The Doppelgänger: A Psychological Thriller (2 page)

Her eyes turned to the television screen.

She saw a couple on the TV screen. That life didn’t exist for her. She could never smile the way they did. She had deep scars. Nothing could heal them.

She turned on her laptop. The startling noise brought her back to reality. She glanced at the desktop background. It was a pink lotus.

She put on some relaxing piano melodies in the background. The first page she opened was the blog she had been reading that morning. The sticky Ben & Jerry’s was gone. A deep red image replaced the light-hearted humor.

Her eyes ran through the words sprinkled like stardust on the page. Her hands froze on the keypad.

‘My dream’ the title read.

Her eyes moved at the speed of light, trying to read every word.

Dear diary,

Today, I want to talk about something that I’ve never shared. I want to talk about a part of my childhood that nobody knows. You think I’ve led a normal life. You’re wrong.

I’m deeply disturbed. I can’t sleep at night. I haven’t been able to sleep peacefully for fifteen years. I have scars that don’t heal. So, I decided to write this post. I decided to write this post so you know who I really am. I decided to write this post so you understand that I’m not the only person in this world who is deceiving others.

I hate the color red. It is the color of blood. I see it in my dreams every night. I’ve been having the same dream for fifteen years. I see a shadow in my dream. He’s coming to me.

I run, but I only get closer to him. He runs to the end of my imagination. I stop and hold my hand out. They’re stained with blood. They drip down my fingertips. I can’t see the floor. My feet vanish into the void.

His hand grabs me. I shriek. He drags me away. He is taking me away from her. He pulls me away from my mother. I scream and shout, but there is nobody in the dream except him and me.

A knife cuts through the scene and drenches everything in blood. Vivid, red blood. My mother lies next to me, lifeless, her emerald green sweater stained with a patch of crimson. That is how the dream ends.

Darcy’s eyes hung over the blog post. Her larynx felt like a thorn in her throat. She could barely breathe. Her heartbeat took over her ears. She teared up. She caught them before they fell on the keyboard.

It was not a mere blog post. It was
her
story.

Who the hell was this woman?

Darcy clicked on ‘About’. The screen refreshed. A white image floated up the screen. It was a caricature. No photo. No name. No explanation. Just one useless cartoon of something that looked like a woman- from an angle.

She scrolled down for the author bio.

‘D is a thirty-something living in a big city. She enjoys reading and writing about her life, especially her childhood.’

No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No expanded bio. Nothing.

Just those two sentences.

Darcy’s mind reeled. She clicked on the ‘contact’ page. At least, the blog had one.

At the end of the page was an inconspicuous ‘Contact me’ icon. Darcy clicked on it. A contact form appeared. Blank white spaces, contrasting against the black background, haunted her.

Her fingers drummed violently against the keypad. She re-read the e-mail. How was she supposed to ask the writer about her past? Maybe she wasn’t alone in this. There was someone else who had experienced something similar. The realization filled Darcy with hope. After all these years, she found a ray of hope. She couldn’t let it slip away.

She quickly typed out an e-mail. She didn’t send it.

She decided to wait for the next blog post. She deleted the e-mail and turned on the television. Her fingers restlessly traced patterns on the couch. She fidgeted with her phone. Curiosity nibbled at her.

The final draft was only one sentence long. She read the words on the page.

Who are you?

She pressed ‘send’. Electricity surged through her fingertips. She shoved the phone under her blanket.

She looked at the television screen. Her heart was speeding. Images passed before her numb eyes.

‘Baby ….’ the singer sang over a clubbing video. Blurry images of semi-naked women, Vodka and men filled the screen. Darcy stared at it until the video appeared like one big ball of light. Light spots marked her vision. The were red, green, white, black and blue. All the colors that the film of her memory was made of. Behind it all, rang her heartbeat, loud and clear.

She switched the television off and soaked in the silence. The smell of tandoori chicken condensed in the air. Her neighbor’s cat began to purr.

A bird tweeted. She turned. It was her phone. Her clammy hands reached for the phone. She pulled it out. A small ‘1’ written on a red bubble sat on top of the mail app. She clicked it. The mail icon jumped up and down like her heart. The screen refreshed. She got an e-mail from ‘Darcy Godfrey’.

Her eyes moved over the words.

Who are you?

Her mind went numb. Questions died in her throat. She read the words again with disbelief flooding her. The message came back to her.

She logged on to the blog wondering if she had sent the e-mail to herself by mistake. The mail app opened up. She checked the author’s e-mail. The words shot through her senses like a bullet. Her gaze lingered on the address.

