The Man in the Raincoat

The first time I saw him, I thought he was just another neighbor I hadn’t met yet. It was a Tuesday, the end of October, and I was waiting for the school bus at the end of our gravel drive. Fog hung low over the pine trees that lined the road, and the air smelled of wet leaves and woodsmoke.

My name is Danny, and I was fourteen then, the new kid in the small town of Millbrook, Vermont. We’d moved from the city the previous summer, into an old farmhouse with peeling paint and a porch that tilted. My parents thought the change would be good for us, but I missed the noise of the city. Here, the silence was heavy, and the darkness at night felt absolute.

That morning, I saw him standing at the edge of the property line, about fifty yards down the road. He wore a long, dark raincoat, even though it wasn’t raining, and his hands were shoved deep in his pockets. He was just standing there, watching me. I waved, but he didn’t wave back. I figured he was just a grumpy old man.

The bus came, and I forgot about him until the next day. He was there again, in the same spot, same raincoat. This time, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. I told my mom about him, and she said it was probably Mr. Ellison, who lived down the road and liked to walk in the mornings. She said not to worry.

But I did worry. Because every day that week, he was there, and each day he was a little closer. On Monday, he was at the property line. On Tuesday, he was halfway up our driveway. On Wednesday, he was standing right at the end of the porch steps. I started leaving the house earlier to avoid him, but he was always there, unmoving, like a statue.

On Friday, I decided to confront him. I walked up to him, my heart pounding. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked. He didn’t respond. His face was shadowed by the hood of the raincoat, but I could see a pale, gaunt face with eyes that were too dark. He just stared at me. Then, slowly, he raised his right hand, which had been in his pocket, and pointed at the ground. I looked down and saw a small, rusted key lying in the dead grass. I picked it up, and when I looked back, he was gone.

The key had an old-fashioned tag on it, with the word ‘Shed’ written in faded ink. I knew we had an old shed behind the house, but we’d never opened it. My dad had tried to pick the lock when we moved in, but it was rusted shut. I gripped the key in my fist and ran inside, not telling anyone.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the key and the man. I snuck out of the house at midnight, the key cold in my palm. The moon was full, casting silver light on the shed. I inserted the key into the lock. It turned with a click that echoed in the quiet. The door swung open, and inside was not the empty space I expected.

There was a chair, and on the chair sat a man in a raincoat. His head was tilted down, as if he were asleep. But when I stepped inside, he lifted his head. His face was not the face I’d seen by the road. It was mine. It was my own face, older, with a scraggly beard and hollow cheeks. He smiled, and his teeth were black.

‘You finally opened the door,’ he said, in a voice that was mine but deeper. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ He stood up and walked toward me, and I stumbled backward. ‘I’m you,’ he said, ‘from twenty years ago. I’ve been trying to get back, but you had to open the door.’ I screamed and ran, but when I looked back, the shed was dark, and the key was gone from my hand.

The next day, I told my dad about the man, but when we went to the shed, the lock was rusted shut, and the key didn’t fit. My dad thought I was dreaming. I didn’t tell him about the man’s face. From then on, I never saw the man in the raincoat again. But sometimes, when I walk past a mirror, I see a flicker of movement in the reflection, and I catch a glimpse of a man in a raincoat standing just behind me. And I know that the door is open, and he’s waiting to step through.