The Leather Double

In the autumn of 2017, my partner, Alex, and I were backpacking through the Scottish Highlands, staying in a remote bothy that had been converted into a rustic B&B. The place was called Corrievreckan Guesthouse, named after the nearby whirlpool, and it was nestled in a valley that seemed to catch the mist and hold it close. We had arrived late the night before, after a harrowing drive along narrow, winding roads, and our host, an old woman named Morag, had greeted us with a knowing smile that made my skin prickle.

That night, I woke to the sound of wind rattling the window panes. The room was bathed in a pale, sickly light from the moon struggling through thick clouds. I was thirsty, and I reached for the glass of water on the bedside table, grateful that I hadn’t drunk too much before sleep. As I sipped, I glanced toward the foot of the bed and saw Alex standing there, fully dressed in the heavy waxed jacket he had bought in Inverness two days earlier. His face was in shadow, but I could see the outline of his shoulders and the familiar way he stood, weight on one leg.

‘Honey, what are you doing?’ I whispered, my voice thick with sleep. ‘We don’t have to check out for hours.’ He didn’t respond. He just stood there, immobile, like a statue. I rubbed my eyes and said more firmly, ‘Alex, seriously. Come back to bed.’ That’s when I heard a slow, deliberate exhalation from beside me. I turned my head and saw Alex, still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a calm rhythm. My blood ran cold. I looked back at the standing figure, then at the sleeping one, back and forth, my heart beginning to pound.

Panic rose in my throat. I tried to scream, but only a strangled whimper escaped. The standing Alex took a step closer, and I saw that his eyes were open but vacant, like a doll’s eyes. He reached out a hand, and his fingers brushed my cheek. They were ice cold. ‘Alex?’ I choked, my voice cracking. The sleeping Alex stirred and mumbled, ‘What’s wrong?’ I snapped my head around to see him blinking awake, his eyes confused. The standing figure remained, now close enough that I could smell the mustiness of the waxed jacket and a faint, unfamiliar scent of peat smoke.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded, shoving the covers aside and scrambling to the far edge of the bed. The standing Alex tilted his head, as if puzzled, and then opened his mouth. A low, rasping voice, not Alex’s, came out: ‘I am the one who was left behind.’ The sleeping Alex sat up fully now, his face pale in the moonlight. ‘What the hell is going on?’ he said, reaching for the lamp. When the light flickered on, the standing figure was gone. But on the floor where he had stood, there was a single black button, old and tarnished, that I had never seen before.

We didn’t sleep the rest of the night. In the morning, I told Morag what had happened. She looked at the button I had picked up, her weathered face growing stern. ‘That’s from the old shepherd, Callum,’ she said, handing it back to me. ‘He died in this room fifty years ago, waiting for his wife to come home. They say he sometimes shows himself when a couple is staying, especially if they argue. He wants to warn them not to leave each other behind.’ I felt a chill run down my spine. Alex and I had been having petty disagreements about our travel plans, but nothing serious. Still, as we packed to leave, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the button was a message. As we drove away, I looked back at the guesthouse and saw a figure in the upstairs window, wearing a waxed jacket. It was gone when I blinked.

Months later, back home in our apartment, I found the button in my coat pocket. I had thought I’d thrown it away. I brought it to Alex, who paled. ‘I thought I dropped that in the loch,’ he said. ‘I found it in my shoe the morning we left, and I chucked it into the water.’ We stared at each other, and I felt the oppressive weight of the Scottish mist again, as if something had followed us. That night, I woke to find Alex standing over the bed, his eyes open but blank, the button clutched in his hand. When I screamed, he blinked and looked at me, confused. He had no memory of getting up. The next morning, I made a decision: we would never speak of it again. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night, I hear a rasping voice whispering in the dark, ‘Do not leave.’ And I wonder if I will ever be free of the double that walks in Alex’s skin.