November 21, 2025 — 10:00 PM CST

A WWI Air Service recruiting poster doesn’t just inspire—it enlists.

The Poster in the Attic

The attic was off-limits. But seventeen-year-old Eli Mercer had never been one to follow tape-and-cardboard boundaries, especially not the sagging kind his mother had slapped over the folding ladder when they moved into his great-grandfather’s house.

They’d only been there three weeks when the early November chill settled into the walls like a guest who wouldn’t leave. That night, the heater clanked and wheezed, and Eli, unable to sleep, pulled down the attic ladder.

It groaned like something ancient, and he halfway expected to find raccoons nesting in a forgotten hatbox. But the attic was empty. Almost.

A trunk. Plain, olive-drab, with brass corner brackets and the faint ghost of a name stenciled in white block letters:

E. Mercer, Lt. USAS.

He opened it, and a rush of mothball and old paper rolled out like battlefield smoke. Letters. A pilot’s helmet. A flight log.

And a poster.

Folded, but crisp—remarkably preserved. A World War I recruiting poster, the kind they’d studied briefly in U.S. History. This one was different though. It didn’t shout “I WANT YOU” or “DO YOUR PART.” Instead, it was calm, confident.

JOIN THE AIR SERVICE
LEARN – EARN

The pilot in the picture stood by his biplane, goggles lifted, one hand on the propeller. His smile was sly. There was something familiar about it.

Eli rolled it up carefully and took it to his room.

By the next day, it was hanging above his desk, replacing his college prep calendar. He stared at it longer than he meant to. The lines were hypnotic—bold yet elegant, the biplane’s wings stretching like the pages of a storybook opening. That night, he dreamed of flight.

The dreams were vivid. He felt the wind clawing at his cheeks, the stink of oil and powder in his nose. He was chasing a German Albatros over a cloudbank, the engine screaming and the gun rattling in his gloved hands. It wasn’t like watching a movie—it was like remembering.

By November 11—Veterans Day—Eli had all but checked out of high school. His notebooks filled with sketches of flight formations, old squadron logos, and airfield layouts. He talked about “the front” and “Fokkers” in casual conversation. His best friend joked he was turning into a living museum.

His parents were worried, but Eli just smiled. “I know what I’m supposed to do,” he said.

The poster was changing. The clouds in the background now curled in a new direction. The pilot’s grin had shifted—narrower, knowing.

That night, Eli didn’t come down for dinner. His bedroom door was locked. By morning, he was gone.

They found the window cracked open. A cold breeze stirred the room. On his desk sat a single, tarnished dog tag. His name. Rank. Blood type.

And the poster?

It had changed again.

The pilot now wore Eli’s face.

Lt. Eli Mercer
MIA over Saint-Mihiel
JOIN THE AIR SERVICE. LEARN – EARN.

The police report mentioned the attic. The trunk. No signs of struggle. Just… absence.

The poster disappeared a few days later, but a week before Thanksgiving, a new one turned up in the window of a vintage shop three towns over. Different pilot. Same pose. Same offer.

A boy stared at it through the glass.

The clouds in the background began to move.