Speaker 1: His voice broke the silence between us. There's actually something
I've been hiding from you. I looked up from the notepader,
my knee, my pen resting between my fingers. He sat
with his spine drawn inward, shoulders slightly collapsed toward each other,
and palms pressed flat against the tops of his thighs,
a man always trying to make himself smaller. His eyes,
shadowed by fatigue, were fixed on something on the ground.
I didn't say anything right away. I'd learned over time
that interruptions could break fragile moments like these. I'd been
his therapist for a little over a year. From the
very first session, I had sensed that his pain ran
deeper than most. He had peeled it back slowly, as
if uncertain whether it was even worth sharing. In that time,
I'd come to know him as someone who had endured
a kind of persistent misfortune that no rational explanation could
account for. The world, it seemed, had made a project
out of breaking him. I leaned back slightly in my chair,
careful not to make the movement abrupt. The window beside
us caught a thin wash of afternoon light spilling across
the rug between us. I folded my hands and asked,
keeping my voice low, what is it that you've been
holding back? He shifted in his seat, fingers tapping against
his knee. Whatever it was, it was hard for him
to say, but something had changed. There was a weight
to the moment, attention in the room that hadn't been
there before. I've been able to see him for a
long time, he said, But I I didn't tell you
because I thought you'd think it meant I was really
losing it. I didn't want you to think I was crazy.
There was a brief pause. Then his name is mister Grin. Oh, well,
that's what I call him. I stayed quiet and nodded
slowly to encourage him. There had been no mention of
him before, no allusions to a stalker or a delusion
this specific. I was certain of it. There was a
different presence in the room now, one shaped by the
tension in his voice and the stillness in his eyes.
And I remember thinking, as he kept his gaze averted
and began to speak again, that whatever this was, whatever
mister Grinn meant to him, it had been festering for decades.
It started the night my mother died, he said, I
was sitting in the waiting area with my father. He
took a shallow breath and kept his gaze down. There
were two vending machines in the hallway and a payphone
across from them. My father and I were just waiting
for them to tell us. I already knew though she
had been out of it for days. He paused for
a moment and scratched at the skin on his forearm
through the fabric of his jacket. When the nurse came
out and said it, I don't know. I guess I
didn't cry. I just sort of sat there. She gave
me this little squeeze on the shoulder and walked away.
My father told me to stay still while he finished
something up, and that everything is going to be okay.
I remember going outside. I couldn't breathe inside anymore. I
went at the side entrance. There was a meta bench
near the ambulance bay. That's when I saw him. His
voice cracked faintly when he said it. I leaned forward
just slightly. There was a fence that ran along the
edge of the lot, past it with trees, but the
hospital kept a floodlight above the utility building, so it
was never completely dark out there. The light was flickering
that night, you know when it doesn't fully cut out,
just buzzes and dims. That's how it was. He was
standing there, just beyond the reach of the light. I
thought maybe he was a janitor or a security guy.
But he wasn't wearing a badge. Just this pale white
jumper looked soft, almost fleece. The arms were long, they
hung past his waist, almost to the tops of his knees.
His shoulders were dropped but curved forward, like his back
was pulling inward. I couldn't see much of his face
at first, the light was behind him, but there was
this grin I guess. The corners of his mouth stretched
nearly to the side of his cheeks. His skin had
these lines carved in deep, like he'd been smiling for years,
and his face had just given up trying to do
anything else. He lifted his hand briefly and touched the
corner of his own mouth, drawing an invisible shape in
the form of a smile. Then his hand fell back
into his lap. I looked away for a second. I
think I was wiping my eyes, or maybe just trying
to shake it off, but When I looked back, he
was gone. I hadn't slept. My mom had just died.
I didn't even mention it to the nurses or anyone.
I just went back inside to my father and left.
He raised his head slowly and met my eyes for
the first time since he started talking. A strange man, right,
that's all. But then I saw him again. The next
time it happened was after my father passed, but the
time after that would come around a decade later, he said,
his voice now steadier. It was a few months after
I'd started college. I'd worked my butt off to get in,
had no back up plan. Then out of nowhere, I
got this notice from the administration office saying my financial
aid had been revoked. There was a discrepancy in some paperwork.
