Case 08-17-23: Subject Duplication

By: Charlotte Martin

Collected Anomalies: Case 08-17-23: Subject Duplication

By Charlotte Martin 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Statement recorded September 24th, 2023, at 1800 hours. First-person testimony. Please proceed with your account of the events.” 

[Name Redacted]: “...Okay. It was–no, it is around 10 o’clock at night and” 

The clock that hangs above the customer service desk across from my register ticks increasingly louder as it inches closer to the end of my shift. The last person is leaving the grocery store. A woman with a cart full of cat food and oranges.

I  count out my register and 

I finally leave, and the automatic doors of the store slide shut behind me. The parking lot stretches wide and empty in front of me. The LED area lights catch the air and reflect on the wet asphalt, making it glow with pale radiance. The fog is sticky, thick, and unreasonable as I pull my jacket closer over my Ralphs uniform. 

The walk home is relaxing. I don’t wear headphones anymore; I enjoy listening to the life drifting from open windows and the distant hum of traffic. 

I turn left down Poplar Ave; the sidewalk has a long split running through the concrete like a scar. My jeans stick to my legs from the light rain. The air has a crisp edge to it that pricks at my exposed face.  

A block down, I cut right through the alley off Saint Mary’s Street. It saves me about five minutes. The path back here is uneven, and there's always a scattering of broken bottles along the way.  

After that, it’s straightforward to reach the bridge that crosses over the creek. The water is shallow and murky, and it smells slightly metallic. It ripples with each drop of rain. Beer bottles and other trash drift and bob along the edges, catching against the rocks and anchoring themselves there. 

The bridge itself is narrow, the wooden planks are nailed down in several uneven rows, warped from years of rain and use. The sides are fenced in with a metal railing that rattles at the slightest nudge, and there's a burn near the left side, a dark circular stain where some kids tried to light a fire last summer. 

I step off the bridge and into the conjoining alley, glass crunches under my feet. But the sound is off. It sounds...delayed? I step on it again to confirm. It’s like the sound is lagging behind me. Probably just in my head, it’s late anyhow, going on 10:15 pm. It’s fine. I’m almost home.  

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “When you checked your phone, did you have service?”

[Name Redacted]: “.........no. I...I didn’t realize it then, but no, there was no service.”

The alley slopes upward towards Berkeley. I’m cold and sweaty at the same time. My fingers feel numb in my sleeves.  

I can see my breath. 

In the middle of August.  

I’m at the top of my street, but I can’t hear anything. No car horns, not Mr. Lee’s chihuahua, not even crickets. The rain stopped, but the fog is almost smothering me.  My street feels longer than it should; the streetlights ahead glow faintly through the mist, barely lighting the path.  

I pick up my pace. My shoes skid on the sidewalk. My chest is hammering. Breathe in. Breathe out. I just need to make it home. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

The fog presses on, swirling around my porch lights. They’re supposed to be warm and welcoming, but instead, they're sickly pale.

Everything else about my house looks slightly wrong. Mom’s terracotta pots filled with marigolds still rest on the front porch steps, but the flowers are dead. Their petals are curled inward and brittle. The bright, lively orange drained out of them, and now they're grey and rusty. The light green paneling that wraps around my house is peeling at the corner of my bedroom window. 

I stand at the bottom porch step; none of that was there this morning. The fog is dense and creeps along the ground, spilling onto the first step. I shouldn’t go in there. 

But it's home. And I'm so cold. 

 The wood shifts under my feet as I climb the steps. My hand brushes the damp railing, slick with condensation. The porch feels smaller than I remember. I stop at the front door. The same chipped doorknob stares back at me, littered with scratches near the lock from every time Mom misses her key. The fog is building up behind me, swallowing the street. The latch clicks as I twist it, and the door swings inward with a slow, deep creak. 

“Mom?” I call softly. 

I step further inside, and the door closes behind me. The fog swells up against the windows, thick and relentless. It slides across the glass in slow waves, curling and uncurling like pale fingers. 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Clarify. When you say the fog moved, was it the wind?” 

[Name Redacted]: “No.” 

[Name Redacted]: “...It moved on its own, like it was alive. It gathered itself against the window panes like it knew I was in there.”

The house smells of mildew and a damp, stale scent that clings to the back of my throat. 

The same bright red couch sits in the living room, but the cushions on the couch sag in strange places, deep hollowed impressions pressed into the fabric, like someone had been sitting there for a long time. I can almost see the outline of a body in the velvet. 

