went into the woods, the rougher the trail became, like nobody bothered to maintain it.

It was beautiful, though. Everything grew free and unchecked. Trees towered overhead and formed a shady canopy above the trail, and the brush on either side was dense and tangled. You could never see very far in any direction. When I wandered out there, I left the rest of the world behind.

And the weird, wild sounds of the forest were music to my ears. The rustling breeze and the singing birds. There was a stream out there somewhere, and in a few places, it wound close enough to the trail to let you hear it.

You could even hear something you shouldn’t, but you might not even notice.  

You might not find anything strange about it at first. I didn’t.

I was on the trail one afternoon, just past the line where the pavement gave way to dirt. Somewhere above, nesting birds fussed over a hawk. Out to my left, a woodpecker rattled away at some stubborn bark.

As I continued down the path, the hawk screeched and disappeared into the canopy empty-taloned. The woodpecker hammered away just to my left.

Shadows crawled lazily across the path as the sun traveled overhead. Further down the trail, I listened out for the stream. A covered bridge waited ahead, and if I paid attention, I could hear the water running before I saw it.

I slowed my pace and realized that there were no more birds singing. No cicadas, no crickets, none of the usual woodland chorus. But the woodpecker still rattled, still just to my left.

That didn’t seem right. I should’ve been far past the tree it had been working on. More confused than curious, I stopped and peered out into the woods.

The hair on my neck stood on end. They say your brain can recognize when you’re being watched even if you don’t consciously see the threat. Something out there was pressing on that instinctual nerve. Holding my breath, I scanned the forest as if it were looking back. I never saw any woodpecker in the trees.

As my eyes descended the trees to the brush, I saw something I didn’t expect. At first, I thought I was looking at a dead body. But the eyes were fixed on me.

It looked like a small, thin man, hidden from the waist down and stock-still. Swirls and streaks like wood grain covered its body. Its head was smooth like a skull carved from walnut. The eyes were bulging and unblinking, like they’d been painted onto marbles and set into the hollow skull. And the teeth—the teeth were nearly human, yellow and worn flat. They were bare in its lipless mouth, open as if it were about to speak.

Staring back at me with those lifeless eyes, it chattered its jaw. It sounded just like a woodpecker rattling away on stubborn bark.

I learned something about myself that day. In a fight or flight situation, it turns out I’m a flyer. I took off running, kicking up a cloud of grey dust behind me. I looked back just once to see the wooden man duck into the brush. I couldn’t see it anymore, but I had no doubt it was following me.

As I scrambled back up the trail, I could hear that incessant rattle just behind and to the side, keeping pace in the thickets and the tall grass. When the paved trail was in sight, the brush thinned and I could catch awful flashes of the thing whipping through the leaves, gnashing its teeth.

I closed in on the pavement and the chattering was right in my ear. With every stride, it felt like the noise was growing louder, and if the wooden man could breathe, I’m sure I would have felt its breath on my neck.

Suddenly, I saw stars. A sharp sting seized me and those yellow teeth clamped down on my ear. I took a swing to swat it away, but lost my balance and fell. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears as the asphalt greeted me like a cheese grater, skinning my knee and smearing blood across my palms.

I threw my arms over my head as the dust settled around me, but the chattering had stopped.

“Are you ok?”

Sweat stung my eyes as I looked ahead. Two joggers stood a few yards away wearing looks of concern.

I stood on trembling legs and wiped my hands against my shirt. That hurt. The joggers waited without saying a word as I looked back down the trail. There was no sign of the wooden man, just a single set of panicked footprints leading from the woods.

“I think so,” I finally answered. “I thought…”

If I told them what I saw, they’d think I was crazy.

“I just overdid it.”

“Your head’s bleeding,” they told me.

I reached back to find a small notch in the cartilage of my ear.

“Oh,” my pause seemed to make them nervous. “I just scraped my ear. That’s all.”

Once they were sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, the joggers went on their way. I limped my way home and carefully cleaned my wounds.

