I Found My Doppelgänger—Then She Stole My Life

The first time I saw her, I thought I was hallucinating from stress. There I was, sitting across the café, sipping my favorite caramel macchiato in my denim jacket with the sunflower pin on the collar. Same scar above the left eyebrow from the bike accident I’d had at twelve. Same nervous habit of twisting a strand of hair around my finger.

But when she caught me staring, she smiled—a slow, serpentine curve that I’d never made in my life—and my blood turned to ice. By the time I lunged from my seat, knocking over my coffee, she was gone. The barista eyed the sticky puddle and my shaking hands. “You okay, hon?” she asked, but I was already sprinting into the street, searching for a face I’d only ever seen in mirrors.

That night, I found the first red stain of her existence—literally. Smudged on my bathroom mirror was a raspberry-red lipstick kiss, a shade I’d never owned. My hands trembled as I scrubbed it away, but the evidence kept coming.

Three days later, my best friend Jamie stormed into my apartment, eyes blazing. “Why the hell would you tell my boss I’m sleeping with her husband?” she demanded. I stared, spoon frozen mid-air over my cereal. “Sarah described you perfectly,” Jamie spat. “Even that stupid owl necklace you’ve been missing.” My hand flew to my bare collarbone. I hadn’t worn that necklace in weeks.

The texts started the next morning. Unknown number: Missed you at yoga! —Lena. I don’t do yoga.

Then came the bank alert—a 5,000 withdrawal from my savings. The teller’s voice was crisp over the phone: “We verified the security footage, Miss Carter. It was definitely you.”

That’s when I tore my apartment apart, finding traces of her everywhere: a single strand of platinum-blonde hair in my brush (mine’s dishwater),a receipt for 800 Gucci heels (I thrift all my shoes), and a selfie on my phone I didn’t take—her, smirking in my bathroom mirror, wearing my face like a cheap costume.

I set up a camera, drank three shots of espresso, and waited. At 3:17 a.m., the humming began. My voice, singing my childhood lullaby, drifting from the bedroom. The camera footage showed me creeping down the hall, knife in hand, but I swear I never moved from the couch. There she was—me—perched at my vanity, applying my lipstick.

Our eyes met in the mirror. “Get out,” I rasped, blade raised. She turned slowly, smile stretching until her cheeks split slightly at the seams. “But I live here now, Lena,” she purred. “Or should I say… I live here?” A knock interrupted us. My landlord stood scowling in the doorway. “Miss Carter, you’ve violated the lease!” he barked, thrusting paperwork at me. My signature looped elegantly across the page—a handwriting I couldn’t replicate if I tried.

The final clue came in a dusty box under the floorboards, hidden beneath my bed. Inside: my stolen owl necklace, Polaroids of me sleeping, and a birth certificate I’d never seen. Lena Marie Carter. Twin: Lana Marie Carter. (Deceased at birth.) When I called Mom, her silence said everything. “The doctors called it a ‘vanishing twin,’” she finally whispered. “They said you… absorbed her.”

The bedroom door creaked open. She stood there, peeling off her face like a latex mask. Underneath—my features, but sharper. Hungrier. “Surprise, sis,” she grinned, needle teeth glinting. “Mommy lied. I didn’t vanish. I’ve been waiting.”

Now I’m writing this from a motel, but the keys stick when I type. My reflection blinks a second too slow. Last night, I woke to her voice in my head, slick as oil: “You’re the ghost now. Don’t worry… I’ll make it quick.”

So listen carefully: If you see me, ask about the scar. If I can’t tell you which eyebrow it’s on…

Run.

Because she's almost ready.

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