The Lost Friend's Return: Unwanted Companion

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The Lost Friend's Return: Unwanted Companion

It had been seven years since Michael disappeared. One moment he was laughing with us at Crescent Lake, the next he was gone—vanished into the woods without a trace. We were only thirteen back then, but the memory still haunted me.

I never thought I’d see him again. Not until last Tuesday.

It started with a knock on my door at exactly 2:03 AM. I groggily stumbled down the stairs, annoyed and confused. When I opened it, there he was—Michael Barnes, my childhood best friend. Except he looked... wrong.

His clothes were tattered and soaked, his skin pale and stretched. His eyes, once bright green, were dull and sunken. But it was undeniably him.

"Hey, Chris," he said with a crooked smile. "You miss me?"

My breath caught in my throat. "Michael? Is it really you?"

"Of course it is. Mind if I come in?"

I hesitated. Every instinct screamed no. But curiosity—and guilt—won.

"Yeah, sure. Come in."

He walked past me like nothing had changed, like he hadn't missed seven years of life. I stared, still trying to process it.

"Where have you been? Everyone thought you were... dead."

"I was lost," he said, taking a seat on the couch. "But now I'm back. And I need your help."

The way he said it chilled me. "With what?"

"You’ll see. It’ll be like old times."

Over the next few days, Michael shadowed me everywhere. To the grocery store. The gym. Even work. He never explained how he found me, or where he had been. Just said he was "happy to be back."

But strange things started happening.

My cat hissed violently when Michael entered a room. Electronics flickered near him. At night, I’d wake to find him staring at me from the corner of my bedroom.

"Why don’t you sleep, Michael?"

"Sleep is a human thing," he replied flatly.

That’s when I knew—whatever came back, it wasn’t my friend.

I called our old friend Tara for help. We hadn’t spoken in years, but I needed someone else to see what I saw.

"He’s back?" she gasped. "That’s impossible. I saw them pull his jacket from the lake. No body. No footprints. Just... gone."

"He’s different now. Off. Like something’s wearing his face."

We agreed to confront him together. That night, Tara came over just after sunset. We found Michael sitting on the floor, humming the lullaby our moms used to sing to us at sleepovers.

"Michael," Tara said carefully, "where did you go that night?"

He looked up slowly. "I went home."

"Home?"

"To the place beneath. They welcomed me. They showed me the truth. And now I’ve brought a piece of it back."

He smiled again, wider this time. Too wide.

Suddenly, the lights went out. A cold wind swept through the room. Tara grabbed my arm.

"We need to go. Now."

We ran to my car, Michael’s figure watching us from the front window. As we drove, I tried to call the police—but my phone was dead. So was Tara’s.

"We need help. Someone who knows this kind of thing," she said.

We ended up at Old Man Harrow’s cabin on the edge of town. A recluse, most people thought he was crazy. But he knew stories. Supernatural ones.

He listened carefully. When we were done, he lit a candle and said, "What you saw wasn’t your friend. It was a Fetch. A mimic. Sometimes, when someone vanishes in thin places—places where this world touches another—something else returns instead."

"How do we get rid of it?" I asked.

"You don’t. It’s bonded to you now. It needs your memories, your connections. That’s how it survives. You let it in."

I felt sick. "Then what do we do?"

"Sever the bond. Show it you’re not afraid. Burn the tie."

The tie? My photo album. My old friendship bracelet. My letters to Michael.

We went back the next morning. The house was cold. Michael stood in the kitchen, staring blankly.

"You left," he said. "That wasn’t very friendly."

"You’re not Michael," I said. "Not anymore."

He stepped toward me. "But I can be. Just let me stay. Forever."

Tara threw the photo album into the fireplace. I added the bracelet and letters. The flames roared.

Michael—or the thing—screamed. His voice distorted, echoing like ten people at once.

Then, silence. And he was gone.

Days passed. The house felt warmer. My cat purred again. Tara stayed over most nights. We never spoke of it in detail, but we both knew—it wasn’t over.

Because sometimes, I hear a knock at the door at 2:03 AM. And I don’t answer.

I don’t want to know if it’s him again.

But last night was different. When I looked through the peephole, I didn’t see Michael. I saw my own reflection—only it smiled back at me. I jumped back, slammed the door, and locked every bolt I had.

Today, Tara noticed something odd in one of our old group photos. In the background—barely visible—was the same figure from the peephole. Long-limbed. Smiling. Watching.

We took the photo to Harrow. He studied it, his expression grave. "The bond isn’t broken. It’s shifted. Now it wants more."

"What do you mean, more?"

"It doesn’t just want you now. It wants everyone connected to the memory of him. Friends. Family. Anyone who remembers."

That night, we burned every trace of Michael from our past. Old schoolbooks, yearbooks, even digital backups. But even as we did, the knocks continued. Always at 2:03 AM.

And then, the whispers started. Faint at first, growing louder each night.

"You let me in once. You’ll do it again."

Tara began forgetting things. First small—her favorite song, her old locker combination. Then big. Our shared memories of summer trips. Michael's name.

I realized the Fetch was erasing us—rewriting the world to make space for itself.

Now, I write this down not to share a story, but to leave a warning. If a friend long lost knocks at your door in the middle of the night... do not open it.

Because what comes back isn't always what was lost.