I spent the evening trying to make sense of what happened. The joggers didn’t seem to see anything unusual. Nobody’s ever said anything about a chattering man in the woods. But I was sure that something terrible was hiding along the trail. And now it’s had a taste of me.

There’s a trail near my house. It leads through town and into the woods. Now that the weather’s nice and warm, I’ve started going on walks in the afternoon.

I just don’t go into the woods anymore.

You could almost tell when something was about to go wrong out there. The further you went into the woods, the rougher the trail became, like nobody bothered to maintain it.

It was beautiful, though. Everything grew free and unchecked. Trees towered overhead and formed a shady canopy above the trail, and the brush on either side was dense and tangled. You could never see very far in any direction. When I wandered out there, I left the rest of the world behind.

And the weird, wild sounds of the forest were music to my ears. The rustling breeze and the singing birds. There was a stream out there somewhere, and in a few places, it wound close enough to the trail to let you hear it.

You could even hear something you shouldn’t, but you might not even notice.  

You might not find anything strange about it at first. I didn’t.

I was on the trail one afternoon, just past the line where the pavement gave way to dirt. Somewhere above, nesting birds fussed over a hawk. Out to my left, a woodpecker rattled away at some stubborn bark.

As I continued down the path, the hawk screeched and disappeared into the canopy empty-taloned. The woodpecker hammered away just to my left.

Shadows crawled lazily across the path as the sun traveled overhead. Further down the trail, I listened out for the stream. A covered bridge waited ahead, and if I paid attention, I could hear the water running before I saw it.

I slowed my pace and realized that there were no more birds singing. No cicadas, no crickets, none of the usual woodland chorus. But the woodpecker still rattled, still just to my left.

That didn’t seem right. I should’ve been far past the tree it had been working on. More confused than curious, I stopped and peered out into the woods.

The hair on my neck stood on end. They say your brain can recognize when you’re being watched even if you don’t consciously see the threat. Something out there was pressing on that instinctual nerve. Holding my breath, I scanned the forest as if it were looking back. I never saw any woodpecker in the trees.

As my eyes descended the trees to the brush, I saw something I didn’t expect. At first, I thought I was looking at a dead body. But the eyes were fixed on me.

It looked like a small, thin man, hidden from the waist down and stock-still. Swirls and streaks like wood grain covered its body. Its head was smooth like a skull carved from walnut. The eyes were bulging and unblinking, like they’d been painted onto marbles and set into the hollow skull. And the teeth—the teeth were nearly human, yellow and worn flat. They were bare in its lipless mouth, open as if it were about to speak.

Staring back at me with those lifeless eyes, it chattered its jaw. It sounded just like a woodpecker rattling away on stubborn bark.

I learned something about myself that day. In a fight or flight situation, it turns out I’m a flyer. I took off running, kicking up a cloud of grey dust behind me. I looked back just once to see the wooden man duck into the brush. I couldn’t see it anymore, but I had no doubt it was following me.

As I scrambled back up the trail, I could hear that incessant rattle just behind and to the side, keeping pace in the thickets and the tall grass. When the paved trail was in sight, the brush thinned and I could catch awful flashes of the thing whipping through the leaves, gnashing its teeth.

I closed in on the pavement and the chattering was right in my ear. With every stride, it felt like the noise was growing louder, and if the wooden man could breathe, I’m sure I would have felt its breath on my neck.

Suddenly, I saw stars. A sharp sting seized me and those yellow teeth clamped down on my ear. I took a swing to swat it away, but lost my balance and fell. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears as the asphalt greeted me like a cheese grater, skinning my knee and smearing blood across my palms.

I threw my arms over my head as the dust settled around me, but the chattering had stopped.

“Are you ok?”

Sweat stung my eyes as I looked ahead. Two joggers stood a few yards away wearing looks of concern.

I stood on trembling legs and wiped my hands against my shirt. That hurt. The joggers waited without saying a word as I looked back down the trail. There was no sign of the wooden man, just a single set of panicked footprints leading from the woods.

“I think so,” I finally answered. “I thought…”

If I told them what I saw, they’d think I was crazy.

“I just overdid it.”