They said it was a clerical error. I remember thinking,
no one makes that kind of mistake, at least not
by accident. He scratched the inside of his wrist again
and blinked, But he wasn't really with me in the
office any more. That night, I couldn't sleep. I was
up reading emails, trying to figure out who to contact.
My roommate was passed out headphones on, snoring. I got
up and walked over to the window my dorm overlooked
the quad, and there he was, his voice tropped, standing
right in the middle of it, in the dark, arms
at his side, just the same as he had looked
all those years ago, almost glowing in the moonlight. I
didn't know what to think at the time. I hadn't
seen him since I was a kid. I thought he
was just something like a kid's delusion. He didn't move,
he said, didn't do much of anything, just watched. I
closed the blinds and sat back in my bed, told
myself I was just tired, like I always did. His
throat bob slightly as he swallowed. His eyes were glassy now,
though no tears came. It kept happening every time something
fell apart. When my roommates stole from me, cleaned me out,
and vanished overnight, I came home and found him standing
at the end of the hallway outside my dorm room.
He was closer than I could see more of him.
His hands moved to his temples, pressing gently. He's been
there through everything. When I got fired for my first
real job, when my girlfriend left me, when I couldn't
pay rent any more and had to sleep in my
car for two weeks, always watching as these things were happening.
I hadn't even noticed he'd been getting closer each time.
I opened my mouth to finally speak, but he beat
me to it. I don't know how long I can
keep talking. I have to say this before I lose
my nerve. If I think too much about it, I
won't finish. I'll back out, and then he'll keep eating
at me. He leaned back in the chair and stared
toward the floor for several seconds, then reached slowly into
the front pocket of his coat. He pulled out his
phone with a slow, hesitant motion. His fingers trembled faintly
as he unlocked it and tapped through the screen. Here,
he said, I filmed him last night for you. He
turned the screen toward me and press play. The footage
began with the camera pointed toward the carpet. The audio
picked up his shallow breathing, occasional rustling, and the faint
sound of floorboards creaking under foot. It was dark, with
the glow from the digital clock provided a faint illumination.
The video shifted as he raised the phone. It panned
up and centered on a doorway, with the edges of
the frame slightly out of focus. He said nothing while
it played, just watched me and my reaction. When the
video ended, I glanced back at him. He leaned forward
and whispered, that's where he stands every night. He doesn't
sharpen video. But I see him. I swear to you,
I see him. He had a kind of pleading beneath
the exhaustion of his expression. He wasn't trying to convince me.
He wasn't even looking for validation. Have you ever considered that,
mister grim might be a kind of projection, a figure
shaped by everything you've been through, your grief, your isolation,
maybe something your mind created to contain the pain. His
jaw tightened. It wasn't an angry reaction, but something deeper.
His fingers clenched the edge of his chair. He looked
down and gave a small, sharp shake of his head.
I've taken pills, he said, risperidone, halloparidol, quatiepine for years,
off and on. I've seen neurologists, psychiatrists. I even stayed
in a clinic of state for a month. Nothing touches him,
he stays. His voice had gone thin, with a breathless quality,
as if the words were trying to outrun something behind them.
I thought about suggesting another specialist, someone who could reevaluate
his medication regimen, but before I could speak, his voice
broke through again, lower now uncertain, would you come over tonight,
he asked, just for a bit, please. The words sounded
awkward coming from him, as if he'd rehearse them and
was still unsure whether he should be saying them out loud.
He rubbed the side of his neck, eyes fixed on
the carpet. I haven't had anyone stay over in years,
he continued. I don't even really talk to anyone any
more outside of here. I just I don't want to
be alone tonight. I know he'll come. I always know
when he's going to I hesitated. Every part of my
training told me this wasn't appropriate. It blurred boundaries and
created complications. I had spent a career keeping my clients
at a careful distance for this exact reason. But the
expression on his face disarmed me. He looked like he'd surrendered.
I nodded slowly. All right, I said, but just for
a few hours. He didn't thank me. He just looked away.
And I knew he hadn't been expecting me to say yes.
