THE PEOPLE WHO WERE ALREADY HERE

The story is about a teenager who gets caught up in a whole lot of strange things.

Chapter One
The Man at the Bus Stop

The first thing Eli noticed was that the man at the bus stop wasn't there yesterday.
That wouldn't have been strange by itself.
People came and went from the little shelter on Mercer Street every morning. Teachers, office workers, students, old women carrying shopping bags. Eli had seen hundreds of faces through the bus window without ever remembering a single one.
But this man was different.
He was certain he'd seen him before.
He just couldn't remember where.
The man stood beneath the faded blue sign, perfectly still despite the cold. He wore a dark gray coat buttoned all the way to his neck. No hat. No gloves. No phone in his hands.
He wasn't waiting for the bus.
At least, he didn't look like he was.
He was watching the road.
Eli slowed as he approached the shelter.
The bus was still three minutes away.
“Morning,” Eli said.
The man looked at him.
“Good morning,” the man replied.
His eyes were pale.
Not unusually pale. Not enough to be frightening.
Just pale enough that Eli noticed.
Eli moved to the other end of the shelter.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then the man said, “You're Eli Mercer.”
Eli turned.
“Sorry?”
The man's expression didn't change.
“You're Eli Mercer.”
Eli stared at him.
“Do I know you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know my name?”
The man looked toward the road again.
“I've seen you before.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Eli frowned.
“I wasn't here yesterday.”
“I know.”
The answer came so casually that Eli almost laughed.
Almost.
The bus appeared at the end of the street.
Eli looked at it.
When he looked back, the man was gone.
There was no sound of footsteps.
No opening door.
Nothing.
Just an empty bus shelter.
Eli stepped outside and looked down the sidewalk.
Nothing.
The bus pulled up.
The doors opened.
Eli hesitated.
Then he got on.
He chose a seat near the back and watched the shelter disappear behind him.
For the rest of the ride to school, he told himself the same thing.
It had been a weird conversation.
Nothing more.
By lunch, he'd almost forgotten about it.
Almost.
“You're staring at your food.”
Eli looked up.
Maya was sitting across from him, chewing on a sandwich.
“I'm thinking.”
“That's dangerous.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You're doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you're trying to figure something out.”
Eli looked down at his tray.
“Do I have a face for that?”
“You have about twelve faces.”
“I don't.”
“You absolutely do.”
Eli smiled despite himself.
Then the classroom door opened.
Their history teacher walked in.
Mr. Hale.
He put a stack of papers on the desk.
“Morning.”
Everyone answered.
Eli looked at him.
Something felt wrong.
Mr. Hale had taught him history for almost a year.
He knew the man's voice. His mannerisms. The way he tapped his pen against his desk when thinking.
But today, Eli suddenly had the strangest feeling that he was seeing him for the first time.
Mr. Hale looked directly at him.
For one brief second, their eyes met.
And Mr. Hale smiled.
Not a friendly smile.
A knowing one.
Then he turned toward the board.
“Today,” he said, “we're going to talk about things people remember incorrectly.”
Eli's stomach tightened.
Maya leaned toward him.
“Okay,” she whispered. “That was creepy.”
Eli didn't answer.
Because Mr. Hale had started writing on the board.
And beneath the date, he had written three words.
MEMORY IS UNRELIABLE.