Dualis

The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn't order it. The box was unremarkable—brown cardboard, tightly sealed with clear tape—but the sight of my name on the label gave me pause. It was strikingly familiar. Inside the house, the radiator clanked and hissed against the autumn cold. I set the box on the kitchen counter, next to the cutting board where I'd been chopping vegetables for dinner. Rainbow carrots were lined up in neat rows, waiting to be roasted, the chicken marinating in the fridge—Evan's favorite, with rosemary and lemon.

My fingers traced the edge of the box. No shipping label. No return address. Just my name drawn out in thick sharpie. I traced the letters with my fingers, following the slight curve to the 'v', the way the 'e' connected to the next letter. It looked exactly like mine. I peeled back the tape

Using a kitchen knife, I split the packing tape. Inside, nestled in a single sheet of tissue paper, was a plain black photo album and a folded piece of paper. The album was nothing special, the kind you'd find at any office supply store, but seeing it there made the knife slip in my wet palm. I set it down carefully on the counter, my heart suddenly too loud in my ears. I pulled the album out, letting the note fall to the floor as I flipped open the cover.

The first photo punched the air from my lungs.

There I was, laughing on a beach I'd never visited, my arm around a woman I'd never met. We wore matching shell necklaces, our shoulders sunburned and hair wild with salt air. The caption read "Spring Break, Puerto Rico." But I'd never been to Puerto Rico. Never owned a shell necklace. Never met this woman who grinned at the camera like we were lifelong friends.

My hands trembled as I turned the page. Each new image was a fresh wound in my reality. Me hiking through redwood forests, dwarfed by ancient trees. Me at what looked like a birthday party, blowing out candles surrounded by faces I didn't recognize—all of them looking at me with such genuine affection. Another of me outside a rustic cabin, snow-capped mountains in the background, holding up a pair of ski poles.

"No, no, no," I whispered, flipping pages faster now. The timestamps on the photos spanned the last two years—years I'd spent here, in this house, working from home. Hadn't I? But there I was, tagged in locations across the country, always surrounded by people who seemed to know me intimately.

Then I found the Polaroid tucked into the last page. The sight of it made my blood run cold.

It was me, but not me. Same face, same eyes, but this woman's hair was longer than I'd worn mine in years. The photo was taken from above, like I'd held the camera up myself, but I had no memory of this moment. The woman in the image wore a black hoodie that seemed to swallow her whole. Dark circles shadowed her eyes—my eyes—and her mouth was set in a grim line as she stared up at the camera. The stark flash had washed out her skin, making the small scar above her right eyebrow stand out like a warning…the same scar I had.

The date was written beneath it in that same precise handwriting: "September 3rd, 2024." Yesterday. The Prescott Hotel's Art Deco facade loomed in the background, but I'd never been there. Never owned a hoodie like that. Never taken this photo. The Polaroid slipped from my trembling fingers. My chest constricted as though someone had wrapped a steel band around my ribs. The kitchen tiles seemed to tilt beneath my feet as I gripped the edge of the counter. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision.

A stalker. That had to be it. Someone was photoshopping my face into other people's lives. But the Polaroid was real, physical, immediate. The way the flash caught her eyes, the shadow of her hand holding the camera, the texture of the hoodie—all of it devastatingly real.

The note.

With shaking fingers, I picked up the paper from the floor. The words looped and connected together the way mine do when I’m moving too fast : ‘You are not who you think you are. Don’t trust him.’

A sob caught in my throat. I pressed my fist against my mouth to stifle it, sliding down to sit on the kitchen floor. The neat rows of vegetables on the cutting board stared back at me accusingly. Evan would be home soon. Evan would—my phone buzzed, making me jump, so violently I knocked over the empty wine glass I'd set out for dinner. ‘Heading home. Traffic's light on Madison. Should beat the worst of the rain. Love you.’

Oh, God. What would I tell him? Should I tell him anything? My gaze darted around the kitchen—evidence of my breakdown scattered everywhere. The album splayed open on the floor, that haunting Polaroid seeming to watch me. The box torn open. Me, a trembling mess on the tiles. He couldn't see this. Not until I figured out what was happening. Not until I could explain it. But how could I explain photos of a life I'd never lived? Friends I'd never met? Places I'd never been? That hollow-eyed version of myself staring out from the Polaroid like a warning?

"Get up," I whispered to myself. "Get up, get up." My legs shook as I forced myself to stand. First, hide the evidence. I shoved the album and note back into the box, but my hands froze on the Polaroid. Those eyes—my eyes—seemed to bore into me, trying to tell me something I wasn't ready to understand. I quickly tucked it away with the rest, hiding the box in the pantry behind the paper towels.

