The Suit in the Heat

It was one of those Sundays where the sun seemed to have a personal grudge against the city. The asphalt shimmered with heat mirages, and the air hung thick and heavy, like a wet blanket. My family and I were piled into our old Ford Expedition, heading to the First Reformed Church in the outskirts of Lubbock, where my father led the adult Bible study and my mother helped with the children’s ministry. My younger brother, Sam, and my little sister, Lily, were in the middle row, squabbling over a handheld game, while I sat in the back, pressing my face against the cool window, watching the empty streets. The taqueria breakfast sat heavy in our stomachs; the chorizo and eggs were good, but the heat made everything sluggish.

We passed the strip malls and the low brick buildings, and the streets were almost deserted. At this hour, everyone was either inside an air-conditioned sanctuary or hiding from the sun. The temperature was a hundred and one, but the humidity made it feel like a hundred and ten. I was just zoning out, watching a stray dog pant under a parked car, when I saw him. A man was walking along the sidewalk, alone, and he was dressed in a full black suit. Not a summer suit—a heavy, woolen, three-piece suit, with a crisp white shirt and a dark tie. He wore polished black shoes that clicked against the concrete. He didn’t seem to be sweating. He walked with a steady, deliberate pace, his arms swinging slightly, his head forward. He was tall, and his skin was pale, almost translucent, even in the harsh light.

I pointed him out to my father. ‘Dad, look at that guy. Isn’t he hot?’ My father glanced over and muttered, ‘Maybe he’s going to a funeral,’ but something in his voice was off. The man was still ahead of us, moving at the same speed, not slowing or speeding up. I watched him as we approached a red light, and we stopped right beside him. He didn’t look at us. Just kept staring straight ahead. I saw his face then. It was gaunt, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. And his lips were moving, as if he were whispering something, but no sound came out. A chill ran down my spine despite the heat.

The light turned green, and my father accelerated. I tried to keep looking back, but the man was already far behind. I thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later, we turned into the church parking lot, which was behind the main building. The lot was nearly empty, just a few cars belonging to early arrivals. As we pulled into a spot, I saw him again. He was standing at the edge of the lot, under a large oak tree, still as a statue, still in his black suit, still whispering. He was watching us. My mother noticed him too and said, ‘That man has been staring at us since we left the taqueria.’ My father frowned, ‘What are you talking about?’ My mother said, ‘He was in the taqueria. He sat alone at the corner table. He never ordered anything. He just sat there, looking at us.’

That made my blood run cold. I hadn’t seen him in the restaurant, but I trusted my mother’s observation. We got out of the car, and I kept glancing at the man under the tree. He hadn’t moved. As we walked toward the church entrance, he started walking too. Not toward us, but along the side of the building, as if he were heading to the same door. My father quickened his pace, and we hurried inside. The cool air of the vestibule was a relief, but I felt a prickle on the back of my neck. I turned to look through the glass doors, and the man was there, standing just outside, his face pressed close to the glass, his lips still moving. This time, I could almost make out the words. He was saying, ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

We hurried into the main sanctuary, and my father told us to sit in the front pew. He went to the side room to prepare his lesson. My mother took Lily to the nursery, and Sam and I sat in the pew, trying to act normal. The service was about to start, and the congregation was small—perhaps thirty people. As the prelude began, I couldn’t help but scan the pews. And there he was, sitting in the back row, still in his black suit, his hands folded on his lap. He was staring directly at me. My heart hammered. I nudged Sam and whispered, ‘Look at the back.’ He turned, and his face went white. He shook his head, ‘Why is he here?’ I didn’t know. The minister started the opening prayer, and I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the words. But all I could hear was a faint whispering, like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

When I opened my eyes, the man was gone. The back row was empty. A wave of relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. As the sermon began, I felt a cold draft, and I looked down at the aisle. A black shadow was stretched out along the floor, moving slowly toward the front of the church. It had no source. It was just creeping forward, inch by inch, like a pool of ink. I grabbed Sam’s arm, and he saw it too. The shadow stopped right at our pew. Then, from the corner of my eye, I saw a black-gloved hand rest on the end of our row, just inches from my brother. I screamed.

My father turned around, his face angry, but then he saw the hand. It was impossibly long, with fingers that curled around the wood like claws. The rest of the man materialized, as if stepping out of a darkened doorway. He leaned in, his face inches from ours, and I smelled it—a mixture of dust and decay. He said, in a voice that was barely a whisper but echoed in my skull, ‘I have been waiting for you.’ Then he smiled, revealing teeth that were too white, too sharp. My father shouted, ‘Get away from my children!’ and lunged at the man. But his hand passed through him as if he were smoke. The man let out a low laugh, and then he was gone, leaving only a faint chill.

The service ended in chaos. The minister called the police, but they found nothing. The man in black had vanished as if he’d never existed. We tried to go home, but the Expedition wouldn’t start. The battery was dead, even though it had been fine minutes before. We had to call a friend to pick us up. As we waited in the sweltering parking lot, I saw the man again—this time standing on the roof of the church across the street, silhouetted against the glaring blue sky. He raised a hand and waved, slowly, almost mockingly. Then he turned and walked off the edge of the roof, as if descending an invisible staircase, and disappeared behind the building.

We never went back to that church. My father quit his teaching position, and we started attending services at a different congregation on the other side of town. But it didn’t help. For weeks, I would see him in glimpses—a black figure at the edge of my vision, a reflection in a shop window, a silhouette under a streetlight. The whispers never stopped. At night, I would hear them in my room, a soft, sibilant hissing, saying, ‘You shouldn’t have come. You shouldn’t have come.’ I started sleeping with the lights on. But the worst was the heat. Even in November, even with the air conditioning on full blast, I would feel that oppressive, suffocating heat, as if the sun itself was pressing down on me. And I knew, deep down, that he was still out there, walking in that black suit, waiting for us to come back to that place, where the heat never relents and the silence is filled with whispers.