The Third Copy

The first time it happened, I thought I had left my laptop open on the kitchen counter. I remember walking out of my room at 2 AM, craving water, and seeing a faint glow coming from the kitchen. My heart did a little skip—I was always paranoid about leaving it on. But when I got there, the screen was dark, save for the reflection of the moon from the window. I checked the power brick, the cables, everything. My laptop was asleep in my room. I shrugged it off, chalking it up to exhaustion from my evening shift at the archive.

I moved to Saint Augustine for the college program, and my sister, Lina, had already been living there for two years with her husband and their baby. She rented a ground-floor apartment in an old, converted house on Tolomato Street, near the cemetery that hugged the bayfront. The place had high ceilings, cracked plaster, and a smell of sea salt and old wood. My cousin, Drea, lived with us too, along with our mother and a nanny for the baby, a girl named Rosa from a small town upstate. It was crowded, but it was cheap, and Lina liked the character.

In the first year, nothing strange happened. I heard the usual stories—neighbors gossiping about the ghost of a maid who supposedly haunted the attic, or the wailing spirit of a soldier from the old fort—but I never paid them much mind. I even joked with Drea that the place was too humid for spirits. They probably preferred dry, cold climates.

Then, one evening, Drea and I were in the living room, talking about our usual nonsense, when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence and stared at the hallway.

‘Did you see that?’ she asked.

‘See what?’ I turned, but there was nothing but the dim light from the table lamp and the dark gap of the hallway.

‘Someone passed,’ she said, her voice low. ‘Or something. For a second, I thought it was you coming out of the bathroom, but you’re right here.’

I laughed, but it caught in my throat. I walked to the hallway and peered into the bathroom. Empty. I shrugged and said, ‘Probably a shadow from the fan blades.’

But Drea didn’t look convinced. She crossed her arms and said, ‘It moved like a person. And it had your jacket on—that green one you wear to work.’

I had that jacket on a hook by the door. I went to check. It was still there. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

The incidents became more frequent. I’d be doing laundry, and out of the corner of my eye, I’d catch a reflection in the window of a figure standing behind me—but when I turned, no one was there. I’d hear my name being called from the kitchen, but when I went, Lina would say she just walked in from the bedroom. I started to think I was going mad. I even visited a doctor, who told me I had low iron and stress. He gave me vitamins.

But the decisive moment came one Saturday afternoon. Everyone was out—Lina took the baby to the park, Mom went to the market, Drea had a date, and Rosa was visiting her cousin. I was alone in the apartment, reading a book on the porch. I heard the familiar creak of the front door opening and closing, and then footsteps in the living room.

‘Hello?’ I called out. No answer. I figured it was Drea returning for something. I set the book down and walked inside. The living room was empty. But there was a scent—my own deodorant, a cheap lavender scent I used. And then I saw it.

Sitting on the couch, facing away from me, was a figure wearing my exact clothes—the same faded jeans, the same gray hoodie, the same green jacket. Its hair was the same length, the same shade of brown, and it sat with the same slouch I had when I read.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I said, my voice shaking.

The figure slowly turned its head. It was me. Not a reflection, not a copy—it was me, down to the small scar above my eyebrow from a childhood bike accident. It smiled, but the smile was wrong, too wide, and its eyes were not mine. They were dark, empty pits.

I bolted. I ran out of the apartment and didn’t stop until I reached the old cemetery gates. I leaned against the iron bars, gasping, my heart pounding in my ears. When I finally looked back at the house, I saw the figure standing at the window, watching me. It was still smiling.

I didn’t tell anyone, not even Drea. I was afraid they would think I was insane. I started avoiding the house, sleeping at the college library, crashing on a friend’s couch. But it didn’t matter—the doppelganger began appearing everywhere. I’d see it in the reflection of the computer screen at the archive, standing behind my chair. I’d hear its footsteps following me on the street, but when I turned, there was no one.

One night, I had enough. I decided to confront it. I armed myself with a crucifix, a bottle of holy water, and a wooden stake I had carved myself—old school, I know. I waited in my room, the lights off. Around 3 AM, I heard the front door open. My breath caught. I listened as footsteps came down the hall and stopped outside my door.

The door slowly swung open, and there it was—my own face, pale and gaunt. It stood in the doorway, its head tilted, a sickly grin on its lips.

‘You’re not me,’ I spat, brandishing the stake.

‘No,’ it said, and its voice was a perfect imitation of mine, but hollow, like an echo from a deep well. ‘I am what you could have been. What you might become.’

‘What do you want?’ I demanded.

It took a step closer. ‘I want to take my place. You’ve been living my life too long—the family, the friends, the future. It’s my turn.’

It lunged. I stabbed with the stake, but it passed through its chest like smoke. It laughed—a sound that felt like icicles down my spine. ‘I’m not a vampire, fool. A stake won’t stop me.’

I threw the holy water. It sizzled on the floor but did nothing. The figure advanced, and I backed against the window. Its hands reached for my throat, cold and firm.

‘You see,’ it whispered, ‘I am the part of you that was born in this house. The part that you’ve been ignoring. The part that listens at the walls, that watches from the mirrors. I am your shadow, made flesh.’

I struggled, but it was strong. Its grip tightened, and my vision began to blur. Just before darkness took me, I heard a sound—the front door slamming. And then Drea’s voice, shouting:

‘Get off her!’

Suddenly, the figure vanished. I gasped, coughing, and looked up. Drea was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide, holding a book. It was an old family Bible that Mom kept on the shelf.

‘What the hell was that?’ she said, her voice trembling.

I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. ‘I don’t know. I think I’m cursed.’

Drea helped me to my feet. She told me she had come back early because she felt uneasy, and that she saw a figure through the window that looked like me but off. The Bible she held had a worn page marked with a ribbon. It was open to a passage about the prophet Elijah and the still small voice.

I don’t know if the Bible did anything, but the figure hasn’t appeared since. Or maybe it has, but I’ve learned to ignore it. When I look in the mirror, I check my reflection—if it smiles when I don’t, I look away. And late at night, when the house creaks and I hear a voice that sounds like mine calling from the other room, I no longer answer.

I still live in that house, but I’ve made my peace. The doppelganger is out there, waiting, perhaps. But I know now that it is not a monster or a ghost. It is the part of me that I don’t let out, the life I might have led if I had given in to my darkest impulses. It is a constant reminder that every choice I make shapes who I am—and that there are versions of myself I will never know.

But sometimes, when I’m alone and the house is quiet, I still feel its presence. And I wonder if it will ever get tired of waiting.

I just hope I never make the mistake of becoming it.