The Last Suit

It was the third week of October when the call came. My partner, Leo, had been friends with Marcus for over two decades, their bond forged in the crucible of shared childhood summers and the quiet tragedy of adult disappointments. I’d met Marcus about six months after Leo and I moved in together, and he was a constant presence in our little apartment—a lanky, chain-smoking handyman with a haunted look in his eyes. He’d help Leo fix the leaky faucet or patch the drywall, and in return, we’d feed him and let him crash on our couch when the tremors got too bad.

Marcus had a problem, a bad one. Pills, powders, whatever he could find. And when the depression sank its claws in, he’d spiral, calling Leo at all hours, his voice a thin, frayed wire. We did what we could, letting him stay as often as he needed, always hoping he’d stay long enough to break the cycle. But he’d always get that restless itch, that pull to go back home, even though he knew the dealers on his street were waiting like patient spiders.

That weekend, Marcus’s grandfather died. The old man had been the only real family Marcus had left, the only person who seemed to understand his demons. When the news hit, Marcus did what he always did in crisis: he drank and he drugged, and he sank into that black pit of self-pity. He got it into his head that Leo was angry with him, that he was a burden, and that conviction ate at him like acid. I tried to reassure him over the phone, but his words were slurred, barely coherent, a mess of grief and fear.

Then, late that night, the phone rang again. Leo was asleep, so I picked up. It was Marcus, his voice cracking. ‘Do you have a suit?’ he asked, the words thick and wet. ‘A dark one, for the funeral.’ I said yes, we had one, though I was puzzled. Then he started crying, a raw, hiccupping sound that made my skin crawl. ‘Why is Leo mad at me?’ he sobbed. ‘I know he is. I can feel it. I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?’

I tried to soothe him, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept repeating that Leo was angry, that he was a terrible friend, that he didn’t deserve to live. I was about to hand the phone to Leo when Marcus said, almost casually, ‘I’m going to take care of it. I’ve got a plan.’ The line went dead. I stood there, the dial tone buzzing in my ear, a cold knot tightening in my stomach.

Leo woke up, groggy, and I told him what happened. His face went pale. He tried calling Marcus back, but there was no answer. We drove to his place, a run-down house two streets over from the drug dealers’ corner. The door was unlocked. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and despair. We called his name, but there was no answer. Then we saw the note on the coffee table, written in a shaky hand: ‘I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to the old mill.’

The old mill was a decaying structure on the edge of town, a place we’d all explored as kids. It had been abandoned for decades, its machinery rusted and silent. We drove there, heartbeats pounding in our ears. The moon was full, casting long shadows across the gravel lot. The mill loomed before us, a black silhouette against the stars.

We found Marcus in the main floor, hanging from a beam by a length of rope. He was wearing a suit—an old, ill-fitting one that smelled of mothballs. His face was a mask of peace, almost serene. But as we cut him down and laid him on the floor, something felt wrong. The suit seemed too big for him, the cuffs frayed, the fabric oddly cold. Then I noticed the label inside the collar: a faded, unfamiliar brand, one I’d never seen before.

We called the police, and they took his body away. We thought it was over, but then the dreams started. Leo would wake up in the night, screaming, saying he saw Marcus standing at the foot of the bed, wearing that same suit, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. I had my own nightmares—of a figure in a rusty elevator descending into a dark basement, the suit jacket flapping like a shroud.

A week later, we found a package on our doorstep. Inside was the suit, cleaned and pressed, folded neatly. There was a note: ‘He wanted you to have this. He said you’d understand.’ We threw it away, but the next morning, it was back, resting on our kitchen table like an invitation.

The habit of grief is a strange thing. We started wearing the suit, taking turns, as if it might bring us closer to him. Leo was the first to try it on. For a moment, his eyes glazed over, and he spoke in Marcus’s voice, apologizing for being a burden, for ruining everything. I tore it off him, but the damage was done.

Now, at night, I hear soft footsteps in the hallway, and the rustle of fabric. Leo is in bed beside me, asleep, but I know it’s not him I hear. There’s a new presence in our home, a third tenant who never leaves. And in the darkness, I swear I can smell mothballs and old despair.

I still have the suit. It hangs in our closet, waiting. I don’t wear it, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of it in the mirror, and for just a moment, I see Marcus’s hollow eyes staring back at me, and his lips form the same silent question: ‘Why is Leo mad at me?’ I try to answer, but my throat closes up, and I realize that some questions are never meant to be answered, only worn—like a suit that slowly becomes your own skin.

We buried Marcus in a different suit, but the other one remains, a relic of his last request. The funeral was a gray, rainy day, and as we lowered the coffin, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, but no one was there. Leo was on the other side of the grave, his face hollow. I knew then that Marcus’s story wasn’t over.

Months have passed. The seasons have changed, but the chill in our home persists. The suit hangs in the closet, undisturbed. One night, I woke to find Leo standing over me, wearing it. His eyes were black, and his voice was a whisper of rust. ‘He’s still out there,’ he said, ‘waiting. He wants his suit back.’ I screamed, but when I blinked, Leo was asleep in bed, and the closet door was open.

I can’t throw the suit away. Every time I try, something stops me—a phone call, a knock at the door, a sudden weakness in my knees. I’ve come to believe that Marcus left something of himself inside that fabric, a final thread connecting him to this world. And I’m terrified of what happens if I let it go.

Last night, I heard music coming from the closet—a soft, mournful tune that Marcus used to hum. I opened the door, and the suit was swaying gently, as if someone were inside it. The pockets were turned inside out, and I found a folded piece of paper. It was a letter, addressed to me.

In his handwriting, it said: ‘I wanted to say goodbye, but I couldn’t find the words. I’m wearing the suit now, but it’s not mine anymore. It’s yours. Take care of Leo. And don’t worry—I’m not angry. I’m just waiting.’

The letter ended there. But as I read it, the suit’s sleeve brushed against my hand, and I felt a yawning emptiness inside me. I know that waiting is the hardest part, and that someday, the suit will call me too. And I’ll have to answer.