“Your head’s bleeding,” they told me.

I reached back to find a small notch in the cartilage of my ear.

“Oh,” my pause seemed to make them nervous. “I just scraped my ear. That’s all.”

Once they were sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, the joggers went on their way. I limped my way home and carefully cleaned my wounds.

I spent the evening trying to make sense of what happened. The joggers didn’t seem to see anything unusual. Nobody’s ever said anything about a chattering man in the woods. But I was sure that something terrible was hiding along the trail. And now it’s had a taste of me.

There’s a trail near my house. It leads through town and into the woods. Now that the weather’s nice and warm, I’ve started going on walks in the afternoon.

I just don’t go into the woods anymore.

You could almost tell when something was about to go wrong out there. The further you went into the woods, the rougher the trail became, like nobody bothered to maintain it.

It was beautiful, though. Everything grew free and unchecked. Trees towered overhead and formed a shady canopy above the trail, and the brush on either side was dense and tangled. You could never see very far in any direction. When I wandered out there, I left the rest of the world behind.

And the weird, wild sounds of the forest were music to my ears. The rustling breeze and the singing birds. There was a stream out there somewhere, and in a few places, it wound close enough to the trail to let you hear it.

You could even hear something you shouldn’t, but you might not even notice.  

You might not find anything strange about it at first. I didn’t.

I was on the trail one afternoon, just past the line where the pavement gave way to dirt. Somewhere above, nesting birds fussed over a hawk. Out to my left, a woodpecker rattled away at some stubborn bark.

As I continued down the path, the hawk screeched and disappeared into the canopy empty-taloned. The woodpecker hammered away just to my left.

Shadows crawled lazily across the path as the sun traveled overhead. Further down the trail, I listened out for the stream. A covered bridge waited ahead, and if I paid attention, I could hear the water running before I saw it.

I slowed my pace and realized that there were no more birds singing. No cicadas, no crickets, none of the usual woodland chorus. But the woodpecker still rattled, still just to my left.

That didn’t seem right. I should’ve been far past the tree it had been working on. More confused than curious, I stopped and peered out into the woods.

The hair on my neck stood on end. They say your brain can recognize when you’re being watched even if you don’t consciously see the threat. Something out there was pressing on that instinctual nerve. Holding my breath, I scanned the forest as if it were looking back. I never saw any woodpecker in the trees.

As my eyes descended the trees to the brush, I saw something I didn’t expect. At first, I thought I was looking at a dead body. But the eyes were fixed on me.

It looked like a small, thin man, hidden from the waist down and stock-still. Swirls and streaks like wood grain covered its body. Its head was smooth like a skull carved from walnut. The eyes were bulging and unblinking, like they’d been painted onto marbles and set into the hollow skull. And the teeth—the teeth were nearly human, yellow and worn flat. They were bare in its lipless mouth, open as if it were about to speak.

Staring back at me with those lifeless eyes, it chattered its jaw. It sounded just like a woodpecker rattling away on stubborn bark.

I learned something about myself that day. In a fight or flight situation, it turns out I’m a flyer. I took off running, kicking up a cloud of grey dust behind me. I looked back just once to see the wooden man duck into the brush. I couldn’t see it anymore, but I had no doubt it was following me.

As I scrambled back up the trail, I could hear that incessant rattle just behind and to the side, keeping pace in the thickets and the tall grass. When the paved trail was in sight, the brush thinned and I could catch awful flashes of the thing whipping through the leaves, gnashing its teeth.

I closed in on the pavement and the chattering was right in my ear. With every stride, it felt like the noise was growing louder, and if the wooden man could breathe, I’m sure I would have felt its breath on my neck.

Suddenly, I saw stars. A sharp sting seized me and those yellow teeth clamped down on my ear. I took a swing to swat it away, but lost my balance and fell. All I could hear was my heartbeat in my ears as the asphalt greeted me like a cheese grater, skinning my knee and smearing blood across my palms.

I threw my arms over my head as the dust settled around me, but the chattering had stopped.

“Are you ok?”

