Book of Horror Stories

The Grinning Man

February 20th, 1979

August 15th, 1975. That was the first time. You ever heard of cryptozoology? The study of hidden animals as it is officially defined, but often mixed up with talk of UFOs and aliens and other such crap. I must admit Ive always been fascinated by urban legends; the Mothman of West Virginia, the Chupacabra in the south, hell even those old-timey reports of freaks like Spring-Heeled Jack who was clearly just some madman in a costume. But I dont go for the big ones, those sensationalized glory hounds like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. Please. No, Im fascinated more by those that are localized, you know, the ones that are first mentioned by some nut in some pissy little town as you get lost on the way to nowhere and that dont suddenly have appearances all over the country. They always seem to have a kernel of truth hidden in them, and are most of the time far harder to explain away. Anyway, one, in particular, caught my eye that night as I trawled through old newspaper reports that my father had squirreled away in the attic. He too had lived with a fascination for the inexplicable and had heavily researched legends and mysteries in the years leading up to his death. The paper I found was a yellowing copy of the Daily Journal of Elizabeth, New Jersey, dated October 12th, 1966. Highlighted by my father was a small paragraph, almost as an afterthought, reporting that two boys, Martin Munov and James Yanchitis had been harassed by a strange figure on their way home the night before. There was no real description, just a warning for anyone who had seen anyone strange in the area to report it to police. The article was titled Who is the Grinning Man?

Mr. Dennell pauses to take a sip of water from the decanter between us. My dictaphone whirrs softly in the silence.

I wouldnt have taken much notice, I mean, the Grinning Man? Thats got to be the worst name for a mysterious being since the Melon Heads of Michigan. But I found it odd that my father had been interested enough to keep the report. So I dug. It took me almost a month after his death to clear that attic of old newspapers and half-completed scrapbooks, and in that time I found only one other mention of the Grinning Man, this time in a clipping from another 66 newspaper. It mentioned a fellow who claimed to have been stopped on the road by a tall man with a wide grin who conversed without moving his lips. Interesting as it sounded, it wasnt exactly a lot to go on. Nevertheless, when we sold his house I kept both the clippings along with a few other mystery-filled scrapbooks found buried in the mess. In the weeks that followed, I began to notice a nagging feeling, that same itch I get whenever something feels unfinished. Carol used to call it my busy radar and used to complain that I was never happy unless I was working.

He smiles, apparently lost in thought.

Eventually it was pure coincidence that I truly started investigating the question of the Grinning Man. I was reporting on Hurricane Eloise for the New York Times in September 1975 and had been sent to New Jersey City to compare the damages to those suffered in New York. Fucking waste of time that was, sent to report on light floods that caused little to no property damage while my own city was smashed by the torrent. My busy radar hadnt stopped itching. Finding myself with free time, I recalled that the first sighting of the Grinning Man had been in Elizabeth, not ten miles from the city center. On a whim I went in search of the two boys mentioned in the first of my fathers articles, doubting that theyd still live in the area but intrigued, or bored enough to find out. It took a while, but eventually I made contact with James Yanchitis, now in his early twenties, who agreed to meet with me. As I shook his hand outside a café that evening my first thought was how withdrawn he looked, as though he hadnt slept a full night in a very long time. The story he told me was far more informative than the article had suggested. And far more chilling.

Mr. Dennell falls silent. After an extended pause, he reaches into his pocket and places a little cassette player on the table next to my dictaphone and thumbs the play button. It is a poor quality recording, and the voice that crackles out of it is quite young. Throughout, Mr. Dennell doesnt say a word.