I had just come home from work, kicked off my heels, and was pouring a glass of juice when my 5-year-old daughter Lily tugged my sleeve and said:
“Mommy, do you want to meet your clone?”
I laughed. “My what?”
“Your clone. She comes over when you’re at work. Daddy says she’s here so I won’t miss you too much.”
I froze for a moment, my glass halfway to my lips. A cold shiver ran down my spine, and my heart began to race. Something about the way Lily said it, so matter-of-factly, made my skin prickle. My laughter faltered as I looked down at her innocent face, her eyes wide with the sort of curiosity that only a child could possess.
“A clone?” I repeated, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrayed me. “What do you mean by that, sweetheart?”
Lily shrugged nonchalantly, her small hands fiddling with her favorite stuffed bear. “She comes when you’re at work. She looks just like you. Daddy says she helps him because he misses you.”
My mind was racing now. Jason, my husband, had been on parental leave for the past six months. After I got a big promotion at work, we agreed that I would work full-time while he stayed home with Lily. But lately… something had felt off. Small things, really — like Lily saying things that made no sense, or the way Jason seemed a little distant when I asked him how things were going at home.
When I asked Jason about Lily’s “clone,” he just shrugged and said, “Lily’s got a wild imagination, you know how kids are.”
But the way Lily spoke about her — the clone, that is — stayed with me. I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling gnawing at me.
A few days later, I decided to ask Lily again.
“When does this ‘clone’ come over, sweetie?” I asked as she played with her blocks in the living room.
Lily looked up, eyes wide as if I had asked the most obvious question in the world. “She comes right before my nap time,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“And what does she do with Daddy, dear?” I probed further, my voice tinged with suspicion.
Lily paused, her little brow furrowing. “They go in the bedroom and shut the door. But I peeked once. Daddy was sitting and crying. She hugged him. Then she said something in a different language.”
My heart stopped.
I felt a cold sweat trickle down my spine. What in the world was going on? Why was my husband crying? And why was this woman, this “clone,” hugging him? I didn’t sleep that night, my mind racing with all kinds of terrifying possibilities. The feeling of unease only deepened.
The next day, after work, I couldn’t take it any longer. I decided to act. I secretly set up Lily’s old nanny camera in our bedroom, right on the dresser, hidden under a small stack of books. If there was any truth to what Lily was saying, I had to know.
I told Jason I had to work late, and Lily was already at her grandmother’s house for a playdate. As soon as the house was empty, I turned on the nanny camera from my phone and waited.
For the longest time, nothing happened. But then, just as I had almost convinced myself I was overreacting, I saw movement through the camera feed. The door to our bedroom creaked open. A woman stepped into the frame.
At first, I thought it was me. She was wearing the same red dress I often wore when I went out with Jason. Her hair was the same, long and dark, falling in soft waves. She moved with the same grace that I had.
But then my blood ran cold. The face. It was unmistakably my own.
The woman stepped further into the room, and I watched in horror as she approached Jason, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. He looked up, his eyes red, and she knelt beside him, whispering something in a language I didn’t recognize.
I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook as I grabbed my laptop and shut it, my mind reeling. I didn’t know what I was seeing, but I knew I had to get home. I had to know the truth.
I grabbed my purse and rushed out the door, my heart pounding in my chest. Every traffic light felt like a lifetime, and my mind kept replaying the image of that woman — my clone — standing next to my husband, comforting him in a way that felt too familiar.
When I finally arrived home, I rushed through the door, my eyes scanning the house for any sign of Jason or this woman. There was no one in the living room, no one in the kitchen. But then I heard it — the sound of voices coming from our bedroom.
I stood frozen, my breath shallow. Slowly, I made my way down the hallway, my feet barely making a sound against the hardwood floors. When I reached the bedroom door, I hesitated, my heart thumping in my ears. Should I knock? Should I confront him?
No. I had to know the truth.
I opened the door, and what I saw made my blood run colder than ever.
Jason was sitting on the bed, holding a photograph in his hands. His eyes were red, and there were traces of tears on his face. But the most chilling part was the woman sitting beside him — my face, my features, but the expression was wrong. Empty. As if it was a mirror, but not quite.
She looked up at me, and for a split second, I could see the sadness in her eyes. “You’re not supposed to see this,” she said, her voice a soft, distorted echo of mine.
Jason’s face drained of color when he saw me. “I… I didn’t know how to tell you, Claire.”
The woman stood up and stepped back, her eyes now avoiding mine. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
I took a step back, the world spinning. “What is this? Who are you?”
She looked at me one last time, her lips curling into a soft, sad smile. “I’m a part of you, but not really,” she said cryptically. “A part of you he needed.”
I didn’t understand. What was happening? Was she some sort of manifestation of my grief, or was Jason hiding something darker from me? I had no answers, only more questions.
As the door clicked shut behind me, I realized that everything I thought I knew was crumbling — and the truth might be darker than I could ever have imagined.