The Missing Man in My New Boss’s Face

I SAW MY NEW BOSS’S FACE ON THE MISSING PERSONS WEBSITE

My coffee went cold in my hand as I scrolled through the archived news articles about that old cold case during my lunch break, just trying to escape the spreadsheets for a few minutes. Then I saw the picture – a grainy, black-and-white photo dated twenty years ago, showing a young man with eyes that looked utterly terrified, listed as ‘missing, presumed endangered’.

My breath hitched, a sudden, sharp intake of air that felt like swallowing tiny shards of glass, and the usual office hum outside my cubicle seemed to vanish entirely. It was him. Impossible, but absolutely him. The shape of his jaw, the way one eyebrow quirked slightly higher, even the knot of his tie looked eerily familiar.

The name beneath the photo was close, just one letter different, but the date, the location mentioned… it all fit together with strange, terrifying precision. He was supposed to be a different person from a different city with a completely different past, but this said otherwise. What do I do? Tell someone? Pretend I never saw it? The harsh overhead office light felt suddenly blinding, making my head spin with the implications.

I whispered, “That’s you, isn’t it?” to the screen, feeling a sudden chill despite the warm office air, the kind you get right before a storm hits. My cursor hovered over the ‘Print’ button, fingers trembling, trying to decide what was happening.

Suddenly, the light on my desk flickered off, plunging my screen into darkness.

👇 Full story continued in the comments…Suddenly, the light on my desk flickered off, plunging my screen into darkness.

A sharp intake of breath, louder than the last, escaped my lips. Not just my light – the entire row seemed to dip into shadow, then blinked back on almost instantly. A power surge? My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against bone. The office hum hadn’t quite returned to full volume yet. Had anyone else noticed?

Then I heard it. Footsteps. Slow, measured, coming from down the main corridor. My fingers scrambled, instinctively trying to minimize the browser window, but the screen was already awake again, displaying the horrifying image like a beacon in the restored light.

The footsteps stopped just outside my cubicle entrance. A shadow fell across the floor.

“Trouble with the power, are we?”

His voice. Mr. Davison. My new boss. Calm, perhaps a little too calm.

I fumbled for words, my throat tight. “Oh, uh, no, Mr. Davison. Just… a little flicker.” My eyes darted between the screen and the shadow.

He stepped into the narrow opening, his silhouette a dark shape against the brighter office lights behind him. I couldn’t make out his features clearly in the angle, but I felt his gaze on me. Or, more specifically, on my screen.

“Scrolling through the archives?” he asked, the question simple, yet loaded with an unsettling weight. “Finding anything… interesting?”

My blood ran cold. Had he seen? Had he seen *what* I was looking at before the lights went out? Or was this just a random check? My mind raced, trying to construct a believable lie, a plausible excuse.

“Just… reading up on some local history,” I stammered, trying to sound casual, pushing the mouse slightly away from the print button.

He was silent for a long moment. The air felt thick, heavy, charged with unspoken things. I could feel his eyes scanning the monitor, even if he couldn’t read the text from this distance.

“Local history can be… illuminating,” he said finally, his voice softer now, almost conversational, but the underlying tone was like a steel wire. “Sometimes you find things you wish you hadn’t. Things best left buried.”

He paused, and in that pause, the full terrifying implication of his words hit me. This wasn’t a coincidence. He knew I was looking at something sensitive. He knew I might have seen *that*.

He straightened up slightly, the brief, chilling intimacy of the moment breaking. “Well, don’t spend your whole lunch break lost in the past,” he said, his voice reverting to the familiar, authoritative tone of the boss. “Need you focused for the meeting this afternoon.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps receding, leaving me alone in the sudden oppressive silence of my cubicle.

I stayed frozen, listening until the sounds of the office resumed their normal rhythm. My gaze dropped back to the screen. The picture stared back at me – the face of a terrified young man, identical to the face of the man who had just stood inches away.

He knew. He had to. The flicker of lights, his appearance, his words… they were a warning. Or worse.

My hand, though still trembling, moved with newfound resolve. I clicked ‘Print’. The whirring of the printer was deafening in the quiet aftermath. I needed proof. I needed something tangible. Because pretending I hadn’t seen it was no longer an option. He had seen me. He knew I was digging. And the game had just changed, becoming something far more dangerous than spreadsheets and deadlines. I pulled the warm sheet of paper from the printer, the grainy image a stark reality in my hand, and looked at the empty cubicle entrance, a cold, suffocating fear gripping my chest. What do I do now? The storm wasn’t coming; it had just arrived.