The Recurrence of Sleep

I never believed in doppelgangers, not until the night my neighbor, Mr. Hargrove, told me he’d seen me cursing at him in the parking lot of the old mill. I’d been home, curled up with a book, the rain drumming against my window. He insisted it was me, even described the black jacket and dark pants I sometimes wore, and my hair straight. My hair is naturally curly, but I had straightened it that morning. I told him he must have seen someone else, but he was adamant, and then he waved it off, saying we should forget it.

But I couldn’t forget it. I’ve struggled with sleepwalking for years, though it’s usually harmless—just wandering to the kitchen or standing by the window. But lately, my nights had become a blur of strange dreams and waking up in odd places. That night, after Mr. Hargrove’s revelation, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to recall if I’d left the house. I had no memory of doing so, but a cold dread settled in my chest. I decided to set up a camera in my bedroom to prove to myself that I stayed put.

The next morning, I reviewed the footage. In the dead of night, I saw myself sit up, my movements stiff and unnatural, my eyes open but vacant. I watched as my body slipped out of bed, walked to the closet, and pulled out the black jacket and dark pants. Then I left the room, and the camera caught me returning an hour later, looking exhausted. My heart pounded. I had no recollection of any of this. I checked the front door—it was unlocked. A wave of nausea hit me.

I started to piece together that my sleepwalking was more than just wandering. I began to notice things missing: my car keys on the counter where I’d left them, a scratch on my arm I couldn’t explain. The nightmares intensified—vivid, horrifying dreams of walking through the foggy streets, my mouth moving in silent curses, and a pulsing red light in the distance. I felt like I was losing my mind.

Determined to get to the bottom of it, I installed cameras in the hallway and the living room. But the footage was even more alarming. In the hallway, I saw myself enter the room, but the person who came out was different—slightly taller, with a subtle shift in the way I walked, a predatory grace. They didn’t just walk; they stalked. And in the living room, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. My eyes were wrong—a milky white, like cataracts, staring blankly ahead.

I began seeing things during the day too: a figure in my peripheral vision that vanished when I turned, a shadow that seemed to follow me. I became paranoid, avoiding mirrors for fear of what I might see. I called my therapist, Dr. Alvarado, who suggested I stay with a friend for a while. I packed a bag and went to stay with my cousin Maya in the suburbs. She was kind, but she noticed how haggard I looked. ‘You need to sleep,’ she said, but I was afraid to.

The second night at Maya’s, I woke up in the backyard, barefoot, my white nightgown soaked with dew. I had no idea how I got there. A neighbor’s dog was barking frantically. When I went back inside, Maya was standing at the back door, wide-eyed. ‘You were sleepwalking,’ she whispered. I broke down and told her everything—the footage, the doppelganger, the feeling that something else was wearing my skin. Maya listened, her face pale, and then she said, ‘There’s something you need to see.’ She pulled up an old news article about a woman who had been accused of murder but claimed she was sleepwalking. The woman’s name was Margaret Lean, and she lived in our town decades ago. The article said she was institutionalized after being found in the woods, covered in blood, speaking in a strange voice.

I felt a chill. ‘Why are you showing me this?’ I asked. Maya hesitated. ‘Because Margaret Lean was my grandmother. And she had the same affliction.’ My blood ran cold. She told me that her grandmother used to say that when she slept, she would dream of a red door. And when she walked through it, she wasn’t herself anymore. Maya warned me that it was hereditary, that it could skip generations.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the red door. I must have drifted off, because I woke up in a place I didn’t recognize—a dark, musty hallway with old wallpaper peeling from the walls. There was a faint buzzing, and a heavy smell of decay. I was wearing my black jacket and dark pants. In front of me was a red door, slightly ajar. My heart was pounding, but my feet moved on their own. I pushed the door open and stepped into a dim room. In the corner, a figure sat in a rocking chair, facing away from me. It was wearing the same clothes as me. It turned its head slowly, and I saw my own face—but the eyes were milky white, and the mouth was stretched into a grotesque smile. It spoke in a voice that was mine but wrong, layered with static: ‘Welcome home.’

I screamed, and I woke up in the hospital. Maya was beside me, tears in her eyes. She told me that I had been found wandering on the highway, muttering in that strange voice. The doctors said I had a severe sleep disorder, dissociative episodes, but I knew better. I knew that somewhere, behind that red door, a part of me was still trapped.

I never slept soundly again. I became a prisoner of wakefulness, spending my nights in a chair with the lights on, staring at the mirror, afraid of what might look back. And sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I still see the figure wearing my clothes, waiting for me to close my eyes. I know that one day, I won’t be able to resist. I’ll walk through that red door again, and this time, I might not come back. The worst part is, I’m starting to look forward to it.