The Doppelgänger: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  “Thank you,” Darcy said, receiving it from her. She typed in her student ID. Darcy noticed that more students appeared.

  “Did you check out that blog?”

  Darcy looked up. Two girls were walking past the support desk. Darcy kept her eyes on the computer screen, but she surreptitiously eavesdropped.

  “Which one?”

  “The My Diary thing,” the first girl said.

  “Yeah,” the other replied. “It’s strange.”

  “I can’t wait for her next post. I like the tone of the blog.”

  “I wonder who the writer is.”

  “She’s disturbed,” the other one chimed. “She hates red.”

  Darcy’s ears stood up. She scribbled the words ‘My Diary’ on a post-it note. She copied the PIN on another and tore it off.

  The girls walked away. Darcy looked up. The petite girl looked at her.

  “Here’s your PIN,” she said, handing her a piece of paper. The student thanked her and walked away. Her eyes turned to the computer screen. The students’ conversation replayed in her mind.

  Darcy searched for the blog online. She found it and clicked on it. A black page came up on the screen. White words ran across the page like grains of sugar. Darcy read the first post.

  Dear diary,

  Today I want to write about sticky toffee pudding. I know it’s not the most exciting thing to write, about but I love it. It may sound strange but Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food is the bait that has gotten me through the boring week.

  If you don’t already know, it’s my favorite dessert. In fact, it’s my favorite dish. Period. I’ve been craving it all winter. I meant to go on a diet this week, but it is not happening. With all that sticky toffee pudding lying in my fridge, there’s no way I’m eating carrot sticks and humus.

  Darcy looked at the sticky toffee pudding that was in her stomach and smiled to herself. A photo of the sticky toffee pudding came up on the screen. So the writer bought the M&S one. Darcy had eaten the same one over the weekend. She scrolled through the page.

  The author of the blog was a relatable thirty-something who lived in a big city. She bookmarked the page, forgetting that she was in the university library.

  “You’re chirpy today,” Jillian remarked, creeping up from behind her.

  “I discovered this new blog…” Darcy said. “It’s kinda funny.”

  “I’m sure it is since you forgot about lunch.” she said.

  “What time is it?” Darcy asked, checking her phone.

  “One.”

  “Already?”

  “Already? Is that you?” Bella chided. “Usually, you’re the one to complain about how slow the clock hands move.”

  “When you do this job for eight years, you’ll understand,” Darcy said. She stood up.

  Jillian looked at a group of students standing at the entrance. Her eyes were bright with nostalgia.

  “I was a college student ages ago,” Darcy said looking at the batch of fresh faces who can come to tour the library.

  “Come on, thirty isn’t that old,” Jillian said.

  “I like your optimism.”

  The day ended, and Darcy made her way home. The platform flooded with people. It was rush hour. She almost dozed off at the station. The humdrum of daily life sang a lullaby.

  She walked out of Damen. She breathed with relief as the people disappeared. The cold enveloped her. In the distance, she heard train types sharply hit against the track. They brought memories of the morning. She turned away.

  The streets were dark. It wasn’t just the cold that made the hair on her body stand up. Though Lincoln Square was one of the safer areas in Chicago, she could never be too sure. She pressed her fingers over her bag, feeling the edges of her pepper spray. With her hands on the bag, she walked through the boulevard, counting the number of German shops for the Nth time. Merz Apothecary was the first she crossed. One minute later, she had lost count of the shops.

  As she walked further, the residential part of the neighborhood emerged. The dim street light cast its glow on her. She looked up. The light grew brighter.

  Darcy turned away from the light and continued to walk. She walked past long, bustling road to her small apartment. Her feet traced the flight of stairs that led to the main door. She turned the key. The door clicked open.

  She stepped into her apartment and turned on the lights. A messy two-bedroom apartment came into view. Papers lay strewn on the couch. She hadn’t vacuumed the carpet in over two weeks. Dusty curtains covered the window. She threw her bag on the floor and left her shoes at the door.

  She walked to the kitchen and pulled out a box of tandoori chicken from the refrigerator. It was her weekend experiment. She chugged it into the microwave.

  Darcy undressed, peeling away the layers of clothing. As they fell to the floor, her flushed skin came into view. Her fingers ran through the back of her arms and traced the curve of her spine. At her back, she felt something protrude. She examined herself in the mirror. A long scar was painted on her back.

  Her soft fingertips traced the six-inch line. It was deep brown now. She remembered it had been a bright red when she got it. As she remembered the color, an arrow of pain shot through her. Her spine straightened. Her honey-colored eyes closed abruptly. Her hands wrapped around her brunette hair, pulling it into her chest.

  She could hear them scream. The sounds were vivid in her memory fifteen years later. Her ears filled with ringing sounds of people writhing in pain. She saw the dark corridors of the asylum. She walked through it. Her footsteps echoed. She heard them knock at the large wooden door. They had come to get her. She heard her mother shriek. She cried tirelessly. She banged the doors and screamed like a banshee. A rapier of red cut across the scene. Her eyes opened abruptly.

  The microwave alarm rang. The light went off. Beads of cold sweat lined her forehead. A drop traced its way down her spine, tickling her back. She looked at the heater. It had been turned off. She took a moment to breathe. The grounding aroma of Indian spices diffused into the room. She breathed the earthy scent. It brought her back to life.

  Darcy lay beside the television, turning up the volume. Her mind lost itself in images of her past. His face flashed again and again. He was real. She heard him breathe. She heard his raspy voice. His clear blue eyes narrowed in on her. Only her.

  Her neighbor banged against her wall, signaling her to turn down the volume. His cat mewed loudly to add fuel to his demand. Darcy turned it down. The flurry of images passed her by. She didn’t like to watch TV. She bought one to keep her distracted. She needed to stop thinking about him.

  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 wri
te 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 be
en 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.