Focus on the routine. Chop, slice, arrange. Don't think about the photos. Don't think about the stranger wearing your face. Don't think about how you can't remember where you got that scar above your eyebrow. The chicken. Focus on the chicken. Evan likes it crispy. Evan likes—Evan. My fingers flexed on the knife and I shook myself. No. Stop. He's your husband. This is your kitchen. This is your life.

Isn't it?

I turned on the radio, letting NPR fill the silence. Oil sizzled as vegetables hit the hot pan. Normal sounds. Real sounds. But every few seconds, my eyes darted to the pantry door. Behind it, that other version of me waiting. By the time I heard his key in the front door, I'd managed to stop shaking. Almost.

"Something smells amazing," he called out, his footsteps crossing the living room where a stack of his medical journals still sat on the coffee table from breakfast. He came up behind me as I stood at the stove, wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my neck. His shirt was slightly damp from the rain, and he smelled of his office—coffee and that antiseptic cleanser they used in the lab. "How did I get so lucky?"

"It's just chicken," I said, but smiled despite myself. His wedding ring was cool against my stomach where his hand rested.

"Nothing's ever just anything with you." He reached past me to steal a piece of roasted carrot. "How was your day?"

"Quiet. Worked on some freelance pieces," I said, automatically reaching for a bourbon glass. Evan liked having a drink while I finished dinner. We ate at our kitchen table, the one we'd rescued from a thrift store and refinished together that first summer in the house. Though looking at it now, I mostly remembered hours of sanding while Evan read refinishing tutorials aloud from his phone. He told me about his day at the research facility—budget meetings in the beige conference room on the third floor, grant proposals for their latest project, office politics with Dr. Chen from the genetics department. I found myself nodding along, asking the right questions at the right moments, the way I always did. The routine was comfortable. My eyes shifted to the doorway, narrowing in on the pantry door as his voice faded in my mind.

"Avery?" Evan's tone pulled me back. His fork paused halfway to his mouth, and concern creased his forehead. "Are you okay? You seem distracted." His mouth pressed into a line, watching, waiting.

"Just tired," I said with a smile, already standing to clear his plate. He nodded and squeezed my hand as I passed.

"I'll help after I review these lab reports." He never did, but that was our pattern, wasn't it? Me in the kitchen, him in his armchair with his medical journals. It worked for us. At least, I thought it did. After dishes, Evan settled into his usual spot on the leather armchair in the living room, medical journal in one hand, whiskey in the other. I caught him watching me as I wiped down the counters, packed up his lunch for tomorrow, and set up the coffee maker for morning. His eyes held something I couldn't quite read—pride, maybe, or satisfaction. "Come sit with me," he called, but I still had to fold the laundry I'd left in the dryer. His shirts needed to be hung immediately to prevent wrinkles. He liked them crisp for work.

"Just a few more minutes," I promised, the way I always did. The basement air was cool and damp as I pulled warm clothes from the dryer. I found myself moving slower than usual, my mind drifting to the package upstairs. A flash of irritation surprised me—why did the laundry need to be done right now?

But of course it did. That was our routine.

I did the laundry while Evan relaxed after his demanding day at work. I kept our home running while he kept us financially secure. That's what I'd always done, hadn't I? For a moment, I couldn't remember when this pattern had started. The picture of me standing in the snow capped mountains flashing in my mind. Shouldn’t I remember something like that? Upstairs, I found Evan half-dozing in his chair. The journal had slipped to his lap, his empty whiskey glass dangling from loose fingers. He stirred when I pulled the glass from his hand.

"You're so good to me," he murmured, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as I smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from his collar. "Come to bed?" Evan's hands were possessive as they moved across my skin, his touch practiced and precise as we fell into bed and when he pulled me against his chest afterward, I felt the familiar weight of his arm across my waist. It was something I normally relished in, but tonight I only felt suffocated.

"I love watching you move through our house," he said softly into my hair. "You're so perfect. Everything about you is exactly right." His words made my skin prickle as I found myself analyzing them over and over. I waited until his breathing deepened into sleep before slipping out from under his arm. He shifted but didn't wake. The hardwood was cool under my bare feet as I crept downstairs to the pantry. My reflection caught in the dark window above the sink—pale skin, tousled dark hair, features I knew as well as my own name. But did I? The woman in the photos had worn this face too.

I pulled the box out from the pantry, finding the Polaroid and note again, turning them over and over trying to find something, anything else. Other than the date and the original chilling words, they were blank. I stared down at my face, thumb pressing against the edge of the Polaroid. It had only been taken a day ago…maybe she —I, whoever, was still there. I replaced the items, tucking them away before I climbed back into bed, arranging my body as far from Evan as possible.

