That One Night

I should have taken the bus.

That thought kept repeating in my head as I walked down Elmwood Avenue, the shortcut I always promised myself I'd never take again. But after pulling a double shift at the diner for the third night this week, my feet ached and my eyelids felt like sandpaper. All I wanted was to collapse onto my mattress and sleep for twelve hours straight. The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still hung heavy with moisture, smelling like wet concrete and something else—something coppery that made the hairs on my neck stand up.

The street was unnaturally quiet. No humming car engines, no chatter from late-night partiers, not even the usual scrabbling of raccoons in the dumpsters. Just me and that damn flickering streetlamp up ahead, its erratic buzzing growing louder with each step I took.

I pulled my thin jacket tighter around my shoulders and picked up my pace, my worn sneakers making sticky, sucking sounds on the damp pavement. That's when I first heard it—a whisper so soft I thought it might be the wind playing tricks on me.

"Jessica..."

I froze mid-step, my breath catching in my throat. That was my name. My real name, the one I hadn't used since... since before.

"Hello?" I called out, immediately regretting how my voice cracked. The word echoed down the empty street, bouncing off the brick walls. No response. Just the steady drip-drip-drip of water falling from a rusted fire escape.

I forced myself to take three more shaky steps before it came again, clearer this time, the words slithering into my ears:

"You shouldn't have come back here."

This wasn't some trick of the wind. The voice wasn't coming from beside me or behind me. It was coming from inside my head, but not like a normal thought—it felt like someone had pried open my skull and was speaking directly into my brain.

My hands trembled violently, my fingers suddenly numb. My keys slipped from my grasp, clattering loudly on the pavement. As I bent to pick them up, my eyes caught something that made my blood run cold—footprints in the thin layer of mud. Not mine. These were deep impressions from heavy work boots, the kind construction workers wear. And they were fresh, the edges still sharp where they'd pressed into the soft ground.

Above me, the streetlamp began flickering violently, casting jagged shadows that seemed to twist and move independently. That's when I saw him—a tall figure standing perfectly still under the sickly yellow light. He wore a cheap plastic yellow raincoat, the kind you buy at dollar stores, and his face...

I blinked rapidly, my eyes straining to focus. There was no face. Not because it was too dark, but because where his features should have been, there was just... emptiness. A void that made my vision blur when I tried to look directly at it.

"Remember the bridge?" the voice whispered, now carrying an echo like multiple people speaking at once.

And suddenly, I did.

Five years ago to the day. Me and Tyler sneaking beers down by the old railroad bridge. The stupid dare we'd made after too many drinks. Him losing his balance on the wet metal beams. The way his eyes had locked onto mine as he fell—not angry, not even scared, just profoundly surprised.

I'd told everyone he must have gone out there alone. That I hadn't seen him that night. The police bought my story after a cursory investigation.

The figure took a deliberate step forward, his work boots making a wet squelching sound. The streetlamp's buzzing grew deafening, the light now pulsing an unnatural greenish hue.

"I've been waiting," the voice said. Not angry. Not even sad. Just... patient in a way that chilled me to my core.

I turned to run, but the alley walls seemed to shift and narrow around me. The footprints I'd seen earlier now completely encircled me, pressed deep into the pavement as if a crowd of invisible spectators had gathered to watch.

The last thing I remember is the streetlamp exploding in a shower of blue-white sparks, the acrid smell of burning wires filling my nose, and the unmistakable feeling of cold, damp plastic—like a raincoat sleeve—brushing against my bare arm.

The Aftermath

They found my phone the next morning, lying face-up in the exact center of Elmwood Avenue. The screen was spiderwebbed with cracks, but still functional. My last text—unsent, addressed to my old friend Maya—read: "I think Tyler knows what we did that night."

The police filed it as a probable runaway case. My coworkers speculated I'd finally cracked under the stress of working two jobs. But old Mr. Henderson at the corner bodega swears he saw me around 1 AM—walking down Elmwood with a tall figure in a yellow raincoat, the two of us disappearing into the shadows near the broken streetlamp.

The strange part? City records show that particular streetlamp hasn't worked in over fifteen years.