The Doppelgänger: A Psychological Thriller Read online

  She felt something hard against her feet. She opened her eyes.

  She was standing on the platform, waiting for the train back home on Wednesday evening. She crossed the yellow line. One more step and her leg would slide down the platform. She pulled herself away. The fear in her heart subsided. Her hollow eyes remained on the platform.

  The train came. A stranger brushed past her while she was getting on. Darcy saw her back, clothed in a coat move away. She held the edge of the chair as the doors closed. The train parted.

  In the distance, she saw the women who brushed past her. The stranger wore a brown coat. Her proportions were similar to Darcy. She had brown hair that cascaded to her shoulder. The stranger turned.

  She looked like Darcy. Darcy’s breath got stuck in her throat. The brown hair, the honey eyes and the straight nose. From an angle, the stranger resembled her. Darcy began to move toward the stranger.

  The train stopped at the next station and the doors opened abruptly. People walked out of the train. Darcy’s stopped where she was. The crowd swept past her. Darcy stood still, allowing people to pass. The train beeped before the doors closed.

  She rubbed her eyes. The woman was gone. She rushed to where the woman had been. Her eyes strained a look outside the window. She didn’t see any trace of her in the crowd.

  Darcy sat on the empty seat and heard someone snore. Her tired eyes turned to a middle-aged man who sat next to her. He was asleep. The swaying motion of the train made her sleepy. She got off at the next station and waited for the Brown Line, shivering in the cold. Thankfully, the train arrived within minutes.

  She got off at Damen and cautiously walked to her two-bedroom apartment that lay on a quiet side street. The brown stone walls and white windows were exactly like she left them that morning. A street light flickered, accentuating her long shadow.

  A cat mewed. The noise startled her. She turned reflexively. She looked down at a cat that grazed her shoes. Smokey examined her. Her green eyes glowed in the dark. Smokey’s black coat was wet. She mewed again.

  Darcy looked at Mr. Hatter’s apartment. His door was locked. There were no lights. She looked at the cat sympathetically. Darcy opened the door. Smokey’s lithe body slid through the narrow opening. Darcy followed her. She opened the apartment door. Smokey slid through. Darcy turned on the lights. Everything was as she left it. She removed her coat and dumped it on the couch. She headed to the bedroom and undressed. Smokey curled up near the couch.

  She turned on the television. The latest pop song blasted through the speakers. She marinated in familiar sounds as she ate the microwaved pizza. Her phone beeped. She wiped her greasy fingers with tissue paper before touching the phone.

  The e-mail app was open. She had received a reply to her comment. She anxiously clicked on the e-mail. The page refreshed to a black screen. The powdery white words lined its surface. She scrolled to the bottom of the page, trying to find her comment.

  She read it.

  Who are you?

  It was the same. The author had replied. Darcy clicked on the expanded comment.

  Her eyes skimmed over the words. The words drummed on her conscious memory. Her violent pulse tricked to her brain. She couldn’t think. Her eyes lay over the one-word reply. She turned to it again. Her fingers ran over every letter. She pulled the phone away and read it again. The words didn’t change.

  Darcy

  She inhaled deeply. The hands of the clock ticked by. Her beating eyes focused on the dark screen that screamed the fateful five-letter word. She couldn’t tear her gaze away. Smokey mewed outside. She ignored the cat. It mewed again. Darcy put the phone on the couch and walked to the door.

  “What is it?” Darcy asked, opening the door. Stormy’s voice tapered off. Darcy’s fingers closed on the door handle. The cold mixed with her pulse, creating an unpleasant vibration.

  Darcy opened the door with trembling fingers. She backed off. There was no one. The deserted street met her gaze. A gale of wind swooshed by, cutting through her inadequate clothing. There was nobody outside the door. Smokey continued to mew.

  “Did you see someone?” Darcy asked the cat. Smokey’s eyes didn’t budge. Darcy moved to shut the door. Smokey ran out of the door quickly. Darcy shut the door.

  A loud screech resounded. It came from outside the door. Darcy rushed out of the house. Her eyes darted from one end of the road to another, searching for any trace of Smokey’s silhouette.

  She took a step toward the trash can. She stepped on a gooey substance. A foul stench emanated from near the trash can. The small light outside the apartment cast its shadow on the bin. Darcy pulled her leg away. She flipped her feet to examined her slippers. A red liquid colored her soles.

  It was a dead mouse. Smokey’s paws lingered over the mouse triumphantly.

  Darcy exhaled. It was just a mouse.

  Chapter 4

  The cafe was crowded and noisy. The smell of fresh coffee diffused in the air. Darcy strode in wearing a beige trench coat. She moved to the counter, her eyes skimming over the menu. The discordant noise of steel and porcelain filled her ears.

  The bored guy at the counter looked at her, expectantly.

  “Yes?” he raised an eyebrow, without making eye contact.

  “One latte with soy milk please,” Darcy said.

  “Anything else?” he asked, without looking up.

  “No, thank you.”

