My Doppelgänger

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I stood frozen, never taking my eyes off the reflection, praying that I was dreaming, then the reflection moved and I knew this was no dream. No, more like a real nightmare. I turned and ran.

I became fascinated with my reflection in the mirror about six months ago. Why, you may ask?

Well let me tell you my story. I guarantee you’ll find it difficult to believe but I swear on my detectives shield, that this is a true story.

It all started as I was getting ready for work one morning. I was standing in front of my full length mirror in the bedroom, checking my outfit as I was about to head into the precinct. I turned my head to check my hair and out of the corner of my eye I spotted movement in the mirror. Movement that didn’t correspond with any movement I had made. In fact, I hadn’t moved at all.

I swung my head back to face the mirror front on and laughed to myself. I knew my reflection couldn’t move without me. I was just tired, that’s all.

I forgot about my active imagination and headed into work.

The next morning, same routine, or so it seemed, same active imagination. I chided myself once more, reminded myself that my reflection couldn’t move independently.

The third morning, same mirror. However, this time as I was putting my makeup on, my reflection silently began to laugh. I was not laughing.

I began talking to myself wondering if I was hallucinating as I watched my reflection move about in the confines of the mirror, even though I was standing stock still. My reflection continued to laugh although no sound escaped the mirror bounds.

Was I going insane?

I decided I must be and walked out the front door. When I arrived at the precinct, my partner, Celine, was waiting. She was pacing inside the front door constantly looking at her watch. As she spotted me getting out of my car, she held the front door open and gestured impatiently.

“Morning Celine, is everything alright?” I asked.

“Hurry Lee, we’ve a new case called in. There’s been a murder of a young teenage girl in downtown,” Celine gushed.

I picked up the pace and headed to our office. Celine began explaining the details as she knew them.

Sadly, a fifteen year old female had been viciously murdered in her bedroom, sometime in the early hours of the morning. Her mother found her when she went to wake her for school. The young girl was stabbed multiple times in her bed, in what can only be described as a vicious bloodbath. Nothing else in the room had been disturbed except a mirror on the wall had been shattered.

We raced off to attend the scene and interview the mother. Luckily, the mother had seen a woman running across her front lawn and was able to give us a description. Apparently she was described as being roughly my height, with long black hair and was wearing jeans and a hoody. The witness had only seen her from the back but believed the woman was also a similar build to me.

The attack was obviously frenzied and that had us concerned because it usually meant one murder wasn’t enough to get rid of the rage the attacker was obviously feeling.

We spent the day interviewing neighbours and waiting for forensic results. The first few days of a new case are always slow going.

A couple of days later, as I was giving myself the once over in the mirror, I’d forgotten about the previous mirror hallucinations I had experienced, as my mind was on the case. But as I turned to walk away, I saw my reflection give me the nastiest grin possible. I stepped away from the mirror in terror and raced out the door.

I didn’t have time to dwell on it because as I arrived for duty, Celine was once again waiting.

“There’s been another murder this morning,” Celine informed me. “This time it was an eighteen year old male victim but it was obviously the same Unsub because the scene is set the same. A teenager killed in his room in a vicious manner and no other disturbances, except a shattered wall mirror.”

“What’s with the mirrors?” I asked.

Celine shrugged her shoulders and we left to head to the scene.

We interviewed the new victim’s mother and she had a similar story as the previous mother of the young girl. However, this time the mother had a better view of the murderer and was able to fill out the description a little more.

Along with the long dark hair, the Unsub had a jagged scar down the left side of her face, from her eye to the corner of her mouth. She also had a tattoo on the left side of her neck but the witness couldn’t give us any idea of what the tattoo looked like, as she was too far away.

As we were leaving the crime scene, Celine turned to me, “If I didn’t know better Lee, I’d almost say the description of the attacker would fit you. Same height, same build, same hair, same scar and even has some sort of neck tattoo.”

I laughed it off but seriously, the thought had crossed my mind.

All was quiet for the next week. Until the next Sunday morning. It was my day off but Celine called to say we had a third victim. This case had reach serial killer status and it was all hands on deck. This woman needed to be stopped.

The third victim’s mother had walked into her son’s bedroom, disturbing the attack. The killer jumped out of the bedroom window and fled.

As the mother was telling us this, she kept looking warily at me. She then asked Celine if she could talk to her alone and left the room. Celine followed and I waited for Celine’s return.

On arrival back at the precinct, Celine drew me aside and hissed, “Lee, I don’t know what’s going on but this last witness is 110% sure you are the woman she interrupted killing her son. What is going on?”

I was shocked. “Celine, surely you can’t believe this was me?”