Sweat stung my eyes as I looked ahead. Two joggers stood a few yards away wearing looks of concern.

I stood on trembling legs and wiped my hands against my shirt. That hurt. The joggers waited without saying a word as I looked back down the trail. There was no sign of the wooden man, just a single set of panicked footprints leading from the woods.

“I think so,” I finally answered. “I thought…”

If I told them what I saw, they’d think I was crazy.

“I just overdid it.”

“Your head’s bleeding,” they told me.

I reached back to find a small notch in the cartilage of my ear.

“Oh,” my pause seemed to make them nervous. “I just scraped my ear. That’s all.”

Once they were sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, the joggers went on their way. I limped my way home and carefully cleaned my wounds.

I spent the evening trying to make sense of what happened. The joggers didn’t seem to see anything unusual. Nobody’s ever said anything about a chattering man in the woods. But I was sure that something terrible was hiding along the trail. And now it’s had a taste of me.

I always read the reviews before going anywhere. The Gladry Hotel had high ratings, and it was in walking distance to the studio I’d contracted with. It seemed like an easy choice, so I ignored the most recent one-star rating.

“Clean rooms. Friendly staff. Always a smiling face…”

The review itself seemed positive, so I assumed the rating was just a user error. I booked my room and started packing.

***

I arrived for check-in just before 3 p.m. The Gladry was gorgeous on the outside, an Art Deco masterpiece rising eight stories over a bustling downtown. I made a note to step out that evening to take a few photos of the exterior all lit up at night.

A doorman greeted me with a warm smile and loaded my bags onto a cart. The front desk staff was just as polite. Cheery faces all around. They explained all the fine amenities, the hotel restaurant, and the local treasures I shouldn’t miss. Then they handed me the key to my room.

I’d be staying on the top floor. Before I hopped on the elevator, the concierge stopped me.

“Remember, the pool and fitness center close at 8 p.m.,” she said. “Room service ends at 11:30 p.m.”

“No problem,” I said. “I might have some long days ahead of me. Are there any late-night restaurants open around here?”

She hesitated to answer, but never lost her chipper tone.

“Yes, uh, there are a few,” she said. “We only ask that you remember our quiet hours at night. This is an old building, and sound carries. It would be best if you could be in your room by midnight.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I smiled, then she rang the elevator for me and returned to the lobby.

A bellhop accompanied me to my room. He appeared to be much older than the rest of the staff, and his deep-lined face didn’t wear the same pleasant expression I’d seen all around the lobby. I figured he must’ve been working this same job for a very long time. He didn’t speak as the brass-lined elevator slowly climbed to the top.

I thought I understood. Customer service jobs are uniquely exhausting. It takes a lot of endurance and self-denial to crank up that smile for every stranger that comes your way. I didn’t blame him for letting the mask slip a bit during the ride up.

The brass doors parted with a charming little ding, then we padded down the plush carpeted hall to my door. The bellhop followed me in with the cart and helped me unload my luggage.

I hung my jacket up in the closet, then turned to the door and froze.

The bellhop stood in the doorway, staring at me with a wide, straining grin.

It wasn’t an unnatural smile, but it was entirely uncanny. He hadn’t shown a shade of emotion since I met him downstairs—not a hint of the professional pleasantry that you’d expect in the hospitality industry—and now he was grinning with an intensity that didn’t suit the job at all.

A petrifying chill came over me. I nearly shouted in surprise, and even as I tried to regain my composure, my heart pounded so frantically, I wondered if he could hear it. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what brought on this mad glare.

I racked my brain for anything I could have said to offend him. Then I carefully reached a hand into my back pocket.

“Sorry,” I said. “I almost forgot your tip.”

I plucked a few bills from my wallet and handed them over with a nervous smile.

The splitting grin fell from his face like someone had cut the strings holding it up. He glanced down at the cash and stashed it away.

“Oh, thanks,” he said. Then he wheeled the luggage cart out into the hall, once again wearing a near-sullen expression. “Just ring if you need anything.”

I closed the door behind him and made sure it was locked.

