The Man in the Funeral Suit

I was sixteen when it happened, and I still can’t shake the image from my mind. It was a Sunday in late November, just after the clocks had changed, so the afternoon was already deepening into a grey twilight. I was cutting across the old fairground field on my way to meet my friend Danny at his flat—a shortcut I’d taken a hundred times before, though I always got a knot in my stomach when I passed the rusted remains of the carousel.

Danny lived on the edge of town, in a block of flats that overlooked the field. He was almost a giant, even then—six foot five and built like a rugby player—but he was the gentlest soul I knew. He always wore that ridiculous bobble hat, even in summer, and he’d be waiting for me at the corner of the car park, leaning against the lamp post with a grin on his face.

That day, as I crested the hill where the old merry-go-round once stood, I saw him. He was standing at the far end of the field, near the path that led to his block. The sun was low behind him, turning him into a black silhouette, but I knew that shape anywhere. He was wearing his usual get-up: a white hoodie and black tracksuit bottoms, and that hat. I waved and broke into a jog, my trainers squelching on the damp grass.

I had to cross a small footbridge over a culvert that ran along the edge of the field. As I stepped onto the wooden slats, I glanced down at the black water rushing below, and when I looked up, Danny wasn’t there. A cold wind swept across the open space, and the hairs on my arms stood up. I called out, ‘Oi, Danny! Where’d you go?’ But there was no reply.

I quickened my pace, my heart thudding against my ribs. I crossed the bridge and started up the gentle slope on the other side. The lamppost where Danny usually waited was empty. I scanned the area—maybe he’d ducked behind the bins near the block. But the bins were lined up against the wall, and there was no sign of him. I stood there, breathing hard, trying to laugh off the unease.

Then I saw him again. He was at the top of the hill, just before the entrance to the housing estate, about a hundred yards ahead. He was standing perfectly still, facing me, but his face was in shadow. I felt a surge of relief—maybe he’d just run ahead. I sprinted towards him, my legs burning, and as I closed the distance, I shouted, ‘What are you doing, mate? Trying to give me a scare?’

I was within twenty feet of him when I noticed something wrong. He was too tall. Danny was tall, but this figure seemed stretched, as if his proportions were slightly off. And his clothes—the white top wasn’t a hoodie; it was a collared shirt, and the black trousers were suit trousers, not joggers. The hat was a flat cap, cocked at an odd angle. And his hands hung at his sides, fingers too long, knuckles too sharp.

I stopped dead. The figure didn’t move. I called out, ‘Danny?’ and my voice came out as a squeak. The figure tilted its head, as if it was listening to something. Then it took a step towards me—a slow, deliberate step that didn’t seem to bend its knees properly. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but my legs were frozen. It took another step. The sun had almost fully set, and the figure was now a black cutout against the purple sky. I felt a cold breath on my neck, though there was no one behind me.

I turned and ran. I didn’t look back, not once. I sprinted across the field, jumped over the bridge, and didn’t stop until I reached the main road, where the streetlights were on and a car passed with a reassuring hum. I leaned against a lamppost, gasping for air, and when I finally looked back, the field was empty.

I made it to Danny’s flat, but he wasn’t there. His mum said he’d gone out an hour earlier to get some snacks from the shop and hadn’t returned. I waited for him, but he never came home. The police searched the field and the estate, but they found nothing. Danny simply vanished, leaving behind his phone and his keys—and that bobble hat, which was found later on the carousel, balanced on the rusted horse’s head.

I never spoke about the figure to anyone, not even to the police. I knew it wasn’t Danny. The real Danny was gone. What I saw at the top of that hill was something else—something that wore his shape like a coat, and used it to lure me closer. It was only years later that I learned the old fairground had been built on the site of a cholera pit, and that the carousel was dismantled a month after my last visit. The workmen tore it down, but they said the horse’s head was missing, along with the entire carousel. To this day, I can’t look at a flat cap or a white collar without feeling my stomach drop. And every time I see a tall man silhouetted against the setting sun, I slow down, cross the road, and walk the long way home.