I find it funny how Mommy checks for monsters under my bed every night. I’m not six anymore; I know there’s no monsters under my bed, and I tell Mommy that. She kisses my forehead and gives me a half-hearted smile, saying “Of course, but Mommy’s just making sure”. She isn’t happy like she used to be, ever since Daddy caught the smiling disease. Ha. Smiling disease. That’s what she tells me it was. She thinks I don’t hear the stories about the monster killing people in our town. All the kids in school call it Mista Giggles because sometimes, if you listen really closely, you can hear the chilling laughter before the victim’s screams. I don’t know if I believe this, because they also say Mista Giggles has 6 fangs and snakes for fingers, and that seems stupid to me. I don’t think Mista Giggles is real. I’m not six anymore; I don’t believe in monsters.

The first time it happened was 2 weeks ago. The paperboy had found our neighbor Mr. Johnston sitting on his front porch. I remember Mr. Johnston; he was a grumpy old guy who never laughed at my jokes. The paperboy hadn’t notice the blood when he threw the morning news at Mr. Johnston. I guess he isn’t very observant. But he sure noticed when the old man’s head slide off his body and rolled onto the street. The police never revealed any details, but everyone knows about the big smile drawn with a red marker over his perpetual scowl. That was 2 weeks ago. That was 13 murders ago. Sometimes the bodies are found in their beds, sometimes out on the porch like Mr. Johnston. The police say all the victims die is different ways each time too. The only thing consistent is that big, red, marker smile. Daddy was the 4th to get the Smile. Mommy started checking under my bed after that. I wish she’d stop worrying about monsters under my bed. I know Mista Giggles isn’t under there. I just want her to be happy. I just want everyone to smile and be happy. I made them smile. But why aren’t they happy?