The flight in was exhausting, and I desperately wanted to clear my head. I tried to take a nap, but I couldn’t fall asleep.

***

Once the sun had set, I grabbed my camera and went back down to shoot the hotel exterior. Arrivals had slowed down for the night, and the lobby was nearly empty. Outside, the doorman who greeted me had already clocked out.

I crossed the driveway to get the whole building in frame. It looked great with the façade lighting. Tall pillars of warm light shone from the ground up. Giant fixtures and architectural flourishes cast dramatic shadows like someone shining a flashlight under their face to tell scary stories.

I zoomed in to capture the detail on a statue at the top of the tower. It was stunning, a golden Hestia holding a flowering branch. I adjusted for a wider shot of her and felt a creeping dread crawl up my spine when the shutter snapped.

It wasn’t the statue. Her gleaming face was completely without expression. There was nothing menacing about it, but a hard-wired alarm was sounding in my mind. Something was watching me.

I checked the photo.

Just below the statue in a top-floor window was a face peeking from the curtains. She wore a big, rictus grin. I looked back up to the window, but the face was gone. I put the lens cap back on and started across the driveway back to the hotel. I must have looked like a fool trying to hurry on trembling legs.

I sat in the lobby to calm down. I didn’t want to head for the elevators just yet. The face was in the window of my room.

***

I had no appetite, but I decided to pass some time at the hotel restaurant. I had read some enthusiastic reviews about the place, so I checked my phone to see if there were any good menu recommendations. The hotel had a fresh review from the previous night.

“This place gives me the creeps. Where is everybody?”

I looked around the packed restaurant. Maybe they reviewed the wrong place.

My server was polite, and I’m sure she would’ve been more attentive if she weren’t so busy. She had a problem guest not far from me­—a four-top table with one very loud, very impatient man giving her a hard time.

The wine was too warm. The steak was too small. Whatever. His companions looked to be workmates, all turning shades of red as other guests looked their way. Nobody shut him up, though, so he must have been the boss.

When she finally made it back to me with my check, I tried to show some solidarity.

“Sorry you’ve got that guy in your section,” I said. “I get picky clients, too.”

“It’s fine,” she said with a shrug. “Guys like that come through sometimes.”

“I hope he’s not staying long,” I said.

“We probably won’t see him again,” she said. “Only the nice ones come back.”

I made sure to tip well, then went up to my room.

I switched all the lights on before I closed the door. It didn’t look like anyone had been in there today. I supposed that the face in the window must have been housekeeping, but I didn’t want to check my camera to see that photo again.

I’d be on my feet for hours at the studio the next day, so I tried to sleep. I kept dreaming about the man in the doorway.

***

I stayed in my room all morning, and didn’t head down until it was time for my afternoon session at the studio. As I crossed the lobby, I noticed the three embarrassed coworkers from the restaurant. They were speaking with the receptionist.

“Don’t you have cameras?” one of them asked. “Surely you have surveillance footage of the parking lot.”

“We’ll certainly check, sir,” the receptionist answered. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“He stepped outside to smoke after dinner,” the man said. “He hasn’t answered his phone since. He wasn’t in his room this morning.”

I hate to admit it, but I didn’t really worry that much about the missing man. I was sure he’d show up eventually, and his buddies should enjoy the peace and quiet until then.  

There was enough on my plate, anyway. My client had a bad habit of changing his mind mid-shoot, and I had to break down and rearrange the set, lighting, and camera setup over and over while he reviewed footage for the slightest nit to pick.

***

The shoot went late, and I hung around downtown with a few crew members to blow off some steam.

We did more drinking than eating, and my appetite finally kicked in on the walk back. I checked my watch just to see that I would miss room-service hours. I’d have to raid the minibar.

I made it back to the hotel with a gnawing in my stomach. The doors closed behind me and the noise of the nightlife was hushed by the absolute stillness of the lobby. The doormen and front-desk team were nowhere to be seen, while I’m sure all the other guests were safe and snug in their rooms. It was quiet hours, after all.

