Scary stories :“When They Stole My Face: The Nightmare of a Man Without an Identity”

I wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the windows of the small studio apartment in Portland that I share with my wife, Amber. The faint smell of coffee grounds and mildew lingers in the air, along with a sour tang I can't place, but it turns my stomach. My phone lies dead beside me on the nightstand—strange, I could’ve sworn I plugged it in last night. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and the ache in my muscles feels deeper than it should, like I’ve been lying still for days. Yesterday's clothes cling to my skin with the stale scent of sweat, as if I’ve worn them for too long. The clock reads 10:42 a.m. I never sleep this late on a weekday. A cold dread creeps in as I stumble out of bed. My car keys aren’t on the hook by the door, and my laptop is missing from the desk. I shuffle towards the kitchen, every step heavy as though my body’s forgotten how to move. As I round the corner, I see our dog, Baxter, standing stiff in the middle of the room. His tail is low, hackles raised, lips curled back to show his teeth in a way I’ve never seen before.

“Baxter... hey, buddy,” I say, my voice cracking. He growls, low and guttural, like he doesn’t recognize me. His eyes, usually soft and eager, are wild now, tracking my every movement like a predator sizing up its prey. "Come on, it's me." I take a cautious step forward, but he lunges, snapping at the air just inches from my hand. I stumble back, heart pounding. The worst part isn’t the aggression; it’s the look in his eyes—there’s no recognition. None. I barely manage to sidestep as he lunges again, his teeth clicking shut with a sharp clack. My pulse races as I grab the door handle with trembling hands, wrenching it open just in time. I stumble into the hallway, slamming the door behind me as his claws scrape furiously against the wood.

When I reach the curb, my car is gone. Panic hums beneath my skin as I jog through the rain-soaked streets towards my office downtown. The rain clings to me like a second skin, but I barely feel it. My pulse thunders in my ears—something’s wrong, everything’s wrong. At the office entrance, I swipe my badge. The little beep sounds, but the turnstile won’t budge. I try again, but nothing happens. The security guard at the front desk eyes me.

"Can I help you?" he asks, polite but wary.

"Yeah, uh..." I clear my throat. "I work here—Daniel Clark, Marketing."

The guard frowns, typing something into his computer. He squints at the screen, then back at me. "Says here Daniel Clark checked in about thirty minutes ago."

The room tilts; my heart skips a beat. "What?" I ask, voice cracking.

The guard looks concerned, his voice careful. "You okay? You want me to call someone?"

I push past him before he can finish. I need to get upstairs. "Sir!" he calls after me, but I'm already in the elevator, jabbing the button for the 11th floor. Each second feels like a countdown to something inevitable, something awful.

When the doors open with a chime, I step into the familiar buzz of the open-concept office—phones ringing, keyboards clacking—and then I see him. He’s sitting at my desk, typing away with an easy, practiced smile. He glances up casually, and for a second, my brain short circuits. Because the man in my chair, the one joking with Jason from accounting, drinking from my coffee mug, and wearing my watch... is me. Well, not exactly. He’s better—his jawline is sharper, his skin clearer, his clothes fit perfectly, not rumpled or wrinkled like mine. Even his hair, always limp no matter what I do, is thick and perfectly styled, like he just stepped out of a photo shoot. He’s me, but without the flaws.

Jason claps him on the shoulder, grinning. "Congrats again, man! That promotion’s long overdue."

My stomach twists. **My** promotion—the one I’ve been grinding for, sacrificing weekends, working overtime, skipping dinners with Amber, all to prove I was good enough.

"Thanks, bro," the imposter says, his voice smooth and warm—like mine, but without the doubt.

I step forward, trembling with anger. “Hey! Get the [ __ ] out of my chair!” The room falls silent. Heads turn. Every eye in the office locks onto me. For a moment, no one moves. Jason shifts uncomfortably, and a few coworkers whisper to each other, casting uneasy glances in my direction. The other me tilts his head and smiles, cool, calm, collected.

“Sorry,” he says. “Do I know you?”

Something snaps inside me. I slam my hands down on the desk. "I am Daniel Clark! That’s my desk, you [ __ ] fraud!" Jason steps between us, his expression tight with confusion and just a hint of fear.

“Hey, buddy,” he says softly, “I don’t know who you are, but you need to leave. Now. Before we call security.”

I open my mouth to protest, but two guards are already behind me, their hands clamping down on my arms. The pity in everyone’s eyes as they watch me being dragged away burns like acid in my chest. They throw me into the cold rain and slam the door behind me. I sit there for a moment on the slick pavement, stunned, as the rain washes over me. People pass by without a glance—just another nobody on the street.

I dig through my pockets, fingers trembling, and pull out my wallet. My driver’s license is gone, replaced by a blank plastic card. No name. No photo. No address. Just empty space where I used to exist.