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

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 Wallace.

The subject line read: “We Need to Talk.”

I never told anyone what happened to the other Greg Wallace. The memories don’t come in order — just fragments, sharp as glass. Sitting outside his house at night, engine off, watching the porch light flicker. The way his breath curled in the cold air when he stepped outside, the way his eyes widened just before my hands reached him.

I don’t remember planning it. Just the weight of him, the struggle, the silence after. I remember dirt under my nails, the crawlspace beneath his house, the pit dug by hand — deeper than I thought I was capable of digging. My arms still ache if I think about it too hard.

Maybe that’s why I noticed the way he sat, the slight shift in his posture — he was compensating, like his shoulders remembered the weight too. The way his fingers drummed against the table, as if testing an old rhythm, made me wonder if muscle memory worked both ways.

Some things don’t stay buried, no matter how deep you dig.

🛒 Affiliate Disclosure: This post contains affiliate links. As an Amazon Associate, I earn a commission from qualifying purchases at no additional cost to you.

👁️ Step inside the surveillance-soaked nightmare of 1984 —Orwell’s prophetic masterpiece where thought is treason, love is forbidden, and Big Brother isn’t just watching… he’s rewriting your memories. Narrated with eerie precision, this audiobook is as chillingly relevant today as ever. Don’t just read it—hear it whisper through your earbuds like a telescreen in your skull. 🕶️📡