I had the place to myself, so I took the opportunity to take some quick photos of the lobby in this deserted state. The empty chairs, the dusty piano, the glossy marble cocktail bar, all suspended in time. Maybe it was my buzz catching up to me, but I started to get the creeps. With each snap of the camera, I recalled the face in the window of my room. The fun was over.

I put my camera away and headed toward the elevators. I thought about that last review I saw at the restaurant last night.

“This place gives me the creeps. Where is everybody?”

You said it. I should have saved some money and booked a different hotel.

I checked my phone to see if anyone else had spoken up since then. There was a new review posted while I was out.   

“Smile back and you’ll be ok!”

Thankfully, there were no smiling faces around me, and I wasn’t really in a smiling mood. My stomach was starting to growl, so I called down an elevator.

The doors opened and a server from the restaurant was leaning absently on an empty room-service cart. We made eye contact and he flashed an obligatory smile. I didn’t return it. I just stepped aside to let him off, but he stayed on the elevator.

Fine. I stepped aboard and we started climbing to floor eight. The elevator couldn’t move fast enough. My stomach was in knots and I just wanted to dig into to those pricey little snacks in my room, not caring what my bill would be at check-out.

“No more room service tonight?” I asked the server without looking at him.

“No more,” he answered. His voice had an off-putting lilt to it.

I didn’t want to turn my head, but I could tell from the reflection in the brass doors that he was still smiling at me. The floors ticked up slowly, two, three, four… taking longer and longer before each number.

I thought it was strange, so I turned to him for his reaction. I shouldn’t have looked.

He was staring straight at me with wide and bloodshot eyes, and the corners of his lips continued to rise. They were soon past anything that resembled a friendly smile. There was an unsettling urgency to it, closer to a cry for help. Or a warning.

I wanted off this ride, so I pressed the Open button. It did nothing. Then I realized we were no longer traveling up. The numbers were bouncing all over the place. Six, four, seven, two, nine... Nine? Twelve, ten, thirteen...

I looked back to the server to see tears stream from his unblinking eyes. The grin was as wide as it could be at this point. He leaned uncomfortably close, drooling, teeth chattering like he was eager to bite.

With my back to the door, my mind raced. I needed a way out, a way to calm him down. I thought of the bellhop, so I reached for my wallet. Empty. I had spent all my cash at the bar.

“I don’t have any cash for a tip,” I said. Then I tried to crack an apologetic smile.

He blinked. The chattering subsided, the lips slowly fell from their wide grin, and the server eased away from my face.

With a chipper ding, the doors opened behind me. We had reached the eighth floor. I left the elevator without looking back.

“Have a good night,” the server said. Then the doors closed and I was alone in the hall.

I was almost to my door when the lights went out.

Even though I’d just seen the hall empty, I had this awful feeling like there was someone else with me in the dark. As I fumbled for my key, I realized that I was being watched. I looked over my shoulder.

Down the hall, the darkness smiled. I couldn’t see anything but a glinting pair of eyes and a wide, toothy grin. It was moving closer. I dropped my key and pawed for it in the dark. I couldn’t take my eyes off the disembodied smile.

I couldn’t find the key, so I stood on trembling legs. If I tried to run, I wouldn’t make it to the elevator. It was nearly over me, and I could see every detail of its long, sharp teeth. It was the same manic expression that came over the bellhop, the woman in the window, the server. I knew what it wanted.

I looked it in the eye and smiled. The face stopped. Its grin shrank from an aggressive extreme to a softer countenance, as if it were pleased. The lights flickered back to life, and I was alone in the hall again. I found the key at my feet and stumbled into my room.

I had lost my appetite for the minibar.  

***

I left The Gladry early this morning and checked into a motel. The reviews here are mixed, and the staff is far from cheerful. That’s fine.

I’m so tired, nothing will stop me from sleeping through the night. First, though, I want to offer some advice.  

If you’re planning to travel, don’t book a room at The Gladry Hotel. No matter where you go, just be nice to the staff. There’s no telling what they’re dealing with behind the scenes.

And if someone smiles at you, play it safe. Be polite and smile back.