She shook her head and walked off.

Two days later, I was standing once more in front of my bedroom mirror.

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. I stood frozen, never taking my eyes off the reflection, praying that I was dreaming, then the reflection moved and I knew this was no dream. No, more like a real nightmare. I turned and ran.

I flew through the house to the kitchen, yanked out the butchers knife from the block, and raced around the corner to the cellar door. I hastily opened it, ran through and locked the door behind me. I then sat on the top step that led down into the underground cellar.

I tried to get my breathing under control while listening for any noise coming from the other side of the door.

While I was in the kitchen I had heard footsteps in my bedroom.

I slowed my breathing to enable me to hear better and I sat frozen. Waiting.

Footsteps in the kitchen. I could hear the pantry door being opened. Then footsteps waking past the cellar door and fading away. Silence.

I waited.

The silence was broken by the slamming of a door. Was that the spare bedroom door or the front door, I wondered. I wish I’d thought to grab my mobile phone from beside the bed.

The silence dragged on and just as I had decided it must have been the front door and I was safe, I heard footsteps coming back towards the cellar door.

She’d obviously searched the entire house and realised the cellar door was the last possible place I could be.

I began edging down the stairs, trying to keep my pants to a minimum. They sounded so loud in my ears that I was sure she had heard me.

Then I heard fingernails running down the outside of the door, along with giggles.

She knew I was there and she was playing with me.

The door knob rattled and in a sing song voice she called through the door, “Come out, come out wherever you are. Don’t you want to play?”

Silence.

Had she gone?

I jumped as she began bashing on the door with her fists. “Come out, come out, or I’ll come in,” she sung and then burst into laughter.

She continued to bang her fists on the door, but soon realised she wasn’t getting in that way, so she upped the anti. She began to kick the door just above the door lock. Each kick rattled the door and to my horror it began to splinter around the lock.

I moved to the bottom of the stairs knowing that door wasn’t going to hold for much longer. I moved as quietly as I could across the concrete floor to the back corner. I knew that the wine rack that butted up to that corner was a little short and there was room for me to squeeze in behind the rack. It’s the only worthwhile place to hide.

I’d just squeezed in when I heard the door crash open and her maniacal laughter.

I watched through the rack, between the wine bottles, keeping my eyes on the foot of the stairs. At that angle I couldn’t see up the stairs.

I could hear her stomping down the stairs until eventually I spotted her feet, then her legs and finally she was standing in full view.

She was me — or was I her?

I couldn’t see anything about her that wasn’t me.

Once she realised I wasn’t standing in view waiting for her, she began moving things around, expecting to find my hiding place any minute. As she looked she continued to taut me and giggle.

She slowly and methodically moved around the room, starting at the staircase and edging her way around until she was on the opposite side of the room, with her back to me.

I quietly eased out of my hiding place and skated across the floor to the bottom of the staircase. She was making so much noise she didn’t hear me but then she must have sensed movement because she twirled around to face me.

She smiled — an evil smile that I never dreamed I was capable of pulling off — and she began to talk. Her confession I guess you could call it. She explained that she was the very serial killer that Celine and I had been looking for.

That’s why all the witnesses descriptions fit me to a tee.

She began to move towards me and I turned and fled. I raced up the stairs, through the kitchen and back to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I moved over to stand in front of the mirror, holding the butchers knife and waited.

She took her time, confident she’d get me.

I could hear her footsteps on the kitchen floor, moving up the hallway and stopping outside the bedroom door.

One final maniacal giggle and she kicked the door open. She didn’t wait this time and she rushed directly at me.

I stood my ground and waited. As soon as she was close to striking distance I began heaving the butchers knife in her direction.

She battered away one strike, a second strike and then swept my feet from under me with her leg. I crashed to my back on the floor, winded, but still holding the knife.

She kicked me in the ribs to keep me from regaining my breath and grabbed my wrist, the one holding the knife. We fought hard, I was trying to do damage with the knife and she was trying to take the knife from me.

Blind luck saw the knife sink into her neck and she stumbled backwards, weaving on her feet.

I stood up and faced her. I could see the defeat in her dark brown eyes, my dark brown eyes. She knew she was beaten.

Suddenly she rushed me again and dived through the air in my direction. It was only sheer reflexes that made me duck and as a result she flew over my head and into the mirror.

I rose to my full height and turned to face the mirror. There she stood, stubbornly standing tall although I could see she was weakened from the knife wound in her neck.

She smiled.

And I returned her smile as I turned sidewards and launched a kick at the mirror, shattering it into a million pieces.

She was gone — and I can promise you this — I will never house a mirror in my bedroom again.

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