FLASH FICTION PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR

I Never Corrected Them When They Said He’d Just Stepped Out

It started as a convenience. The barista at the café near his apartment asked where he was, and I shrugged. “Probably just stepped out.” That was the last time I spoke of him in past tense.

His absence became a shape I could mold. When his landlord knocked, I let my hand linger on the doorknob before saying, “Just missed him.” I saw the man glance over my shoulder, peering past me into the hollow silence of the living room. His hesitation stretched, thin and expectant. “Tell him rent’s overdue,” he said. I nodded, as if I would pass the message along.

Friends stopped by less frequently, but I learned their patterns. If they called, I answered. If they knocked, I spoke through the door, voice light and apologetic. “Bathroom,” I’d say. “Give him a sec.” They always did.

Weeks passed. The mailbox filled. The dishes in his sink yellowed with age. The smell settled, slow and creeping, like it belonged there. Still, no one questioned me. They wanted to believe he was just out, just missing their visit by a hair’s breadth.

Then, one evening, I found a notice slipped under the door. Final Eviction Warning.

I sat in his chair, considering. The neighbors expected him. The barista still asked about him. His world had not yet noticed the truth. I drummed my fingers against the armrest.

It seemed I had no choice.

I would have to be him now.