[email protected]

She stared at the screen, without blinking. Her fingers traced over the words. It was the same. Their e-mails were the same.

The oxygen supply to her mind was depleted. Her head was light and dizzy. The e-mail ID swam in circles, hypnotizing her. The white and black boxes stared at her distressed face.

She was not writing these posts. Was she?

Chapter 2

The sky was grey on Tuesday. Clouds loomed over the eternally dark sky. After living in Chicago for ten years, Darcy knew Chicago skies were seldom blue. What was even worse was the winter. 

Darcy stood on the platform, waiting for the next train to arrive. The station was crowded as it was every morning. Bodies brushed against her. She looked up at the crowd of strangers who surrounded her.

The sharp sound of train wheels scratching against the tracks echoed in the distance. The Brown Line was here.

She heard the engine. The train emerged with its long tail of coaches. Legions of nameless faces passed her by. The train stopped. The doors opened. People poured into the coach. Darcy was the last one to get in. She stood near the door, clutching a steel rod covered with plastic.

Her phone beeped. The tweet startled her. She got a message.

‘Pick a bouquet up at the florist and get it to Quinlan.’ The message from Susan read. She stepped into the train, reading the message again. Darcy leaned against the railing as the doors closed and the train parted.

She got off a few stops later to pick up the bouquet from a florist down the road. After picking up the bouquet from Susan’s favorite florist somewhere in the Loop, she headed for the Quinlan Life Sciences building. She had no idea why she was running errands for the life sciences department.  

Her footsteps carefully moved on the pavement. She heard a buzzing noise. She had another message.

‘The auditorium.’ It read. That’s where Susan wanted her to be.

Her eyes turned to the Quinlan building on Sheridan Road. She hurried into the red and glass building. A sizeable crowd of students gathered in the reception. The crowd cleaved to let her in. She held her arm over the bouquet protectively. She passed through the narrow opening and stepped into the elevator. She got off at the auditorium and took a few steps toward the door and opened it. The IT technician was busy checking the sound and lighting.

“Did you pick the flowers up?” Susan asked, startling her. Susan stood behind her. Her grey eyes examined Darcy. Darcy walked to the table where she had placed the bouquet.

“Here you go,” Darcy said, handing her the bouquet of flowers. The smell of lilies diffused in the air.

“Thank you. I forgot about the guest speaker we’re hosting today,” Susan said, arranging the flowers. “I booked the whole thing last week and forgot all about it.”

“Guest speaker?”

“The Faculty of Life Sciences invited a special guest to deliver a lecture on data collection methods used in research,” Susan went on. She stepped back. “The conference was planned in conjunction with the library supposed to help out.”

“But why are we helping? We’re not the life sciences library.” Darcy remarked.

“He’s something of a celebrity.” Susan said, thoughtfully.

“Celebrity? Who?”Darcy asked, curious.

“Dr. Cleo Williams,” Susan said nonchalantly. Darcy didn’t blink. Susan tended to the flowers. The red roses colored her memory. She closed her eyes and swallowed some spit. It tasted weird. It couldn’t be him. Not again.

“Dr. Cleo, the CEO of Ambrosia?” Darcy asked.

“Yes, who else?” Susan uttered carelessly. “We’ve been trying to get him for ages. He finally agreed.”

“But…but he lives in New York. Did he come down to Chicago just for a lecture?” Darcy rationalized. Her heartbeat filled her ears.

“He has some business in Chicago. He agreed to participate in the lecture while he is here,” Susan explained. Darcy nodded weakly. Business. Her cold fingers froze over the chair. She was crushing the wood. Susan eyed her. Nerves bulged on Darcy’s neck. Darcy’s pupils dilated.

“Are you okay?”

Darcy coughed. She held her hand up.

“Thanks for the flowers.” Susan said.

She walked away. Darcy stood at the door for a few seconds. Her heart raced. He was the shadow she had seen outside the window last night. He was here for her. He had found her. He tracked her down.

She scurried to the washroom and locked herself in. She breathed. The broken glass had been replaced. It reflected her face lined with cold sweat. Worry lines formed on her forehead. She shouldn’t have worn green. It was the color her mother wore when she died.

Her face was pale. She pinched her cheeks. A momentary flash of pink popped on her cheeks. She splashed cold water. The image vanished. The collar of her emerald green blouse was wet. Water trailed down between her breasts.

The door opened. A student walked in. Darcy grabbed a few tissues and wiped her face. The student stared at her disheveled state. Darcy backed off. She pulled her purse and hurried out. The lecture theatre doors were open. Students were walking into it. Susan caught her standing and waved at her. Reluctantly, Darcy walked toward her. She followed Susan into the theatre and stood at the back row.