  He put in the order. Darcy paid for it and moved to an empty chair. She sat and looked out at a busy portrait of Chicago.

  A soft noise rippled the surface of the table. The waitress slapped the cup of coffee on the table and surveyed Darcy. The waitress turned on her heel and left. The hot waves of steam emanating from the coffee burst on her face like fire. She backed off. Her fingers curled around the cup of coffee.

  “Darcy Godfrey?” a sharp voice enquired.

  Darcy turned. A lean, skinny boy stood before her. His small eyes surveyed Darcy. He had short, spiky hair.

  “Um….are you Brian?”

  “Yes.”

  Darcy extended her hand. He took it. They shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

  The young man sat on the Costa’s signature red chair. Her muddy brown eyes met his intent, black ones.

  “I got your message,” he said in a low voice.

  “Ummm…” Darcy said. “You want to order something?”

  “No. I’m fine.” he added, quickly.

  Darcy cleared her throat. Her fingers scrambled to the cup of coffee. She drank it rapidly. The hot coffee scalded her tongue.

  “You okay?” Brian asked.

  “Hmmmm...” Darcy put the cup down. Brian’s eyes turned to his phone.

  “I have a strange request.” she said.

  “You want me to hack a blog?” he said, reading his phone. His eyes moved through the words while Darcy continued to speak.

  “My situation is a little complicated,” she said. Her eyeballs covered the width of the coffee shop. She leaned in. “This information is confidential.”

  “You can trust me,” he said. “I’ve completed many such requests.”

  “Good. With that out of the way…” The coffee machine swooshed. The old man next to her coughed. Newspapers rustled in the background. A writer typed noisily next to the wall. “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter?”

  Darcy’s shoes trailed up the muddy path that cut across the park. Brian followed her with his hands tucked into his pocket. The warm cup of coffee in Darcy’s hands warmed her. She spotted a bench in a quiet spot. She sat down. Brian sat next to her.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” he asked.

  “Have you heard of My Diary?” Darcy began.

  “It’s a p
ersonal blog, isn’t it?” he asked with an expression that said ‘where is this going?’.

  “I’ve been following the blog for some time….” Darcy said.

  “Some time?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And?”

  “I noticed something unusual.”

  “I read through the blog after I received your request,” he said.

  “Did you read the last post?”

  “Hmmmm…very intense.”

  “And personal.” Darcy said in a low voice.

  He nodded

  “The last two posts were very…uh…personal.” Darcy struggled to find the right word.

  “Many people noticed it,” Brian said. His fingers brushed the phone screen. “There were a few comments.”

  His fingers froze. His eyes remained on a part of the post. He’d seen it. He knew.

  “Isn’t your name Darcy?”

  “It is.”

  He turned to her for an explanation.

  “The comment,” she explained. “I posted it yesterday.”

  “I can see that. You write the blog?”

  “No…no, I don’t.” Darcy said. His head tilted. “Some strange things have been happening to me since last week. I’m not the author of the blog but the author knows too much about my personal history.”

  “Have you tried e-mailing her?”

  “I sent her an e-mail earlier this week,” Darcy said.

  “Any reply?”

  “Her e-mail address is the same as mine.”

  “Ah,” the hacker said. His eyes momentarily enlarged. “So, you’re not writing the blog but whoever is has the same e-mail address.”

  “Yes.”

  “That is strange,” he said, knitting his eyebrows together. “Was your e-mail account hacked?”

  “No.”

  “Have you noticed any stray messages in your inbox? Like fan mail or personal letters?”

  Darcy shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like there are two different e-mail accounts with the same e-mail address.”

  “Have you looked through your trash and folders? She may have saved some e-mails in there.”

  “I didn’t find any.” Darcy said.

  “That’s strange,” the young man said, scratching his chin. “Did you look up the IP address?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Where was it last opened?”

  “On my computer. Last night. I checked my history.”

  “So you’re saying this person has the same e-mail as you but you’re not getting her messages?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Did someone break into your house?”

  “No,” Darcy said. “Nobody I know of.”

  He scratched his chin.

  “I don’t see how I can help.”

  “I want you to hack the blog.”

  “Hack the blog? Why?”

  “I want to know who is writing the blog. There are no social media links or images of her. Can you find something like what name the domain is registered under or the IP address?”

  “You want me to find out who is writing the blog?”

  “Yes. And I also want you to delete the last post.”

  “I could do that.”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “I’m curious. Why didn’t you contact the police? Your personal information is being used here.” He said.

  “I want to make sure,” Darcy cut in. “I want to make sure I’m on the right track before calling the police.”

  “I’ll try to find what I can. I’ll call you if I find something.” He blinked and stood up.

  “Thank you.” Darcy said.

  He walked away.

  Darcy walked across the large, green park. Her steps hastened as soon as her eyes observed the heavy, cloudy sky. She needed to get home before it began to rain. She stepped onto the street lined with shops. Her legs ran toward the nearest underground station.

  Darcy stared at the grey sky. A drop of water infiltrated her eyes. She closed her eyes. The downpour began.