***

The rain hadn't stopped. Its steady rhythm against the windows matched the methodical chopping of my knife against the cutting board. Diced onions for the omelet, a task I could do with my eyes closed. The sizzle of butter in the cast-iron skillet was a familiar comfort, the same sound that had filled this kitchen countless mornings before.

I cracked eggs with practiced precision, watching the yolks drop perfectly into the pan. Evan liked them over easy—runny enough to dip toast, but not so wet they'd run across the plate. Every detail mattered, but I wasn’t entirely sure why. The coffee machine gurgled its final notes as Evan entered, still soft from sleep. His hand found the small of my back, a routine touch that once felt loving, now felt cold.

"Morning," he murmured, reaching past me for a mug. I plated his breakfast—eggs, toast, apple slices quartered with geometric precision. As he sat, I caught my reflection in the kitchen window. For a moment, I saw her—the woman from the Polaroid. Hollow-eyed. Watching. I blinked. She was gone. Her face, my face, it was all blurring together. Where did she stop, and where did I begin?

"You're quiet again," Evan observed, cutting into his eggs.

"Just tired," I said, the same lie as the night before sliding out effortlessly. He hums, taking a bite and pinning me with icy eyes.

“You’ve been tired a lot lately, should I be concerned?” It’s a question that normally would be seen as caring, but something about his tone isn’t right. I look up from my plate and laugh, effortless, cheerful.

“Not at all.” We moved to the bathroom, our morning ritual unfolding like it had a hundred times before. Side-by-side at the double vanity, brushing teeth. His electric toothbrush hummed. Mine manual, moving in careful, measured strokes. As I brushed, I watched Evan in the mirror. His movements were clinical, precise. Always precise.

"You seem off," he said, catching my eye.

"Just worried…you know, about the treatments," I deflected. "What if they're not working?" He smiles sympathetically, pulling the fertility shot from the drawer. The needle hovered above my skin, and I instinctively looked away. My arm was a constellation of previous marks—small purple bruises and faded puncture points mapping out weeks of these daily rituals. Some still tender, some faded to near invisibility. The injection burned going in. Not the sharp pain of the first treatments, but a deep, familiar ache that seemed to settle into my bones. I winced, more from memory than from the current moment.

Evan disposed of the needle—uncap, pierce the safety guard, drop into the waste bin. He turned back to me, bracing his hands on the bathroom counter behind me, effectively caging me in. His body blocked the light from the window. Too close. He kissed the top of my head—a gesture that once felt tender, now feeling possessive. Then he grabbed my arm, gently tugging it upwards. His lips pressed against the fresh injection site, his breath warm against my skin.

"Don't worry, Darling," he murmured. "This is working just fine." Something in his tone made my skin crawl. The words that once brought comfort now felt like a threat. I needed him gone. Out of this space. Away from me.

I forced myself through the motions of seeing him off—straightening his tie with trembling fingers, handing him his briefcase, pressing a mechanical kiss to his cheek. Each movement felt like swimming through molasses, my body refusing to play its usual part.

"I'll be home around six," he said, adjusting his watch. The same routine, the same words, but now they carried the weight of a countdown. "Remember to rest today." I nodded, not trusting my voice as he walked out the door.

The morning stretched out, impossibly long. I tried to work— my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The words blurred. You are not who you think you are. I moved on to vacuuming. The rhythmic hum of the machine should have been soothing, but the Polaroid's image kept breaking through. My hand paused mid-stroke across the living room rug and I abandoned the task, leaving it plugged in and humming. By noon, I'd started and stopped a dozen tasks. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust him. My injection site burned. That all too familiar handwriting and the pictures that shared my face, it was all too much. Something inside me broke.

My hands shook as I grabbed my purse. Keys jangled. The box from the pantry sat on the passenger seat like a silent witness. The drive was a blur of rain and racing thoughts. My mind flickered between the photos, the note, Evan's precise touches. I swerved, nearly clipping a delivery truck. Another near miss at a red light. My pulse thundered in my ears. The Prescott Hotel loomed ahead. I barely managed to park, the car jerking into the spot. My hands slammed against the steering wheel.

"Get it together," I hissed at my reflection. The woman staring back looked wild. Desperate.

The lobby was cool, marble floors reflecting the dim light. The desk clerk looked up, a smile of recognition spreading across her face.

"You're looking much better," she said, her tone warm. "Must be over that cold." I froze, then quickly nodded, playing along.

"I'm having the strangest day," I heard myself say, forcing a laugh. "I can't seem to remember my room number."

"Of course," the clerk said. "And your name?" I hesitated for just a moment.

