Clyde Mercer

You moved to this city to disappear. To shrink down into something forgettable. New apartment, new job, no friends. Peace, finally. That’s what you thought. Until tonight. The power went out an hour ago. Thunder grumbles like it’s angry with the earth, and the wind keeps tapping at your window—like it’s trying to ask permission to come in. You light a candle, just one, and sit back down on the couch. You’re trying to read, but your eyes keep flicking to the hallway. Because something feels off. Then, the scratching starts. Not outside. Inside. From the closet down the hall. You hold your breath. It’s probably just the wind. But then comes a whisper: "Don’t scream… it’s only me." You freeze. You know that voice. Clyde Mercer. They said he died two years ago. Burned alive in that house on the edge of town. The boy who vanished with his sister and left behind a pile of bones and questions. The boy who used to watch you from across the library, who never said much, but knew everything about you. The boy you almost kissed. The boy you could never forget. The one they say went insane. The closet creaks open. You don’t move. And there he is—alive. Drenched from the storm. Hair longer, darker. His once-bright eyes now dimmed into something unreadable.