The mattress dipped above me again—slow, measured, like the man sitting on the bed wasn’t hiding, wasn’t nervous, wasn’t even disturbed. He sat the way people sit in a place they’ve lived in for years: relaxed, comfortable, familiar.

My pulse hammered against the hardwood floor. My mouth dried instantly; my tongue felt glued to the roof of my throat. A drop of sweat slid down my spine, cold as ice air.

“Should’ve stayed at work,” the man repeated. It wasn’t just my voice—it was my tone. My exact phrasing. A kind of exhausted irritation that only shows up when you’re frustrated with yourself.

But I was under the bed.

And someone above me sounded exactly like me.

A thousand thoughts collided in my head, none of them remotely helpful. Was this a hallucination? Did my neighbor somehow trigger a panic response? Was I asleep? Was this some kind of dissociative break?

Or was someone in my house pretending to be me?

The man above me exhaled sharply and muttered, “What a mess…”

I didn’t dare look. If I turned even an inch, he might see my eyes through the dust ruffle. I heard him shift on the mattress, rubbing his palms together. That sound—skin against skin—made my stomach clench.

He stood suddenly.

Footsteps paced across the room. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

He walked as if taking inventory of the place.

My place.

He paused near my dresser.

A drawer opened.

Something thumped onto the wood—maybe my wallet? My keys? I couldn’t tell.

Then he said something I will never forget:

“You don’t take care of yourself the way you used to.”

My throat constricted.

That wasn’t something you say to a stranger.

That was something you say to yourself.

The man walked to my desk. I heard papers rustling. He chuckled softly.

“You really thought you could outrun it, didn’t you?”

Outrun what?
What was he talking about?

My lungs ached from holding back breath. My fingers tingled with numbness. He continued pacing, humming—a tune I recognized from childhood but hadn’t thought of in years. Something my mother used to sing when I was sick.

“How does he know that?” I whispered silently.

The humming stopped.

His footsteps stopped.

Everything stopped.

I froze.

The man leaned down so close that his shadow touched the floor under the bed. I saw his shoes—my shoes. The exact same brand, same scuffs, same loosely tied laces.

His voice dropped into a whisper.

“Come out.”

I almost screamed, but the fear locked my jaw tight.

“Come out, Marcus,” he repeated. “We need to talk.”

I shook my head—tiny movements, barely perceptible.

“No?” he said gently, mocking. “Then I guess I’ll just wait.”

He sat back on the bed slowly, calmly—like he truly had nowhere else to be.

My body trembled uncontrollably. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. I lost all sense of time. Eventually, the mattress shifted again—he stood up.

He walked out of the bedroom without closing the door.

His steps faded down the hall.

Then silence.

I remained under the bed for another fifteen minutes, barely breathing. When I finally crawled out, my limbs felt alien, stiff with dread. I tiptoed to the bedroom door and peered into the hallway.

Empty.

I moved through the house, checking the kitchen, bathroom, living room.

Nothing.

No sign of anyone.

My neighbor wasn’t wrong. A man had been here—one who sounded like me, moved like he belonged, and knew things only I would know.

But where did he go?

And where had he come from?

THE MESSAGE

I dialed 911 three times and hung up each one. What would I even say?

“Hi, a man who sounds like me broke into my house and sat on my bed?”

They’d send someone with a net, not a badge.

I forced myself to breathe. Slow. Even. Rational.

Find evidence. Check the security footage.

Right. I had a Ring camera on the front door and a motion-activated one in the hallway.

I opened the security app on my phone.

No alerts.
No motion detected since last night.
No person recorded.
No front door opening.

But I heard the front door open.

I heard the footsteps.

I heard the voice.

My hands shook as I tapped the camera timeline again and again. Still nothing.

Then I saw something I’d missed:

At 11:23 a.m., the camera feed glitched.
For six seconds.
A silent black screen.

When the picture returned, the front door was closed, just as I’d left it.

My stomach flipped.

Someone had bypassed the cameras—or interfered with them.

There was one more place to check.

The back door.

I walked toward it slowly, gripping a kitchen knife because I suddenly didn’t trust the idea that I was alone. The back door had a small glass pane above the handle. I leaned in.

A yellow sticky note was pressed to the inside of the glass.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

WE’LL TALK TOMORROW.
DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID.

My handwriting.

THE SECOND DAY

I didn’t sleep. Every hour was a blur of pacing, checking windows, replaying the neighbor’s words. I tried calling my sister. No answer. I tried my best friend. Straight to voicemail.

The next morning, I called out from work again. My manager didn’t sound thrilled, but he didn’t argue.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

I sat on the couch fully dressed, knife on the coffee table, waiting.

I expected the intruder to return right at 11:23 a.m.

He didn’t.

At noon, I checked the backyard. Empty.

At one, I checked under the bed. Empty.

At two, I checked every lock twice. Then three times.

I was losing it.

And then—at 3:17 p.m.—the doorbell rang.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

I walked toward the front door slowly, knife behind my back. I peered through the peephole.

A delivery man stood on the porch, holding a brown package.

Skinny, cheerful, mid-thirties. Normal. Harmless.

I cracked the door.

“Package for Marcus Hale?” he chirped.

“That’s me.”

He handed it over, had me sign, then jogged back to his truck.

My hands shook as I closed the door.

