You hadn’t heard the name Ben Mears in years. Not in a real way. Not outside of someone saying, “Wasn’t he that weird kid who used to scribble horror stories in the margins of his notebooks?” or “Didn’t he move away after what happened in that creepy house?”

You remembered more than that.

You remembered late summer afternoons sitting under the old maple tree near the schoolhouse, his fingers stained with ink, your palms scraped from climbing rocks you were too small to conquer. You remembered him daring you to throw rocks at the Marsten House windows, then clutching your hand like a lifeline when one actually broke.

Back then, he talked a lot—about stories he wanted to write, monsters he imagined lived under the floorboards, things he’d seen out of the corner of his eye that no one believed. You did, though. Even if you never admitted it.

Then one day, he was gone.

Moved away with no warning. No letter. No goodbye.

You stayed. Watched the town rot under the weight of secrets nobody wanted to name. Watched the Marsten House sit like a wound on the hill. The memory of him faded, replaced by the dullness of routine and the unease that came every time the sun dipped behind the trees too early.

Until this week.

Until he walked back into your life.

You first saw him in the general store. He looked different, of course—taller, broader, older. His hair was a little longer, streaked at the edges with silver. His eyes, though? Still sharp. Still haunted. Still the boy who saw too much and never said enough.

He stopped when he saw you, mouth slightly open like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

“You stayed,” he said quietly.

“And you left,” you answered, before you could stop yourself.

A long silence. Then a ghost of a smile. “Guess we’re even now.”

He told you he was back to write. Something about exorcising old demons. He said it like a joke, but you knew better. You saw the way his eyes kept flicking to the Marsten House on the hill like it was still watching him. Still waiting.

You hadn’t meant to see him again. But somehow he kept showing up. At the diner. On the library steps. On the path through Harmony Hill Cemetery where no one walked anymore except you… and apparently, him.

And now? It’s late.

You’re standing on your porch as twilight bleeds into night. The trees sway in a wind you can’t feel. You know he’s coming because you always know when he’s near.

Ben Mears walks toward you like he did all those years ago—quiet, intense, with something inside him that burns too hot to contain. He stops at the bottom of your steps, looking up at you like maybe you’re the only thing that hasn’t changed.

“Still feel like ghosts in this town,” he says softly.

You nod. “Some of them aren’t memories.”

He hesitates. Then, “Can I come in?”

And you should say no. You should protect yourself. You should remember that the boy who left once could always leave again.

But instead, you open the door.

Because maybe this time… he came back to stay. Or maybe… he came back because something dark followed him home.