Justin

When I think back to the '80s, I remember waking up on cold mornings to play with my second-hand toys. There was my Etch-A-Sketch, its screen cracked and leaking silver-grey dust, and my BigTrak, which was missing a wheel but still trundled valiantly across the carpet. When my parents were out, my brother and I would sneak into the living room, fire up the BetaMax, and watch pirated horror movies. Those grainy tapes brought us all the classics: vampires stalking shadowy streets, werewolves howling under silver moons, and zombies clawing their way out of shallow graves.

There was one movie, though, that haunted me more than the rest. It was about a puppet that hid under the bed, waiting for its moment to strike. We’d clear the ashes from the hearth, get a good fire going, and dare each other to peek under the sofa or behind the curtains, as though the puppet might leap out at us.

But none of those monsters scared me as much as Justin.

Justin didn’t just hide under my bed. He hid in my dreams, too. He’d sit in the corner of my mind, watching, waiting. At first, I thought he was just part of my nightmares, like the puppet or the zombies. But then I started seeing him during the day.

I’d catch glimpses of him in the garden, his silhouette framed by the overgrown hedges. I’d slam the curtains shut, trying to block him out, and turn back to the safety of my horror movies. But Justin was always there, lurking just at the edge of my vision. His presence was suffocating, like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

I hated Justin. I hated the way he followed me, the way he seemed to know all my thoughts and fears. But when my parents died, I was grateful for him.

They died on a cold February morning. I don’t remember how—or maybe I just don’t want to remember. All I know is that I couldn’t face the sight of them lying there, still and silent. Justin told me what to do. He said it would be easier if I moved them out of the house, out to the garden where the ground was soft from the rain. I didn’t want to do it, but Justin wouldn’t let me stop.

“It’s what needs to be done,” he whispered, his voice as cold as the winter air.

Afterwards, I sat by the fire, staring at the flickering flames. The house felt empty without them, but Justin stayed. He sat beside me, his expression unreadable, and told me not to worry.

“What we did was nothing compared to what people do in those movies,” he said.

I believed him.

But the smell of smoke must have given us away. A neighbour saw it rising from the chimney, even though my parents should have been at work. The police came the next day, knocking on the door with Mary, the old woman who lived across the road. I didn’t answer at first, but they kept knocking until I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

When I opened the door, they asked me my name. I stared at them, confused. My name? I didn’t know what to say. My mind was a blank slate, like an Etch-A-Sketch shaken clean.

“Justin,” Mary said, her voice trembling. “His name is Justin.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. Justin? That wasn’t my name. But as I turned to look over my shoulder, I saw him standing there, his eyes cold and empty. He smiled, and I knew then that I’d never escape him. Justin wasn’t just a part of my nightmares.

He was me.