I didn’t order anything.

The package was unmarked, wrapped in plain brown paper. The return address line simply read:

M. Hale

My blood chilled.

I tore the paper off with trembling fingers.

Inside was a black phone.

A burner.

As soon as I lifted it out of the box, it buzzed.

A single text appeared.

TURN AROUND.

I spun, knife raised.

No one there.

Buzz.

NOT IN THE HOUSE.
OUTSIDE.
BACK WINDOW.

I moved slowly toward the living room, parting the blinds an inch with the tip of the knife.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing at the tree line behind my backyard.

Same height as me.
Same build as me.
Same posture.
Same jacket.
Same haircut.

He looked like my reflection made flesh.

And he was smiling.

The phone buzzed again.

COME OUT. WE NEED TO FIX THIS.

Fix what?

I typed back with shaking hands.

Who are you?

Three dots appeared.

Then:

THE ONE WHO’S BEEN LIVING YOUR LIFE BETTER THAN YOU.

My vision blurred.

Another text came.

YOU LEFT A VACANCY, MARCUS.
YOU STOPPED SHOWING UP FOR YOURSELF.
SO I DID.

My hands turned icy.

Leave me alone. I typed.

He answered instantly.

CAN’T.
SOMEONE HAS TO BE YOU.
AND YOU HAVEN’T BEEN YOU IN A LONG TIME.

I stepped back from the window.

He didn’t move.
He just… watched.

Smiling gently.
Patiently.
As if we were two neighbors waiting for a conversation to start.

Buzz.

DON’T MAKE ME COME INSIDE AGAIN.
YOU WON’T LIKE IT.

My legs gave out and I sank onto the couch.

The phone buzzed once more.

OPEN THE BACK DOOR.
WE’LL TALK LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE.
I’M NOT HERE TO HURT YOU.
I’M HERE TO REPLACE WHAT YOU ABANDONED.

I typed back fast.

If you come near me, I’ll call the police.

A pause.

Then:

YOU THINK THE POLICE WILL BELIEVE YOU?
LISTEN TO YOURSELF.
THIS IS WHY I’M HERE.
YOU CAN’T HANDLE YOUR OWN LIFE ANYMORE.

I stood, shaking violently.

And then another text came—longer this time:

I’LL BE PATIENT.
TODAY WAS JUST TO LET YOU SEE ME.
TOMORROW I COME INSIDE.
ONE WAY OR ANOTHER.

I stared at the message until the letters blurred. I didn’t know whether to run, scream, or break down.

Then one final message arrived:

SLEEP WELL, MARCUS.
YOU’LL NEED IT.

I looked up.

He was gone.

THE NIGHT

I barricaded every door. Every window.

I pushed the couch against the sliding door, shoved chairs under doorknobs, stacked furniture in the hallway like makeshift barricades.

Around midnight, I sat in the kitchen with every light on, knife in hand.

At 1:12 a.m., the back motion sensor light flashed on.

Something moved outside—just beyond the kitchen window.

A silhouette.

Then a voice.

My voice.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be.”

I dropped to the floor instantly, heart exploding in my ribs, crawling backward on hands and heels until my back hit the fridge.

He chuckled softly.

“It’s okay. You’re scared. I’d be scared too.”

His shadow shifted on the wall—the outline of a man standing at my window, peering in.

Glass tapped lightly.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

“Let me in, Marcus.”

I covered my ears.

Tap.
Tap.
Tap.

“I don’t want to break anything. But I will if you force me.”

The tapping grew firmer—more insistent.

My breathing turned shallow. My vision tunneled.

He whispered through the glass:

“I’m not the intruder. You are.”

Then silence.

I sat on the cold tile floor until dawn broke.

I didn’t sleep.

THE THIRD DAY

The burner phone buzzed at 6:02 a.m.

COME OUTSIDE.
NOW.

I didn’t move.

Then another message:

LAST CHANCE.

I looked at the window.

Nothing.

Then suddenly—the front doorknob rattled violently. Someone tried to force it, shaking it harder and harder.

I grabbed the knife, heart thundering, sweat beading across my forehead.

The rattling stopped.

Silence.

Then—

A soft, calm knock.

Three taps.

The same rhythm I use when knocking on a friend’s door.

I felt faint.

His voice—my voice—spoke clearly from the other side:

“Marcus. Let’s stop pretending. Only one of us gets to keep this life. And I’m the one who knows how to live it.”

My knees almost buckled.

Another knock.

“Let me in.”

The final message buzzed on the phone:

IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR BY THE TIME I COUNT TO TEN,
I TAKE EVERYTHING FROM YOU.
STARTING WITH YOUR NAME.

He began counting slowly.

“One…”
“Two…”
“Three…”

I squeezed the knife handle so tightly my knuckles turned white.

“Four…”
“Five…”

My breath trembled in and out of my chest.

“Six…”

I realized something then.

He wasn’t trying to rob me.

He wasn’t trying to kill me.

He wanted my life.

And he sounded patient enough to take it piece by piece.

“Seven…”

My grip slipped from sweat.

“Eight…”

Shadows moved under the doorframe.

“Nine…”

I closed my eyes and braced myself.

Everything went silent.

No footsteps.
No breath.
Nothing.

Just the faint buzz of the phone.

A final text:

SEE YOU TONIGHT.