His building sat wedge between a shuttered laundromat and a
currency exchange that I lost half the letters on its sign.
The sun had started to sink behind the skyline, casting
along his streaks across the narrow sidewalk. I buzzed this unit,
and the door clicked open before I could step back. Oh,
come in, he said, stepping aside. The space was small.
The smell of dust and paper filled the air. The
blinds were halfway drawn, casting broken shadows across a threadbare
rug and a sagging love seat. There were stacks of
bucks on the floor. He gestured to the kitchen table
and we sat. He had already brewed tea, though I
could tell from the way he moved that he didn't
usually make it for more than one. We sat quietly
at first, sipping from mismatched mugs. After some small talk,
something about the vulnerability of this situation made me talk
about my own problems. I moved into a new place
a few months ago, I said, after that divorce, it's quiet,
which I thought i'd want, But now it's there all
the time. I don't know meals feel wrong. I still
find myself reaching for her side of the bed in
the morning. He looked up, surprised. I never thought about
you having stuff going on, he said. I guess I
always pictured you going home and just, I don't know,
being fine. We both laughed. He leaned forward a little.
You know, I feel guilty sometimes I sit here and
pour all this out on you. I don't think I've
ever asked how you're doing. You're not supposed to, I said,
and took another sip of tea. We sat in silence,
but it was no longer uncomfortable. We finished our tea
just after the sky turned dark. The orange streaks along
the window blinds faded into a dull, stale blue, then
vanished completely. He got up and moved toward the bedroom,
gesturing for me to follow. The bedroom was sparse, a
low mattress pressed into the far corner, one night stand
beside it, scratched along the edges, and a pairing knife.
I looked at him. He was pulling an extra pillow
from the closet, placing it at the foot of the mattress,
as if he had already decided that I'd take the
chair in the corner. I nodded toward the knife. Do
you usually sleep with that there? He glanced back, his
face neutral. I don't use it, he said, 'is just
for comfort if something ever happens, if he ever does anything,
it helps me sleep knowing it's there. He wasn't offensive,
but his tone didn't invite further questions either. I stared
at it a moment longer, then sat down in the chair.
People kept all sorts of things near their beds, flashlights, rosaries,
baseball bats. Everyone had their own form of insurance. Still,
a small ripple of hernease moved through my chest. He
dimmed the lamp and sat on the edge of the bed.
The room fell quiet, apart from the faint sound of
traffic beyond the window. It had been nearly fifteen minutes
of silence when he spoke again. He's close, he whispered,
I can feel him. He was staring at the far wall.
His shoulders had begun to curl inward, his hands gripped
the edge of the mattress. I wasn't even really sure
what to say to him. After this so called mister
Grinn doesn't appear. I was sure he wouldn't. Of course,
my thoughts always go fast. When he's near, they don't
make sense. It's like I'm drowning in them, and they're
pulling me lower and lower. He was describing depression kicking in.
A heaviness settled across my shoulders, followed by a pressure
in my chest. It felt like humidity, but without warmth.
Goose bumps rose across my arms. I rubbed the back
of my neck, trying to shake it off, but the
feeling only deepened. I don't know when exactly he appeared.
One moment the corner of the room was empty, and
the next the space had changed. There was no footstep
or any other indication of movement. There was only a distortion,
something off in the shape of the room itself, not
physically but optically, as though the light around that spot
had lost direction. Then he stepped forward. He was tall,
his spine bent forward unnaturally, his necks stretched out, forcing
his chin low toward his chest. His skin had a
waxy pallor, but like the sheen of sweat or oil,
the surface looked stretched, almost preserved. His lips never parted,
but they stretched wide, deeper at the corners than what
should have been possible. And his eyes they didn't belong
in a human face clouded milky white with pinprick pupils
buried beneath. I couldn't breathe. My body had gone still,
frozen in place, or my thoughts scattered. He was real
My patience breathing had turned jagged. The mattress creaked beneath
him as he reached toward the knight stand with a
trembling arm. I can't, he whispered, I can't. He was
gripping the knife, his fingers closed around it. He held
it low, the blade angle toward the floor, as if
unsure whether he intended to use it at all. His
other hand clutched his thigh, gripping through the fabric of
his pants. The muscles in his arms spaztened as he
tried to lift the knife higher, but it was a
weak motion. I wanted to call out to him, but
my voice felt buried under a weight pressing into my chest.
