FLASH FICTION PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR

The New Hire Has My Old Boss’s Name. And His Mannerisms.

They introduced him at the Monday morning meeting. A handshake, a forced smile, and then his name — Greg Wallace.

The room went still for half a second longer than it should have. My stomach tightened. It wasn’t an uncommon name, I told myself. Coincidences happen.

Then he sat down.

Same chair. Same slight lean, but a little bit shorter, as if the weight of authority had settled there long before he did. His fingers tapped against the table in that maddening, rhythmic way — the same way.

I told myself I was imagining it. That’s what you do when someone dies, right? You look for ghosts in the gaps they left behind. But Greg Wallace was buried. I knew that because I had gone to his funeral. I had seen the casket lower into the ground.

By Wednesday, I stopped sleeping well. The way he spoke — measured, clipped — was identical. The way he cleared his throat before dismissing a question. The way he signed his emails: Best, Greg.

On Thursday, I caught him watching me. Not in the way a new hire studies their coworkers, eager to fit in. It was more like recognition. Like he knew me. Like he was waiting for me to admit something.

Friday morning, I checked my inbox. There was a meeting invitation. One-on-one with Greg…