The TV screen glows with dull grey static, the dim hallway light reflects faintly in it, swallowed up by the restless snow crawling across the glass. 

I move through the hallway toward the kitchen, my shoes sticking to the tile. The smell is stronger here. A decorated bowl sits on the middle counter. Bananas, apples, and some oranges are all piled together. They’re black and collapsing in on themselves. The skins are split open and glossy with rot. One of the apples has sunk so far that it looks hollowed out like it's been drained from the inside. 

I stare at the fruit, trying not to gag. 

A slow creak echoes from upstairs.

I look around the kitchen for something to use as a weapon. My eyes land on a bottle of wine sitting next to the kitchen sink. I step closer and pick it up. The glass is coated in a thin layer of dust that smears under my fingers. The bottle is heavy in my hands, solid enough to do damage if I have to. 

The floor creaks again. I glance toward the hallway where the staircase disappears into the dark. I move slowly towards it, holding the bottle by the neck and ready to swing.  Another sound drifts down; this time, it sounds like it’s coming from my room. 

I try to swallow my fear and start up the stairs. I step on the corner of each step to try and keep the boards from creaking. The bottle is slick in my hand, but I tighten my grip, trying to stop my hands from shaking. 

I climb the rest of the way slowly until the hallway opens up in front of me. The hallway is narrow, a faded blue rug running the length of the floor. Three doors line the wall. Mom’s room first on the left. The bathroom across it on the right. And my room, at the end. 

A thin strip of yellow seeps through gaps around the door and pools across the rug. 

My breath catches in my throat. It feels like the walls are closing in on me. 

My head screams at me.

Turn around. 

Just leave. 

Don’t go in there. 

But it could be Mom. 

I force my feet forward. The rug muffles my steps as I move toward the door. I reach for the small tarnished handle. I can’t hear anything on the other side except for the faint hum of my overhead light. I turn the handle with ease, and the door swings open a few inches.

My room looks the same as when I left this morning. 

My stomach drops. 

There’s someone sitting on my bed. 

“Mom?” My voice shakes as I say it. 

The figure snaps its head upward. 

It’s me?

But it can’t be. The curve of its nose bends too sharply. Its teeth stretch in a straight, unnatural line, with canines that are too sharp. Dark circles that go deeper than mine ever did. And its skin is a ghastly grey. Oh god, is the skin moving? It has streaks of a lighter color swirling throughout. It’s like someone tried to draw me from memory, but they got it wrong. 

The thing stands and moves toward me. Its limbs jerk, and it stumbles like it doesn't know how to walk right. Almost like a newborn deer. I don’t think, I just swing the bottle. The glass connects with the side of its head with a dull crack and snaps its head sharply to the left. A light groan slips out from its lips. The bottle shatters in my hand. Fragments of glass scatter across the floor. 

The creature just stands there, its head at a crooked angle. Then something starts to spill out of the long gash across its temple. But it’s not blood. It’s black and glossy, like ink, sliding down the side of its face and dripping onto the floor. 

The creature slowly turns its head back to me. The ink keeps pouring, but it doesn’t seem to notice. What. The. Fuck. 

I bolt out of the room, my shoes almost catching on the rug. I take two stairs at a time, my hand skimming against the railing to keep me from falling. 

It moves behind me.

I nearly miss the last step and slip on the floor. 

Think. Think. 

The front door is too far across the living room. I hear its feet on the stairs behind me.

I yank open the linen closet door and shove myself inside. I have to crouch under the top shelves. The closet is cramped and dark. The towels are damp with the smell of detergent and dust. My breathing sounds impossibly loud. I press my hand to my mouth to try and stay still. Don’t breathe. Don't breathe. Don't breathe. My heart pounds so hard I’m sure it can hear me through the door. 

The footsteps reach the bottom. I hear it make its way through the hallway to the living room. It knocks into the coffee table, and a book slams onto the floor. It clomps across the floor and shambles in another direction. I hear a cabinet from the kitchen creak open. 

I wait for it to start tearing the house apart looking for me, but it doesn’t. It's just wandering around. The house goes quiet again. Then I hear a sound that makes my stomach drop. 

“Mo…” 

Its voice is thin and broken, like someone trying to speak with a numb tongue. 

It tries again.

“Mom?” 

The word echoes faintly through the hallway. The footsteps move closer and stop just outside the bathroom. The handle rattles slightly, and the door opens. I imagine it standing there, staring into the empty room.  It calls out again. It sounds…sad? It drifts back to the kitchen. Something clatters onto the tile, and it lets out a small, startled cry. I feel bad for it. 