My legs refused to move. Every part of me had
locked up. Mister Grinn, however, had no issues moving. When
he reached the bed. He extended one arm, his hands
closed around my patient's wrist, the one holding the knife,
the fingers wrapped around it completely The joints of his
hand flexed as he adjusted his grip, and I could
see that his fingers were disturbingly long. They curved downward,
rapping over the knuckles. He didn't yank the knife like
I thought he would have. Instead, he seemed to guide
my patient. He let out a soft gasp. His body resisted,
but his hand kept moving. The blade rose hovering near
my patient's wrist. Of his free hand. I his words
fell apart beneath his breath. Mister Grinn tilted his head further,
eyes fixed on the man's face. His grin never wavered.
He stared as if memorizing every feature. His eyes remained unfocused,
but still locked onto him. My patience seemed to try
fighting back, but to no avail. Then mister Grinn forced
my patient's hand and he started slicing the knife back
and forth. The knife slid across the skin, gliding through
the soft flesh and veins of the wrist. The motion
was smooth, almost tender. His body jerked as a wet
gasp slipped out of his mouth. My arms felt numb,
but I still couldn't move from the chair. Blood poured
from the wound in waves. The patient's chest heaved once,
then twice, and his eyes rolled upward. He made a
sound desperately wet. The handle of the knife trembled in
his hand. Mister Grinn remained still. His hand lingered on
the patient's wrist for a moment longer, then slipped away.
He stepped back into the corner from where he had
come from. Then he was gone. The space he occupied
simply ceased to contain him. One moment he was there,
and the next there was only the wall. I rose
from the chair with a violent jolt, then knocked it backward.
My knees buckled for a moment, and I stumbled toward
the bed. My patient was slumped forward, chin lowered. The
floor beneath him had turned dark red and glossy. I
dropped to my knees beside him and reached for the knife.
His fingers were still wrapped round the handle. Blood dripped
from his eviscerated wrist under the floor in thick rivulets.
Hold on, I said, My voice cracked. Stay with me, please,
I thought, by pressing my hand into the wound to
try stem the bleeding. But I heard the sirens going
off in my head. My thoughts raced forward faster than
my breath. The room closed in around me. I thought
of the knife. They would never believe I wasn't there.
I stood up, backing toward the door. The floor creaked
under my feet as I reached for the handle, using
the sleeves for my clothing to open it as to
not leave any prince. I looked back at him once more.
His body had gone still, his mouth hung slightly open.
The knife remained in his hand. Then I turned and ran.
I spent the next day in my car. I didn't
go home. I didn't call anyone. I parked a town
over and a lot behind a closed antique store and
sat with the windows cracked until the sun went down.
When it got dark, I drove around for hours, taking
roads I hadn't used in years, trying to find intersections
that didn't lead me back to anything familiar. When I
finally walked through my front door, it all felt so cold.
I kept the lights off. I didn't want to see.
I didn't want to look at my phone. I knew
what story would be there eventually, and I didn't want
to see his name in a headline. I told myself
it wasn't my fault. I told myself no one could
have helped him. But those words didn't land anywhere solid
inside of me. They passed through and left nothing behind.
Three mornings after I stopped returning calls, I stood in
my kitchen and made coffee. I had run out of sugar,
the creamer had gone sour. I stirred the black liquid
in slow, distracted circles, my body moving through the ritual
while my mind wandered. It had started raining some time
before dawn, and the sidewalk across the street shone under
the low light. I glanced through the kitchen window a
man standing still beside the bus stop, half hidden behind
the frame of a tree. He stood facing the window,
facing me. He wore a white jumper, his shoulders slip downward,
and on his face was a wide grin. I stood
motionless for nearly a full minute. Then I stepped back
from the glass and closed the blinds. I couldn't sleep
after that. I stayed awake, with every light in the
house on. I sat in bed with my laptop open,
searching for something, anything, that could explain what was happening.
