Happy Avenue was the kind of place realtors dreamed about and people killed to get into. The lawns were perfectly trimmed, the mailboxes freshly painted, and not a single hedge dared to grow out of place. Every house had a white picket fence. Every window glowed with soft, warm light. And every resident smiled. Always.
Charlotte had lived there for seven years. PTA mom. Casserole queen. Her smile never faltered, even when her husband forgot their anniversary or when little Maxie broke her favorite vase. Because on Happy Avenue, everything was just fine.
But today, Charlotte came home early.
The front door creaked open, unfamiliar in its timing. Her heels clicked across the tile. The living room was bathed in sunshine, as always. But the television blared loud and manic, spilling cheer into the air like confetti.
“Side effects of long-term Happy Pill use may include muscle rigidity, emotional blunting, and facial paralysis. But hey—better smiling than dying, right?” Chip Evergreen, news broadcaster laughed.
"—AND REMEMBER, folks! Today's Happy Pills are now only $299.99 a bottle! Stay smiling, stay safe!" cooed Chip, his teeth dazzling white.
Beside him, his co-anchor Taffy Bloomfield beamed so hard her cheeks twitched. But as the camera zoomed in, her eyes glistened.
"Our city-wide joy index remains stable despite a minor spike in... in today's death toll, which has risen to thousands—"
Her voice cracked. A single sob escaped her throat.
A tear slipped down her face.
Then came the shuffling of feet, fast and heavy. Men in full white uniforms—crisp, spotless—rushed onto the set. Each wore a full-head mask molded into a giant yellow smiling emoji, like mascots, but expressionless and haunting.
"No, please, I can still read the news!" Taffy shrieked, her voice lilting unnaturally high, like a songbird made of glass. "Let me go! I promise to be happy!"
Even as she screamed, her voice retained its chirpy cadence. Her mouth stayed locked in a frozen grin as the masked figures dragged her offscreen. The last thing Charlotte saw was Taffy's heels scraping against the polished floor.
Charlotte turned off the TV, wishing for some peace and quiet.
But was greeted by the sound of moaning.
Charlotte's smile twitched, a small crack in the porcelain mask she wore daily. The moaning grew louder—low, rhythmic, unmistakably intimate. Her fingers tightened around her purse strap. With practiced grace, she smoothed her dress, reset her grin, and began the slow walk down the hallway. Each step fell in time with the creak of the floorboards and the soft, breathy gasps coming from behind the cracked open bedroom door.
Through the narrow crack, Charlotte could see her husband, Gregory, and that damn secretary he had told her not to worry about, Tina, going at it like jackrabbits. Her grin held, but her knuckles whitened against her purse strap, veins pulsing beneath her skin. Her eyes didn’t blink.
Charlotte softly giggled.
Then, without a word, she turned and quietly walked away, her heels making no sound now as she moved toward the back door. Sunlight kissed her shoulders as she stepped into the yard, heading straight for the tool shed.
She pulled open the shed door and calmly walked to the wall lined with tools of every and any kind. Gregory was a collector of them—every make, model, and function imaginable—but he had never once used a single one. Their hired hand kept them gleaming, sharp, and ready.
Charlotte slowly paced along the wall, her fingers grazing metal and wood, picking up tools and placing them back. Until she found Gregory’s favorite: a chainsaw. Top of the line. It promised to cut through anything—steel, timber...
Bone.
She dropped her bag. Then Charlotte picked up the saw and weighed it. It was heavy, but she'd raised a toddler who had too much to eat, never stopped growing, and was spoiled rotten. She had carried Maxie for years.
She checked the fuel. Full.
Still smiling, Charlotte calmly made her way back into the house. She stopped outside the bedroom door. The moaning continued, loud and oblivious. They didn’t know they had been caught.
She pulled the cord. The chainsaw sputtered—then roared to life.
Her smile widened.
Charlotte pushed open the bedroom door and laughed. Light, airy, joyful.
Screams erupted.
Gregory pleaded, his voice trembling, his face frozen in that artificial grin—his eyes wide, silently screaming. Before either of them could scramble apart, Charlotte plunged the chainsaw into Tina’s shoulder. Blood sprayed, splattering the walls and ceiling.
Gregory bolted, slipping on tangled sheets, crashing to the floor with a grunt. He crawled toward the door, frantic—but not fast enough. Charlotte carved into his thigh. The blade tore through flesh and tendon with a wet, ripping sound.
He wailed, dragging himself along the carpet, leaving a thick red trail behind him. Charlotte turned her attention back to Tina.
The bedroom became a nightmare kaleidoscope—screams, Charlotte’s gleeful laughter, the whirring chainsaw, gore in the air like confetti. Gregory clawed at the doorframe, his smile twitching, his face twisted in agony.
Still grinning.
He made it into the hallway.
The screaming stopped.
But the chainsaw didn’t.
Gregory groaned as he crawled, his arms shaking. He reached the front door, smeared it with bloody fingers, shoved it open.
Sunlight greeted him.
Birdsong. A sprinkler ticked rhythmically across the neighbor’s lawn.
He screamed for help.
No one came.
He dragged himself to the driveway, inch by inch, toward his car. Reaching—stretching—
The chainsaw stopped.
Gregory froze.
Silence.
Gregory’s eyes were filled with terror, but his lips never moved—still stretched in that awful grin. Even as he bled out, he smiled.
He listened for the click-clacking of his wife's heels.
Nothing only an eerie silence from his house.
Then—
It started again.
Closer.
Charlotte.
She kicked him over. Her dress was soaked in blood. Chunks of flesh clung to the fabric like petals. Her face—smiling wide, radiant.
Blood spattered her skin. Her eyes sparkled.
Gregory looked around in desperation. Across the street, a woman screamed as a dog tore out her throat. A child giggled nearby, skipping toward the ice cream truck, drenched in gore, waving a dollar bill.
The neighbor’s window was streaked with red. The white picket fence—spattered.
Charlotte leaned over him, eyes locked with his.
She had sawed a way into her husband's heart—the only way she could ever have a permanent place in it.
As the light faded from Gregory’s eyes, Charlotte finally dropped the chainsaw.
She took a deep breath. Her shoulders rose… then fell.
Her gaze swept across Happy Avenue.
It was a blood-drenched wonderland.
Smiling faces. Crimson-streaked picket fences. Broken windows. Shattered families.
Nobody spared her a second glance.
From inside a nearby home, a radio crackled to life.
"...we’re getting more reports of outbreaks in multiple cities. Entire neighborhoods are turning violent. Authorities are urging citizens to stay inside and avoid contact with those showing erratic behavior. Repeat: Do not engage—"
Static.
"...mass psychosis possibly linked to the new government-distributed mood stabilizer... Marketed as 'Happy Pills'..."
A scream in the background. Gunfire. The broadcast wavered, then—
"...Don’t take the Happy Pills. Don’t—"
Silence.
The street sign stood tall and cheery:
HAPPY AVENUE
Blood splattered across the green sign.
On Happy Avenue, no one cries. No one frowns. No one ever stops smiling—even after they die.