The Man in the Suit

Carla used to think that she knew about the world. A seasoned therapist, she had worked her way through her share of emotional traumas. When she began with Marcus, an introverted 10-year-old boy, she found all the world presuppositions crumbling down around her.

Marcus had been sent to her after a threatening episode at school. He'd been found sitting in the hallway, muttering to himself about people who weren't there. His mother, a practical but compassionate woman, had asked for assistance, but neither of them had any idea of the severity of Marcus's behavior.

The boy was quiet, reserved, and never spoke a word. When he did, it was of some other man in a black suit who would be hovering on the periphery of his line of vision. Marcus told her that he would hear him talking to him things that no one else would hear. The boy's eyes were dark, mysterious places she could not find an opening to.

Carla had worked with kids for over ten years. She'd had children who'd been through phases—imaginary playmates, fear, trauma—but there was one aspect of Marcus that unsettled her. His silence was not shyness or adaptation. There was something else, something haunted in his eyes.

One afternoon, Marcus sat facing her in the same way, his tightly knotted hands clasped in front of him, his face twisted into a scowl of concentration. He was staring at the corner of the room.

"Marcus," Carla asked softly, "who do you see?"

The boy said nothing. Then, without moving, he said, his voice low and commanding, "He's watching me."

Carla's skin tingled. She looked toward the corner of the room in the direction of his stare, but nothing was present. Only the soft buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead.

The suit man?" she inquired, attempting to appear nonchalant.

Marcus nodded. His eyes never left the corner. "He follows me wherever I am. He speaks at night. I do not enjoy it."

Carla wriggled uncomfortably in her seat, trying not to glance over her shoulder. "What does he tell you?"

Marcus's lip trembled a fraction. "He tells me. I have to tell you. I have to tell you. He's waiting for you to ask.".

Carla felt a shiver run up the back of her neck. Never had the boy been so brusque, so absolute. She extended her hand, trying to catch his eye. "Tell me what, Marcus?"

The boy's voice dropped to a whisper. "He is not human. He is not a man. He is something else. He is. not a man."

Carla's breath caught in her throat. She lost a beat. "What are you saying he's not a man?

Marcus swallowed with difficulty, his eyes bulging. "I don't know. He doesn't let me."

Carla scowled, fighting to keep from being angry. "Who is this man, Marcus? What do you want?"

The boy's gaze finally broke, fastening onto hers. For an instant, they locked and Carla felt something deep in his eyes—something so brimming with fear and with loss that her stomach revolted.

I don't know," Marcus wailed, "but he'll make you see him." Days went by, and the sessions went on. Carla grew more and more tense. When Marcus came, he would stare at some object in the room, his words increasingly fragmented. "He's here," Marcus would say. "He's behind you." Carla dismissed it, told herself it was all the boy's imagination—a racing mind playing tricks. But she couldn't help feeling that something was ever so slightly awry. She found herself doing little things in the office that didn't quite add up. Little, small things. A door left a little ajar when she knew she'd closed it. A fleeting shadow out of the corner of her eye when there was no one there.

It was at its strongest on a Thursday evening. The sun had already gone down, and Carla was walking home when she could hear the unmistakable rhythm of footsteps behind her. She paused to check if Marcus was behind her, but there was no one there.

Her heart was pounding. Was she dreaming? She glanced at the clock. It was almost Marcus's appointment time.

He was angrier than usual when he arrived. His hands trembled as he grasped the chair arms, his gaze darting around the room. "He's coming for you," Marcus whispered, his voice shaking. "You have to listen to me. He's coming tonight."

Carla swallowed hard, attempting to calm down. "Who, Marcus? Who's visiting?

"The man. The thing," Marcus breathed, his voice dropping into a soft whisper. "You'll be seeing him soon enough. He's always been behind the scenes."

The air chilled suddenly in the room. Carla looked around, sensing the cold encumbrance on her breast. "Marcus, you need to get a hold of yourself. You need to focus. You are safe here."

But the boy shook his head wildly. "No, no, I'm not safe. He's coming. He's already inside. Look!"

Carla moved quietly to the corner of the room, and then, for the very first time, she saw something. A shadow. A figure on the periphery of her sight, something not quite human. The room plunged into darkness in an instant, and the air became cold.

She felt it then—the oppressive weight of the room, pressing down on her, the sense that something unreasonable was watching her.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, it vanished.

Carla spoke to Marcus, his face white as a sheet. His eyes were brimming with tears, fixed on her. "You see him, don't you?"

Carla was at a loss for words. She nodded slowly, her breath caught in her throat.

Marcus breathed softly, "You will never be alone.".

Carla never laid eyes on Marcus after that. The boy vanished into thin air the day he stood on Carla's doorstep. His mother explained that he had just stopped returning home, but when the police arrived to find him, they couldn't. But Carla did know. She knew because there was an apparition every night following that night, the ghost presence in the edge of her bed. It would wait and observe. And this time it was not Marcus who was calling her name into the darkness. It was the man in the suit.