I found myself in obscure forums, threads filled with phrases
like psychic contamination and shed trauma apparitions. One post mentioned
a woman who claimed her husband's hallucinations had followed her
after he died. I reached out to psychics, paid a
woman two hundred dollars to burn herbs in my living room.
She set my home with thinned energies and left a
pouch of salt under the window. Nothing changed. Visited a
priest told him I was asking for a friend. He
gave me a small silver crucifix and asked if I
had repented. I thanked him and walked out. My assistant
stopped calling. After I missed the fourth appointment. I knew
I wouldn't go back. I had no answers anymore. Nothing
I could say to clients about hope or progress would
hold any truth. The clinic eventually sent an email. I
opened it and read the first few lines. My license
would be placed under review. My caseload had been reassigned.
I closed the laptop and placed it under the bed.
I sat in the hallway that night and stared at
the dark space near the bathroom door. I knew he
was standing there. I could feel the air pulling. Two
plain clothes officers came the following morning, one younger, soft spoken,
with a notepad in hand, and the other eyes heavy
from experience. I invited them in because I didn't know
what else to do. We sat in the living room
I hadn't cleaned in days. The coffee table was clotted
with unopened mail and an empty glass with a film
of dust collecting near the rim. One of them apologized
for the visit before we even started. We're just trying
to get a sense of what you might know, the
younger one said. We know he didn't have many people
in his life, but your name was one of the
only ones that came up. We figured if anyone would
know something, it'd be you. The words struck deeper than
I expected. I nodded slowly, forcing my eyes to stay level.
It was hard to get him to open up, I said,
but he was working through a lot, childhood trauma, long
history of loss. He always carried it alone. He ended
our most recent session telling me it'll be our last one.
I was almost proud of him. I thought he'd finally
made the progress he'd come here to make. But I
was shocked when I heard the news. I lied. The
officer wrote something down, then locked up. Mum yea, it
was clearly suicide. He added clean scene. He'd recorded some
thoughts and notes we found. Didn't mention you directly, but
he talked of a man. He spoke to one that
helped him immensely. I stared at the grain of the
table and felt something crawl into my stomach. I wish
I could say I saw it coming. I lied again.
The officer didn't. They stood after a few more questions,
thanked me for my cooperation. The older one paused at
the door and said, you're probably carrying some this with you.
These things believe a mark. You should talk to someone.
I gave him a smile. I will. That night, I
tried to sleep on the couch. I thought maybe the
change in rooms would help. I left the hallway light on.
I closed my eyes for less than a minute. When
I opened them, he was there in the corner of
the room, half shadowed by the edge of the curtain.
His grin carved through the dark. My body folded in
a fetal position. I pulled the blanket up to my
chin and pressed my back against the cushions, as if
that thin layer of cotton could shield me from whatever
his presence meant. My eyes watered from the strain of
keeping them open, but I didn't blink. I missed my
wife and everything I had not that long ago. He
stayed there until the sun began to rise, and even
then I didn't feel him leave. I made the appointment
the following morning. I didn't think it through. I clicked
a name on a list. I booked the first available spot.
I just needed to speak to someone whose voice I
hadn't memorized. She met me in a small office down
town I converted dental sweep, judging by the layout. Young,
maybe early thirties. I sat on a couch and started
from the beginning. I told her about the divorce, about
the years I had spent convincing others that healing was linear,
about the nights I stared at the ceiling, unable to
name what I was feeling. She wrote very little. Mostly
she just listened, and when I could no longer find
ways to avoid it, I looked her in the eyes
and said, there's actually something I've been hiding from you.
Her pen stopped. I said it before I could talk
myself out of it. I told her about mister Grin,
and then would you come over just for one night?
He's going to appear tonight, and I don't want to
be alone. My voice was low, empty, All the emotion
had burned out of it. She didn't answer right away.
Her fingers danced slightly around the pen, her brow furrowed
with uncertainty. I could see the conflict behind her eyes.
She knew the boundary I'd just crossed, knew that she
should say no. But then her face softened and she
nodded once. All right, she said, but just for a
few hours.