The Mask That Smiled Back

Florence Frightengale

Welcome, dear listeners, to another file from the Frightengale Files. Tonight, we return to Hollow Hill, where the ordinary becomes... well, rather less than ordinary. Elijah, do you remember the first time you saw a surgical mask that made you uneasy?

Unknown Speaker

Oh, Florence, I’ve seen masks stained with all manner of things, but never one that seemed to grin back at me. Tonight’s tale—this mask, it’s not just a tool, is it? It’s a harbinger. A mask that appears before disaster, and after. The Mask That Smiled Back. I must admit, even I find it unsettling.

Florence Frightengale

It began, as these things often do, with a routine procedure. A young man, minor abdominal surgery, nothing remarkable. Until, mid-incision, he sits up. Eyes open, smiling beneath the anesthesia. No pain, no panic. Just that smile. The surgeon—he dropped his scalpel, didn’t he?

Unknown Speaker

He did. And the mask—gone from the post-op report. Vanished. I’ve seen patients wake under anesthesia, but never with that... composure. That smile traced beneath the mask. It’s as if the mask itself was the only thing holding the horror in.

Florence Frightengale

And then, the deaths began. Every staff member in that operating room—gone within a week. Not one cause, but many. The scrub nurse, drowned in an empty tub. The anesthesiologist—well, I won’t describe it in detail, but it was... deliberate. The surgeon, cardiac arrest in his sleep. And the poor custodian—simply vanished.

Unknown Speaker

It’s the randomness that chills me. No pattern, no logic. And yet, the mask reappears, folded neatly in another patient’s locker. As if it’s choosing its next host. Reminds me a bit of the cursed artifacts we discussed in the Dr. Vale episode—objects that refuse to be forgotten, no matter how many times you try to rid yourself of them.

Florence Frightengale

When the mask was finally recovered, the real horror was inside. A red smile, drawn where the wearer’s mouth would rest. Ink, or blood—no one could say for certain. The lab couldn’t decide. But it was unmistakable. And when a new staff member tried it on, as a joke, she vanished. CCTV caught her heading into the basement, alone. The door locked from the inside.

Unknown Speaker

It’s always the inside, isn’t it? The hidden things. The smile wasn’t for the world—it was for the wearer. I can’t help but wonder, Florence, if the mask is a mirror, of sorts. Or a trap. And the fact that the door was locked from within... well, that’s a detail I wish I could explain away.

Unknown Speaker

Then the patients began to talk. Whispers in the recovery room—masked people watching them, standing under the lights. But no one on staff matched the description. Security footage showed nothing. Yet, over months, patients described the same figure: a surgical mask with a wide, red grin. One patient died of shock, clutching at their oxygen mask, scratch marks on the plastic. And the mask—found under their bed.

Florence Frightengale

It’s the repetition that unsettles me. Different patients, same vision. And always, the mask is left behind, as if it’s waiting for someone else to notice. I’ve seen this before—spirits that linger, objects that carry memory. But this mask, it’s more persistent. It wants to be seen.

Florence Frightengale

Staff began to see it, too. Night shift nurses, orderlies—reports of a figure in a surgical gown, masked, standing by Room 207. Never speaking, just watching. Security sweeps found nothing, but equipment would be unplugged, lights flickering. The mask would turn up in the laundry chute, still warm. Eventually, Room 207 was closed. No explanation on record. Just... silence.

Unknown Speaker

It’s the silence that’s most unnerving. No threats, no violence—just presence. Like the bell ritual we discussed, when the dead are not properly acknowledged, they linger. But here, it’s as if the mask itself is the ritual, repeating, demanding attention. And the staff—well, they learned to avoid the mask, but it never really left, did it?

Unknown Speaker

Then there was the trainee. A medical student, quiet, gentle—until he found the mask. He wore it during practice, and overnight, he changed. Cold, emotionless, always smiling. He started mimicking procedures on mice, mannequins, anything he could find. He was caught drawing red smiles inside clean masks. And then, he disappeared after trying to intubate a live cat in the breakroom. It’s—well, it’s not the sort of thing you forget.

Florence Frightengale

No, you don’t. I’ve seen possession, or what people call possession, but this was different. It wasn’t as if something took over—it was as if the mask revealed what was already there. Or perhaps, what it wanted to see. The act of drawing the smile, over and over, is almost ritualistic. Like the Bloodletting Choir—repetition, obsession, and a kind of transformation.

Florence Frightengale

Of course, someone tried to destroy it. A supervisor put the mask in the biohazard incinerator, watched the flames. But the fire alarms didn’t go off, the flames died, the door jammed. When they finally opened it, the mask was gone—but the red smile was burned into the steel wall. And the next morning, the mask was back in the OR lounge, folded, waiting.

Unknown Speaker

That’s the bit I can’t get past. I mean, I’ve seen things that defy explanation, but this—fire that won’t burn, marks that remain, objects that return. Is it supernatural, or is it something else? Some kind of... I don’t know, Florence, a psychic residue? Or is the mask itself a kind of living memory, like the hospital in the Mother Mercy episode?

Florence Frightengale

I wish I had an answer. But I do know this: things that want to be destroyed rarely go quietly. And sometimes, the attempt only makes them stronger. Or angrier.

Unknown Speaker

And then, years later, the patient returns. Or someone who looks just like him. No ID, no history, just that same smile. Calm, unresponsive, vital signs steady. A nurse removes his mask—and there’s no mouth, just a faint impression of a smile carved into the skin. The mask vanishes from evidence that night. It’s as if the story is looping, Florence. The mask, the smile, the disappearance. Over and over.

Florence Frightengale

It’s a cycle, Elijah. Some hauntings are like that—unfinished, repeating, always searching for resolution. But with this mask, I’m not sure resolution is possible. Only avoidance.

Florence Frightengale

I suppose I should confess, I’ve seen a mask like this before. During the war, I was given a box of surgical masks. One had a smile drawn inside. I thought it was a joke, until the surgeon who handed it to me was found with his mouth sewn shut. I buried the mask under the chapel floor in Crimea. Two years later, it was mailed back to me. No return address. I never wore a surgical mask again.

Unknown Speaker

That’s... I mean, Florence, that’s chilling. It’s as if the mask is drawn to you, or to anyone who tries to hide it away. Like the tarot deck we discussed—no matter how far you run, it finds its way back. I suppose some objects are just... persistent.

Unknown Speaker

So, if you find a mask with a red smile inside—don’t put it on. It’s already shaped for you. The mask keeps appearing, in sealed rooms, always warm, always freshly folded. Some say they feel lighter after wearing it—right before they disappear. Florence, you always say it doesn’t possess you. It reveals you. I think you’re right. If it smiles back... you’ve already said yes.

Florence Frightengale

Goodnight, dear listener. May your dreams be gentle... and your masks be clean. Elijah, shall we close the file for tonight?

Unknown Speaker

Let’s. Until next time, keep your eyes open—and your masks inspected. Goodnight, Florence.

Florence Frightengale

Goodnight, Elijah. And goodnight to all of you. We’ll see you soon—if the mask lets us.