Chapter 1
If I told you that I remember very clearly the moment I was born, would you think I was insane? Well, if that persuades you, then I dread to imagine what you’ll think of me when I tell you that who they say I am is not who I know myself to be.
My name is Lizza. I’m a red-headed Canadian female in her twenties (I won’t tell you how far in) who has perhaps the most abnormal obsession with bobble hats. That is me.
This woman — the one in this picture staring back at me holding secrets only she can tell — is not me. I admit she looks like me. If it were not for the very blonde hair above those very similar hazel eyes, it’d be like staring at my own reflection.
It was yesterday that this strange thing began. It started when I woke up and into a nightmare — into someone else’s life.
Yesterday
I believe it was the sun that woke me. An unfamiliar sun. Also unfamiliar was the sleep I had left and the bed on which I had it. Unfamiliarity was the morning’s curse, thrusted upon me before I even opened my eyes. And when I did, my eyes were met still with more unfamiliarities beyond what I could reasonably take.
Like taking in a bullet, my mind, in a second, took in an unfamiliar room filled with unfamiliar furniture covered in unfamiliar things and its response was pure panic.
I pulled myself from the bed in a frightful haste. The images outside the window were depicting a place I’d never been.
I glimpsed myself in the mirror and saw someone else. Blonde hair? Yes, my face, but someone else. An unfamiliar woman. Not even the clothes I was wearing were mine, the ones I remember falling asleep in the night before.
My next thought. Out! The door…
But as I pulled it open, that unfamiliar door, I was met by him. He was not a man that I know, but in the oddest way he seemed somehow familiar. And the only seemingly familiar thing I met that morning was the reason for my panic’s increase.
Perhaps a scream left my mouth, I can’t quite remember, but I remember very clearly grabbing something, I don’t remember what, as I backed away. My intention, pure and simple, was to fight with every fiber of my being with whatever I was holding.
As he stepped into the room, I swung it at him and warned, with as much intensity as I could muster, that should he dare to come close he would find nothing but regret. That or something else was effective enough to inspire him to back away and out the door which I quickly closed and locked.
My only other option for “out” was the window. That was not to be as, from this second floor, the height for me felt like a greater threat than the man outside the door.
Today
Unfamiliarity was the curse for yesterday, but today it has extended far beyond that into a world of strange. This picture on the wall, from which I cannot pull my eyes or my mind, tells the story of a woman I’ve never met, into whose life I’ve been so forcefully put. There’s been a million questions spinning in my head, but the question centered in my mind right now is simple. Who is she?
Well. The man outside? He’s been trying to persuade me that this woman in this picture is me. He says her name is Brena. He says he is her husband. The two children beside him in this picture on the wall? He says they are mine.
I’m not as panicked now as I was before. The door is still locked and I’m still afraid for reasons beyond the apparent, but I’m calmer now.
I’ve not left where I was when I woke into this reality just yesterday. My fear of heights still holds hostage one way out, and going through that door only means meeting strangers I cannot trust.
At the moment, my nose has been captivated by the very heightened smell of the roses that lay at the front of the house across this quiet street that they call Carwister Lane. A place I’ve never heard of.
It is strange, just very strange, that I can smell them (those roses) so strongly from here. Yet that’s not the strangeness that dominates this moment, my thoughts, my questions. That comes secondary to my overall plight and the terrible burning questions it brings — who is this woman, who are these people, who put me here, and why?
My thoughts are disturbed by the sound of a child outside the door, “Mom!”
Clearly the word is directed at me, but I don’t answer. How could I? The word is soon followed by a plea, “Aren’t you coming down?”
I don’t think these children know what’s happened. That their mother is not here, and has been replaced by someone they don’t know. That’s if this mother is even real, if they are even real, if this is not some game they’re all playing or some sick dream.
I hear as the father (he calls himself Tom) tell the little girl, “Don’t disturb your mother, she isn’t feeling well today. I’ll be down soon.”
I hear the sound of her running down the stairs and then him saying to me through the locked door, “Whatever this is Brena, the kids don’t need to know. Please don’t scare them with whatever crazy stunt you’re trying to pull this time.”