  Darcy noticed a large building next to a shop. It was an extension of the shopping center that stretched behind her. She rushed to the entrance. Somebody walked out of the door, oblivious to her presence. They collided. She fell to the floor. Her bag flew in the other direction. Her glasses fell to the floor and cracked. Rain beat down on the broken shards of glass. Darcy turned around quickly. She saw a blurry image.

  “I’m sorry,” a deep voice said. A broad hand extended to her. She wiped the water away. Her eyes trailed to the source of the squarish palm. Their eyes met. She recognized his familiar brown eyes. His dark hair was soaking wet. Darcy took his hand and stood up. Her irritation evaporated.

  “We meet again,” he said. He flashed a broad grin at Darcy. It was the journalist who had helped her at the lecture theatre. He bent down and picked up her bag. He handed her bag to her.

  Before Darcy could thank him, he raced to pick up the pieces of her broken glasses. Somebody dashed past him, stepping on the glass.

  “Leave it.” Darcy said.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said with downcast eyes. He handed her the broken pair of glasses. “It’s no good.”

  She turned to the pair of broken glasses. The frame was intact. The glass needed to be replaced.

  “I was distracted…” he said, raking his fingers through his damp hair. “How about I get you another pair?”

  She studied her reflection in the mirror. She was soaking wet. Her eyes trailed across her body. Her clothes clung to the curves of her body, making her self-conscious. Her dark hair looked darker when it was wet.

  The chill seeped through her clothes and froze the hair on her skin. She needed to get home. At this rate, she would catch the flu before the day was out.

  “Some other time,” she said, dismissively.

  “You must be cold,” he said. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around Darcy. She looked up at him.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She moved her hand to get rid of the jacket. He held his hand over hers.

  “You can’t walk home in those wet clothes,” he said. “Keep it.”

  “Thank you,” she said. She walked away quickly.

  He stopped her midway and handed her a card.

  “That’s where you can find me,” he said. His eyes were transfixed on hers. “In case you change your mind.”

  He walked away. Darcy glanced at the card.

  Michael Hargreaves,

  Editor

  The Science Reporter

  She had the odd feeling that she had read the magazine’s name somewhere. She couldn’t recall.

  The downpour slowed. Darcy walked to the street and hailed a taxi home. She took the coat off and placed it on the seat.

  The taxi pulled up in front of her apartment half an hour later. The rain had stopped. Puddles of water lined the uneven road. Grey clouds eclipsed the orange twilight. She pulled bills out of her purse and paid the driver. He drove away.

  Darcy opened the door to her apartment. Her hands flew to the heater switch. She turned it on and changed into a pair of warm clothes. She turned on the TV and cuddled up on the couch with some warm hot chocolate, preparing for a peaceful Saturday evening. The face that flashed across the TV screen changed her mind.

  Dr. Cleo’s interview was live on television. Darcy listened to his gruff voice. She wanted to flip channels but her fingers refused to budge. She watched the interview.

  “You recently pledged a large portion of your wealth to charity. Among these were many research institutions. What made you choose to donate to them?”

  “I’ve always wanted to contribute t
o medical science. We can save lives because of advances in science.”

  “Ambrosia began as a company that manufactured drugs to treat mental illnesses. Why did you choose that particular field?”

  “I worked as a psychiatrist before I started the company. I saw all kinds of patients. Their issues were serious but medical research in this field was lacking. The drugs did nothing to stop their problem. I thought we needed some effective solutions to cure mental illness.”

  “Mental health is a contentious issue. Does that have something to do with our limited understanding of the mind?”

  “It is definitely one field that doesn’t get enough attention,” Dr. Cleo said. “We fail to realize the impact mental illnesses have on a person’s life. Lives can be saved through better treatments and drugs.”

  “Can you describe a patient who left a strong impression on you?”

  He hesitated. Darcy noticed he moved on the couch. A bead of sweat touched his forehead. The intense glare of flashlights illuminated it.

  “Long ago, I met someone who suffered from a strange mix of schizophrenia and bipolar disorder. We did a few sessions of hypnosis but they didn’t work. I only realized much later that the treatments did more harm than good.”

  He looked at her. His blue eyes shot through her like she didn’t exist. His eyes affected every cell in her body.

  His eyes moved closer until they engulfed her. She closed her eyes. Her body broke into spasms. The goosebumps made her hair stand. She vibrated on the couch. Darkness descended on her vision.

  The scene opened with an image of her mother. Her wispy blonde hair was as ethereal as the moonlight that framed it. The dark corridor crossed her mind. No, she didn’t want to go there. Not again.

  The rooms and bars rearranged themselves into a gallery of distant memories. Her mother occupied every frame of the display. Mom laughing. Mom cutting the cake. Mom holding her close. Mom telling her to stop watching television. Mom sitting on the dining table, the light framing her. Eating dinner with her. Listening to her. Listening to what she did in school. Her eyes were bright and fizzy like champagne. Blue champagne.