"Avery," I managed. "Avery..."

“Duchane?” She completed it for me. This was all wrong. I was Avery Colman, married to Evan Colman. She smiled and gave me a room number, waving as I hurried off.

The elevator ascended with a gentle hum as I pressed my trembling fingers together, desperately trying to ground myself through the motion. Thumb to index, thumb to middle, thumb to ring, thumb to pinky—the repetitive movement doing nothing to calm my racing heart. The numbers ticked upward, each floor marked by the soft illumination of digital display. Three, then four, then five—my sanity slowly fraying. When the elevator finally reached the seventh floor, a drop of cold sweat traced down my spine as the doors slid open with a soft chime.

The hallway stretched before me, its muted beige carpet swallowing the sound of my footsteps as I moved toward room 712. The stark black numbers seemed to swim before my eyes, and I found myself backing away until I hit the opposite wall, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"This is crazy," I whispered into the empty hallway, my voice barely a thread of sound in the stillness. But something deeper, something instinctive, urged me forward—after all, I hadn't come this far to turn back now. Drawing in a shuddering breath, I approached the door again and raised my hand. My knuckles hovered inches from the surface as I gathered what remained of my courage and knocked.

The silence that followed felt endless, until finally, movement stirred within. The scrape of furniture across the floor, a series of clicks followed—not just one or two locks disengaging, but three, then four, each sound heavy with purpose and warning. When the door finally opened a crack, everything happened too fast. A hand shot out with impossible strength, yanking me inside before I could react. I tried to scream, but a warm, clammy palm pressed firmly against my mouth, stifling any sound I might make. Then I looked up, and the world stopped spinning.

I was staring into my own eyes.

The hand across my mouth trembled—her hand, my hand—as we stared at each other in the dim hotel room. The curtains were drawn tight, leaving only thin strips of afternoon light to illuminate the surrounding space. My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, but she looked exactly like me, just like the photos. My stomach lurched, body shaking against the cold wall.

"I'm going to remove my hand," she whispered, her voice an uncanny echo of my own. "But you have to promise not to scream. They’re probably watching the cameras.” Her gaze darted to the door, then back to me. "Nod if you understand." I managed a jerky nod, my heart hammering hard against my ribs. She slowly lowered her hand, backing away just enough to give me space but staying between me and the door. The room behind her was a wreck—papers covered every surface, their edges curling with humidity from the rain. Photographs were taped to walls, connected by red string. Multiple laptop screens cast a blue glow across the room, each displaying different security feeds. Empty coffee cups and half-eaten food containers littered every available surface.

"You got my package," she said. It wasn't a question. "The photos. The note." She moved to the window, peering through a gap in the blinds, her movements tense. "I wasn't sure you'd come, but I hoped... I hoped some part of you would recognize the truth."

"Who—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Who are you? What are you?” She turned back to me, a bitter smile twisting her lips—my lips. Her eyes held a weight I couldn't comprehend, knowledge that seemed to age her beyond our shared features.

"The better question," she said softly, "is who are you?" The weight of her words pressed against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"What the hell is going on?" I demanded, my voice rising with panic. "These photos, that note, you—none of this makes sense!"

"Please," she hissed, moving closer. "Keep your voice down. The walls here..." She glanced around, running a hand through her hair—my hair—in a gesture so familiar it made me dizzy. "I need you to listen carefully. What I'm about to tell you... it's going to sound impossible." Her eyes darted to each corner of the room before she continued. "I took a job with a biotech company six months ago. At least, that's what I thought it was. They called themselves the Rothman Institute. Said they were working on artificial organ creation—helping millions of people on donor lists across America. It sounded perfect. Important. Like I could make a real difference."

Her bitter laugh sent chills down my spine. "Two weeks ago, I discovered it was all a front." She moved to one of the laptop screens, fingers tracing something on the display. "The real operation is buried so deep even most government officials don't know it exists. A program called ‘Dualis’, they're stealing organic human matter—blood samples, tissue samples—and replicating gene sequences to create doubles. These doubles..." Her voice cracked. "They're meant for organ harvesting, sexual slavery, and so much worse.” The room seemed to tilt. My vision swimming as I shook my head.

"I don't—I don't understand what any of this means." My voice sounded small, distant. "What do you mean, who am I?” She looked at me then, her eyes—my eyes—filled with a mixture of pity and pain.

"Your real name is Avery Duchane," she said softly. "I know that because it's my real name. Because you are me." She stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're my double, my copy. They've been growing you for months, feeding you false memories, a false name.” I pressed trembling fingers to my mouth, my legs buckling beneath me as I sunk to the floor.

“Avery, You’re my clone.”