The lecture theatre was full. Students buzzed. Darcy walked into the room weakly. She covered her wet blouse with a black sweater. 

The main door was open in anticipation of the speaker. Darcy wrapped her scarf around her mouth, in an attempt to cover her face. It was warm inside the theatre. She swallowed her spit. The water settled at the edges of her hair. She used her hand to dry her hair.

She had gained a few inches after fifteen. Her face was totally different. There was no similarity between her current self and her past self. He wouldn’t be able to recognize her. 

“Here you go,” said Susan, shoving the bouquet at her. “Give him the flowers after they announce his name.”

“But…” Before Darcy could utter another word, Susan moved to Dr. Stanley, a professor in the Life Sciences department. Darcy stood by the door with the bouquet shaking in her hand.

Lights dimmed for a moment. The door opened. Darcy’s eyes turned to the door.

He strode in like a tiger. His shoulders were upright, his vision unwavering and his steps deliberate. At sixty-five, he was the same. Darcy inhaled sharply.

His presence re-oriented the molecules of her being. His eyes turned toward her. She held the bouquet over her face to avert his gaze.

His hair was silvery white. His clear eyes, though deeper in their sockets, retained their penetrating gaze. His posture hadn’t changed.

He walked to the podium. The chancellor wrapped a red robe around him. It was the school’s official color.

Darcy hated red. Especially on him. Her head spun. A rapier cut across the fabric of her mind, distorting her consciousness. His eyes were on her. Just her. She was conscious of every moment. The bouquet of flowers melted away. He looked at her naked face with his scalding gaze. She was defenseless.

She heard them scream. She heard herself scream. The lights on the ceiling turned hazy. Her head spun like the blades of a fan. Her knees succumbed to a moment of weakness. A strong grip tightened over her body.

“Are you all right?” a low voice, whispered. Darcy opened her eyes. She saw a pair of brown eyes. They lingered over her face. She backed away. He had a clean-shaven face that smelled of Old Spice. His masculine scent rushed in through her nose. She stood up with a sudden jerk.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she said. She picked the bouquet up from the floor. Susan observed the scene and moved closer.

“Are you all right?” she hissed.

“I’m not feeling well,” Darcy said, handing her the bouquet. “Can you-”

“I will.” Susan broke in.

“I’ll go back to the library,” Darcy said. Susan’s eyes turned to Dr. Cleo who was looking at them. She made a conscious effort not to look at him. If their eyes met, he’d recognize her. To her relief, he went on with the speech. Darcy turned to the stranger who had caught her.

“Thank you,” Darcy said to him. She saw his brown eyes gaze down at her.

“My pleasure,” he said. “I’m Michael. Call me Mike.”

His face was blurry. She nodded weakly, failing to register anything he said. Dr. Cleo’s voice faded away as she slipped through the narrow opening in the door. She hurried up the marble stairs. She entered the library, panting like a dog.

There were a few students there. They turned to her. They saw her. They saw her weak, disheveled state. She stepped back. Her flimsy heel turned against the raised entrance, landing her butt on the hard marble floor.

“You okay?” the security guard asked. His eyes looked at her. He had the same blue eyes. Darcy shrieked.

Everybody’s attention turned to her. Students looked at her like she was crazy. Her clothes were wet. Sweat ran down her damp hair. Her fingers trembled. She heard him breathe.

“Are you-” his voice was deep and gruff. Just like him.

Darcy stood up instantly. Her body slid on the marble floor. Her clothes gripped the carpet. Dust stuck to her skirt.

“I-I’m fine.” she told the security guard who reluctantly backed away. She took three deep breaths before standing up. She picked up her bag and hurried through the slippery corridor, into the washroom. She closed the door, jamming it shut with her leg.

Darcy stood in front of the mirror, oblivious to the sound of running water. Her eyes turned to her reflection in the mirror. She held her head in her palms and took a deep breath. Her heart sank.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years later, he had the same effect on her. She felt the heat of his spiteful glare and pictured his crooked smile. The thought of him made every particle in her body vibrate with hatred.

She painted a smile with her pink lipstick. She buried the lines in powder. She didn’t look like a ghost anymore. She rehearsed her lines and made her way out the washroom.

She walked to the staff common room and made herself some coffee. It slid down her throat. She felt life return to her cold body. Her blood was warmer, her brain calm and her senses sedated.