“Can you smell the roses from here?” For some reason, I find myself asking the question which should take the lowest priority in my mind.
“What?” he’s as confused as I am.
“The roses across the street,” I explain.
“Is this a part of your little game Brena?” he offers.
It’s funny he should speak of games, “But who really, who is really playing the game here? Who’s the puppet, who’s the strings, and who’s the master? Do you know Tom? Who should I run to? Who should I fear?”
“Since when, my dear, is esotericism your thing?” I can’t escape the embedded resentment in his tone. “Is this your “next thing”. Trying yourself out as a woman of mystery? Some new agony for us to bear?”
Oooh, he’s especially rotten today. Dare I say, I hope he doesn’t lay an egg. I can hear as he reaches down to sit on the floor behind the door outside the bedroom.
For added security, I had placed a chair behind the door in case he attempted to use a key. That, plus additional threats from my end has kept him out so far.
I can sense as he speaks that he has his back to the door and his face turning towards it to speak, “What was it you asked? Puppets, strings and masters? Is that some riddle I’m meant to solve now to unlock something into something? Maybe this door? Into what? Into…perhaps finally an answer to the whys that have been driving me crazy all these years?”
“Why these weird little things? Like yesterday’s little drama and all the others before that. Why these changes in you over these years that I still can’t make sense of. Like this little Nova Scotian accent you picked up from somewhere, somehow, and have been putting on for some reason like it’s some kind of an accessory. You put it on when you feel like, take it off when you’re bored of it. This is the longest I’ve seen you carry it, from yesterday til now. Going for a record this time Miss Canada?”
Interesting. Brena’s behavior seems to have been questionable for a while and that’s worthy of note, but his mention of her playing with a Nova Scotian accent is what rests in my thoughts for a moment. Strange.
I ask him, “Where is this place located? This Carwister Lane? What country or state or province is this?”
He’s annoyed, “Brena, will you stop this nonsense? Now you expect me to believe you don’t even know which country you’re in?”
“Just humor me,” I insist.
“This is Massachusetts! Boston!” In a calmer tone but not without the impertinence, “North America. Western hemisphere. The US of A. The US there stands for the United States, and A for America. Should I spell that? Should I speak in another language? Are there any other questions? Did I win a prize?”
If this Brena is real, then it won’t be hard for me to believe that she left this life on purpose. With a condescending fool like you for a husband I wouldn’t blame her. But why she’d put me in her place to suffer the thought of being called your wife, is beyond my ability to comprehend, and, having done so, that leaves her in my mind as potentially the cruelest living thing I’ve ever been cursed to experience.
I’d say these words out loud in response to his little attempt to be cute but I’ll hold back. Composure despite chaos secures the win. Words I remember being said by someone I think I might have known once long ago.
That aside, naturally that theory of her leaving on purpose, is one that has crossed my mind. What if she is real, and somehow, she’s managed to walk away from her life, and has left her family a replacement? But that doesn’t make sense, unless there is far more to this suburban housewife than what it seems. Maybe there is.
My thoughts go back to his story about the Canadian accent. Why Canadian? And worst of all, why Nova Scotian? That’s me. In fact, it’s an accent that seems to match mine so perfectly that he doesn’t seem to be able to make a distinction between her and me. Can that be a coincidence?
And now, knowing that this is Boston, adds yet another level of strangeness to this whole thing. Tisk, tisk, that word. Strange. If I could get a dollar for the amount of times I’ve caught myself saying that word over the last few hours, heck over the last few years, I’d be a wealthy woman. But what else can I say right now? Because see the thing is, like Brena, I’ve also had the habit of trying on an accent. And my accent of choice these years has been only one, quite peculiarly Boston.
Could that, on top of all that, also be a coincidence? Or maybe, whoever has planned all this has had access to my life and, from it, knew what to insert into this life to make my position in it possible.
Still, it doesn’t make sense. Something here doesn’t add up. I have more whys than I do the answers to them. And I must admit that, worst still, this isn’t the only strange (there, I said it) and eerie similarity I’ve found since I’ve been here.