My chest aches from holding my breath. Finally, it moves towards the stairs and climbs up, still calling out. I slowly push the closet door open. My legs feel weak as I crawl out. I creep across the living room, careful to not make a sound. I hear my bedroom door creak open. 

I don’t wait another second and sprint to the front door. My fingers fumble with the doorknob before the door finally bursts open. 

The fog rushes in, and cool air floods my lungs as I stumble onto the porch. The mist is so thick that I can barely see my hands in front of me. A void of nothingness. Pure white oblivion. 

The fog presses into my mouth and nose, forcing its way into my lungs. I cough and run in what I hope is the direction of the street. I might as well be blind. 

“HELP.” I scream into the void. “PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME!” 

For a moment, there’s nothing. Part of me knows that there’s no one else here. 

A voice answers from somewhere inside the fog. I can’t tell which direction it’s coming from. I don’t even know where I am. 

“Hel..p me..” 

I run deeper into the fog, my arms pumping at my sides, my chest burning. 

Oh God, I'm alone here. Just like that thing. Is that all this is? Is it just lonely? 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “How did you arrive at that conclusion?” 

[Name Redacted]: “Uhh…I’m not sure, I just kind of realized that it never tried to hurt me, and it was wandering around looking for me and….I guess we were in the same boat, you know.” 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Do you feel as if these were your own thoughts, or is there a possibility that the duplicate had the capacity to alter your mental state?” 

[Name Redacted]: “......No? I don’t think…is that even possible? For this thing to change MY thoughts?” 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Yes, we have seen that before with other creatures of a similar nature.”

[Name Redacted]: “We? I thought this whole operation was just you?” 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Let’s continue, we’re getting off track.” 

It answers back again. It's getting better at pronouncing the words. The voice doesn't stop mimicking me. And I can hear it getting closer. My hands shake as I hold them out in front of me, trying to feel my way forward. I don’t know where I’m going, just trying to find a way out of here. My shoes scrape against the pavement. The sound is dull and wet. 

Another pair of footsteps answers, but it’s not quite in rhythm. I spin around, but the fog shows me nothing. A hollow clang of metal bounces through the fog. It lets out a small whimper. I think it hit a mailbox. 

I’m struggling to walk forward, and it’s getting incredibly hard to breathe, like my lungs are filling up with water instead of air. I can feel my body start to give up. My knees buckle, and I fall to the ground. The air presses in from all sides, crawling into me. I curl up, clutching my knees to my chest. 

A shape emerges in front of me. It looks more like me now. The bump on the bridge of the nose is the right size. The teeth are yellowed and uneven from years of coffee and no braces. The skin is gaining color, pink, and flush with life. Still moving though, changing and morphing to match me. I can see a scar on the right arm develop from when I crashed my bicycle as a kid, but the wound from the bottle is gone. Nothing there to even hint at an injury. 

“I'm sorry for hitting you,” I say, choking on my words. The fog is making it difficult to speak now. 

It doesn't say anything this time; it just reaches a hand forward. Uncertain and almost afraid, it places a hand on my shoulder. I don’t move. Something in its eyes stops me. They’re slightly different from mine, but not in the way that they were before. It doesn’t look scared, it looks sad? Regretful? No, it looks lonely. 

I can feel the warmth through my jacket, a calm, gentle weight. I think it’s trying to be comforting.

The other me kneels down onto the wet pavement. I wonder if she is cold like I am. We sit together in silence. Both our faces are wet from tears. She mimics my trembling shoulders, softly and awkwardly. 

“I’m…sorry..please don’t..go.”

—-----------------------------------------

Minutes or hours pass, I’m not sure. I think I fell asleep. The street is still quiet, but the fog has thinned back into nothing. I blink and rub the sleep from my eyes. My face is raw from my salty tears. But it's not cold anymore, the sweet and warm August air is back, streaks of pink and orange peak up from the horizon. I hear the soft cooing of a mourning dove. 

But something is missing.

She was gone. 

—----------------------------------------

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “You changed the pronouns when referring to the duplicate. " 

[Name Redacted]: “What? Oh yeah, I guess I did. So what?” 

[Name Redacted]: “Look, can we stop now? That’s everything I can remember. I want to go home.”

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Yes. You may leave. Thank you for your cooperation and for reaching out.”

Something clatters to the floor, and a door slams. 

Dr. Lucille Wieszczek: “Subject has left and appears visibly shaken. I will reach out with further queries. Statement terminated 2200 hours.”