There’s a big line at the bank today. Must be payday. Between the sighs and frustrated glances, you can still spot a few quiet smiles. The clock is creeping toward lunch hour—things are about to slow down even more.
An average-looking man walks in. There’s nothing remarkable about him. In fact, you might say he looks too ordinary, as if fate had reused the same mold one too many times. Still, there’s a quiet confidence in his step, like someone who already knows how the day will unfold.
“Sir,” a firm voice cuts in.
“You need to wait in line, sir. Please go to the back.”
The man turns to face the security guard and offers a soft smile.
“You’re doing a good job, Paul. How’s Sydney this morning? Feeling any better?”
The guard stiffens. His face cycles through confusion, irritation, and something else—fear.
“Do I know you? How do you know about Sydney?”
The man gently places a hand on Paul’s shoulder, leans in, and whispers:
“I heard you last night.”
And just like that, Paul—the steady, unshakable guard—begins to cry. Not a single tear, but a deep, chest-heaving weep, as if something inside him had collapsed.
The man walks past, heading toward the Employees Only door like he belongs there. Just then, it opens—on her way to lunch is a young woman in teller’s uniform.
“Sir… can I help you?” she asks, confused.
“Janice. I came to tell you something. I know you haven’t slept well in months. Listen, it’s not your fault.”
Her face turns pale, as if a ghost had just materialized. Her hands rise to cover her mouth, trembling.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you mean. How do you know my name?” she whispers.
The man’s expression softens.
“She wanted to go, Janice. She wanted to go. She’s in a better place now. She’s with Bob—your father. They’re together again.”
With that, Janice lets out a sob so sharp it feels like childhood itself just got hurt. Then she runs. No further questions, just vanishing sobs echoing behind her.
Now fully inside the bank, the man keeps walking. No weapon, no threats. Just quiet certainty. As he nears the back offices, a janitor spots him.
“Sir… are you looking for Patrick? He’s out to lunch,” the janitor offers helpfully.
“Hey Manny… don’t worry. Linda sent me. I know where I’m going—I’ll be right out.”
Later that day, the police were called. There’d been a robbery. But no one saw it happen.
Detective Johnson interviewed everyone, and every story was the same: yes, there was a man… but no one remembered him clearly. No footage either. Someone had taken the security tape—but no one noticed that part happening, either.
What was stolen? Just one item: locker 54. The safe wasn’t forced open. The locker wasn’t damaged. But it was gone.
Paul, the security guard, was questioned. Johnson was sure he was hiding something—his eyes were red, his hands shaky.
“Maybe guilt’s eating him up,” Johnson muttered to himself as he pushed through the Employees Only door.
“Is everyone from the morning shift here?” he asked, voice stern.
“Janice isn’t,” replied Patrick, the branch manager. “Her brother called earlier.”
“What happened to Janice?” Johnson asked. “Mr. Poland, is it?”
“Her mother passed this morning. Suicide, apparently… I didn’t ask for details. Didn’t seem right.”
“Well,” Johnson said, almost to himself.
“Looks like we’ve got a ghost on our hands.
Only problem is… I don’t believe in ghosts.”
The bank remained closed for three days.
Patrick was fired. The board said locker 54 was very important. When pressed, they only mentioned a deed and a ring. Strange reasons to fire a long-time manager.
Janice never came back to work. Her brother called again, the same morning Patrick learned of his dismissal. Told him Janine had flown to Aruba.
“She’s lost her mind,” he said quietly, like someone who’d seen too much too fast.
Maybe it was a ghost after all.
The End
A recent snap by 
With that in mind, I began writing this little story. What if someone had the ability to know exactly what to say. Imagine, that's the power. You know precisely what to tell someone to break them psychologically. You don't have to know what the names mean, what you are even referring to when you speak. You just know that if you do, that person will have a mental breakdown of sorts. Now THAT would be a crazy superpower indeed.
MenO