The family I see in this picture here? My family back at home? It’s almost like a photocopy. Because I also have two children. The youngest, a girl, seven. The oldest, a boy, fourteen. If this picture is current, then both are the same age as mine.
The husband (now downstairs). The first time I saw him in this room I felt in the oddest way he seemed somehow familiar. Now I know why. My husband. He reminded me of my own husband.
Similar children? Similar husband? A similar house? I’ve seen the house in pictures too and it is almost exactly like my own. Another similarity is the fact that we are both stay-at-home moms. So, same occupation. And who could forget the jack russell terrier running through the front yard. Same dog. But to top that off, we both have the same face. But different hair? Truly, I must be lost in some sick dream.
I’ve had some theories, possible ones, crazy ones.
Maybe we’re related somehow. Some lost sister? Cousin? A doppelgänger? Could she have done surgery to look like me, like one of those scenes from a soap opera? But why would she be doing this? What’s her aim?
Or, maybe this person is not real. Maybe none of this is real. Someone designed this life and for some reason has put me in it. Some game being played by someone, somewhere. Or someone, right here. Someone truly cruel. A man? A child?
Or…Invasion of the Body Snatchers? Yikes! Multiverse? …hmmmmmm. I don’t think I’m mentally or physically prepared for SciFi, so I do hope not.
Or…perhaps, is this definitely (jokes aside) a sick dream? Am I trapped in a nightmare that has somehow come to life carrying promises of horrors to bear? I have actually pinched myself a few times, but no luck. Still here.
Or, suppose I really am this woman, and I’m having some psychotic episode. Maybe this life as Lizza that I remember isn’t real and just in my head. My darling husband, the beautiful children we made, and the pee-crazy dog that I sometimes (only sometimes) regret we brought home. I can’t be making that up in my head. Can I?
No, that’s not possible. I know, it’s real. It must be real. It is real. This? Everything that surrounds me now. This is the fake. This is the lie. I must hold on to knowing that.
But that “real” life that I speak of, I must admit, has also been a peculiar one. It has been haunted by unexplainable things that have happened around me. To me. Not things I could easily explain with simple reasoning or simple answers. Things like this.
However, of all the things I’ve seen, I don’t think anything has happened to me yet, that comes close to this. That being said, perhaps I should see this “new event” as an opportunity. Maybe this incident is the key to finding the answers I’ve been looking for almost all my life. Maybe this is finally my chance to be no more a victim to the mysteries in the dark.
I turn my eyes to the door. A dangerous curiosity strikes. Yes, maybe the answers lay beyond it. Perhaps, I should play along with this little game, or whatever “this” is. See where this leads. Dangerous maybe, certainly. But…
I walk to the door, slowly, reluctantly. Or perhaps, I should run. Take the first chance I get and save myself from whatever turmoil exists behind that door. Escape this madness and go back home to my family. But…
I walk to the door, slowly, certain. I think I’ve been running all my life. Kinda tired of running now. Maybe this time, if I choose to fight, I might finally get some closure. Some answers. An end to all this.
I’m at the door. I wait. I think.
Or maybe I’ll be allowing whatever has been lurking in the shadows of my life to finally catch up, and do its worst.
I pull away the chair. I can feel a slight tremble in my fingers like a warning from within. Don’t go, it says. Is that my gut? Is that my mind?
Well I think it’s a chance I’ll have to take. This time I don’t think I have a choice. This might be the closest I get to the truth.
The truth. Is it worth it…
I pause. Wait. My anxious eyes become fixed on the locked aluminum door knob. I can’t trust them. I must not trust these people. Not that man. Not these children.
I turn the knob. The trembling fingers heighten their warning.
I pull the door open to face a quiet hallway. It’s quiet to my ears, but loud to my mind as it screams a threat that is hidden in the unknown, a condition which to my despair it carries in abundance. I take one step out of my safespace, the place where I had some control, and a terrified step into a house full of dangers, where I’ll have none.