She deserved a normal life. That’s why she had come to England. America was unsafe. She nibbled on her fingernails subconsciously.

The long, winding corridors of the asylum flooded her mind. Eternal darkness descended over the lonely building.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror and sighed. Her mask was cracking. She didn’t want to go there again. She closed her eyes and rested her back against the wall.

The blog.

Of course, that’s how he found out.

It must’ve been the blog.

He knew she was writing those posts. He knew who she was. He knew everything because of the damned blog.

She closed the tap. The sound of flowing water ceased. She looked at herself. She needed to find out. She needed to know how the author knew about her life.

The train arrived at 7:02. Darcy stepped into the train. She noticed her heel got stuck in the gap between the train and the platform. She pulled it out. As she did, her heel broke. The train doors closed. She examined the broken shoe. Was it a premonition? 

Darcy limped home. The messy apartment was as she left it. She reminded herself to vacuum once again, in vain before she changed into her pajamas and pulled out a piece of naan bread from the toaster. She sat before the television with the food in her hand and turned it on. The loud football commentary killed the silence. Her neighbor uttered a few loud words, startled by the sudden noise. She turned the volume down.

Her phone rang. She answered.

“Hey sis, how’re you doing?” It was Dan, her brother.

“I’m good,” she said. “How’s the job search?” 

“I’m sorry, I-” she began. Dan had been looking for a job for almost two months and had found nothing. She didn’t want to pressurize him. “If you-”

“I got a job!” he announced.

“Really? Wow.” Darcy remarked, setting the bowl of food aside. She turned down the volume.

“And you won’t believe who hired me.” he said.

“Who?” she asked.

“Ambrosia.”

Darcy dropped the phone. It fell on the carpet. The faint football commentary went on in the background.

“Hello?” she heard distant echoes of her brother’s voice. “Sis? Are you there?” 

Darcy picked the phone up. She pressed it against her ear.

“Yes,” Darcy said, trying to regain composure. She gulped. Her eyes trailed across the carpet to the television. “You got a job at Ambrosia?”

“Yes. It’s been my dream to work here.” be continued, oblivious to the escalating tension.

“Ummmm.…”

In thirty years, Darcy had mastered acting. That was the only way to get through life. When one mask began to crack, she quickly put another one on. The transition process had gotten smoother over the years. 

But her acting was useless when it came to her past. It wasn’t her past. It had become her reality. She was still living in that dark asylum.

“Thank you,” Dan said. “What happened just now?”

“Oh, nothing. I dropped the spoon,” she lied. “That’s great. Does your girlfriend know?”

“Not yet. I tried calling her earlier, but she didn’t answer. I’ll try again.”

“Do that.” Darcy put in enthusiastically.

Dan graduated with a Masters in Biochemistry that summer. He had been trying to find a job ever since. Considering the depressed economy, it had proven to be a challenge. She looked at her reflection in the steel spoon. She couldn’t bring herself to smile- not even if she were at gunpoint. Ambrosia was the enemy’s territory.

“I’m going to call dad later,” he said. Her brain didn’t register the words.

“Ummmm…” she said, lifelessly.

“I’m starting next week. It’s here in New York.” He went on.

“That’s great...” Darcy said.

“I think I’m getting another call. I’ll hang up.”

Dan hung up. Anxiety echoed in her heart. What if he found out? What if he found out what happened there? She closed her eyes. She spooned some food into her mouth.

She couldn’t feel the food sliding down her throat. Her eyes skimmed over the news that flashed on the television. She fell asleep on the couch, to the sound of news. The words were distorted in her mind.

She lay on her bed that night, staring at the wall. She ran down the corridors. She stopped. Her mother stood behind her. Her body was as ethereal as the moonlight. The image dissipated. Behind her sat Dan, his eyes colored with a familiar fear. He looked at Darcy, begging for help. Begging to save him. Darcy walked closer to him. He held his hand out. Before she could grab it, a gunshot cracked the scene open. Dan fell into the endless void. She ran. Red curtains came down on her. Sticky blood flowed down her palms. She opened her eyes instantly.

Sweat covered her body. She had the same dream again. She saw his face, again and again, replaying like a broken record player. She walked out of her bed.

She stood by the window and looked out. The streets were quiet and dark. On the corner of the lamp, she saw a shadow. It was a tall, long shadow that stretched all the way to her doorstep. She took a step back. She jerked the curtains shut. Jagged breaths puffed against the surface of the curtain. The goosebumps subsided. The dark room embraced her.

She turned. Lights flickered behind the closed curtains. She drew the curtains open, again.

He was gone.