In nineteen ninety-eight I lived in an apartment with my two daughters.

I signed a one-year lease.

While staying there I met a maintenance worker. He constantly showed indifference to me and my children for the next five years.

Back in two-thousand-five when the internet was becoming informative, I read the newspaper.

In that year I read that maintenance worker Terry James Irvin passed away four months before.

His sister confirmed he did. I read an obituary, confirming he had a funeral service.

I also visited a gravesite confirming he died.

Fast forward to current time, it appears he did not die. But this was staged; Nothing but a fluke.

Why? I haven’t any idea why anyone would fake their death.

How do I know he did this?

Because I knew things about him that no one would know. Those things have consistently been repeated. As if to say, “I’m not dead.”


Two women from two different lives invited me to the same country saloon, he took me to.

I didn’t like country places. The music, horses, boots; not for me.

Back in two-thousamd-six or later, I remember driving by his home. A Sunday drive, not reminiscing.

I stopped in front of his house, an Elvis song played. Not just any Elvis song, but the song he sang once while outside working on his boat.

That’s spooky. And could be a real coincidence.

The night I found the newspaper article that he died; simultaneously, my television went to static.

That’s also a high coincidence.

He drove a black truck with oversized tires. His maintenance friend was named Kyle.

My daughters friend drives a black truck with oversized tires and his name is Kyle.

In twenty-seventeen, my nephew moved to a leased mobile home. Then built a storage building, bought a boat, and built decks and fences part-time.

Terry also bought a mobile home, built a storage building, bought a boat exactly like my nephews, and built decks and fences part-time.

Hmm. Is this a Stephen King novel coming to life?

I’ve noticed my brother also brings ol’ Terry boy into the living.

He wears the same tan workboots. The same burnt-orange jacket. The smell of weed and red slits lingers whenever he comes around.

But my brother is not a maintenance worker. He’s a computer geek. He wears shorts. T-shirts. Attends church.

Terry was always anti-church.

I remember when I scheduled a baptism with a church; Terry invited me over to visit his family.

I recalled the previous Sunday’s sermon, “The devil will try to align people around to keep you from living right.”

So, Terry inviting me over on that day, “Was I spiritually advised to keep distance from him?”

Wow. That’s crazy.

He invited me out once on the lake to ride jet skis. He sped up the boat and turned the handlebars inward to the gas tank. I was thrown off the ski, into sticks. I heard him hysterically laughing in the background.

Was he trying to kill me?

In October two-thousand-four, I received a call from Terry. Ge invited me out on his boat on a cold, windy day.

I declined, of course.

I’m now reviewing the past with a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass. I’ve concluded, he might have been hoping to get me drowned.

I’m not a person who over thinks or would spend my time on revisiting the past. But I’ve definitely concluded Terry is alive and faked his death.

Hands down; This person is dangerous to the public. I had no relationship with him other than a co-worker would.

Why did he pick me to harass? Why my family? What else has he done?

Ewww. I’m involved with something bizarre. What a living mess!

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