transcript

Speaker 1:
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Speaker 2:
[00:30] So you're saying with Hilton Honors, I can use points for a free night stay anywhere?

Speaker 3:
[00:35] Anywhere.

Speaker 2:
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Speaker 3:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 4:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 5:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 5:
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Speaker 2:
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Speaker 5:
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Speaker 6:
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Speaker 7:
[01:19] The detective stare at me, glare at me, watch me so closely that I twitch in my seat, which of course makes them stare and glare and watch even closer. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. Can I get a glass of water? I lift my hands to rub my temples, hoping to soothe the ache that has been building for hours and is now a raging river of stabbing pain. But my wrists are handcuffed and the cuffs have been secured to a ring in the table. I can't even scratch my nose. I'm really thirsty. The detectives glance at each other, then return their glares and stares back on me. You're thirsty. It's the one on the left, Detective Robbins, I think his name is, who asks me the question with cold, cold eyes. Yes, sir. Does it have to be a glass? Or will bottled water do? That's the other one, Green. He's not as cold, but that could be an act. It could all be an act. They're trying to break me. Too bad for them, I'm already broken. After what I saw, yeah, I'm definitely broken. I clear my throat and try to smile like I'm gracious, not like I'm happy. These two do not want me to be happy. Bottled is fine, yes, thank you. You sure? We might be able to send out for that water in the green bottle. What's it called? Perrier. That's it, Perrier. You a Perrier guy, Morris? Um, I'm fine with whatever you have on hand. That's kind of you. I don't know, Robbins. We wouldn't want Mr. Means here to have to slum it. We should call down to the bodega and have them deliver some of that fancy Perrier. You're probably right. It'll make Morris here more comfortable. He'll feel like he's in his element. Right, Mr. Means? A little expensive bottled water makes you feel at home, doesn't it? A guy with your wealth has to be used to the finer things. It's not my wealth. It's my... The two detectives lean in, setting their arms on the table, their stares and glares turned up to full wattage. It's your what, Morris? Were you going to say it's your wife's? That the money is hers and not yours? I nod. I shouldn't. I should wait for my lawyer to arrive. Where the hell is he? And with your wife out of the picture, all that money is yours now, I suppose? That's how it works, I hear. I've never killed my wife, so I wouldn't know. I didn't kill Bobby. I already told you that. Why won't you believe me? The detectives lean back. They share a look. Detective Green clicks his tongue. He wants to know why we don't believe him. What's not to believe? Mr. Means here went on vacation with his wife, yet his wife didn't come back. I told you what happened. The man. The one we found no evidence of. He's real. Is he? Yes. I try to jump to my feet, but the damn ring in the table stops me dead. I cry out and fall back into my chair. Calm down, Mr. Means. Yeah, Morris. You did nothing wrong, so there's nothing to be upset about, right? Where's my lawyer? On his way. And you can stop talking at any time, Morris. Just clam right up. But then we can't help you, Mr. Means. If we don't know what actually happened, then this man you say was there could hurt someone else. You don't want that, do you, Morris? Right, Mr. Means. You don't want that, do you? I shake my head. No, I don't want that. Not after what I saw. Not after what he did to Bobby. I already told you what happened. Then you won't have any trouble telling us again. Just in case we missed something in your first telling. Or you forgot to mention something important. It happens. Sure does. You're stressed. Traumatized. Scared. Feeling a little guilty. Guilty? I'm not guilty. Great. That's just great. If you're not guilty, then there's no reason not to go over it one more time. Unless you are guilty. What happened to your wife? What happened to Roberta? Bobby. She goes by Bobby. What happened to Bobby? I already told you. How about you tell us one more time? Then we'll leave you alone. I lean down to scratch my cheek. The detectives keep straight faces, but I can see the smirks hiding in their eyes. They're enjoying this. Okay. Okay. If they want me to tell it again, then I'll tell it again. But this time, I'm not holding back. We'll see how they like that. Bobby and I left on Friday morning and reached the chalet at around three or four. Three or four? Which is it? Three or four? Can you be more precise? I nod. Closer to four. Wow. This looks amazing, baby. We pull into the circular gravel driveway in front of the chalet, and I am pleasantly surprised. The place does look amazing. Way better than the pics on VRBO. Only the finest for my lady, love. Bobby rolls her eyes as I park the Porsche Cayenne and stretch before shoving open the driver side door. Oh, man. Smell that air. I take a deep breath through my nose. Hints of pine and fir, snow and earth fill my nostrils. My lungs sting from the frigid air, but I don't mind. It's invigorating. Delightful. Bobby gives me that look of hers, and I immediately search my phone for the key code to the front door lock. I have it, and the door opens in seconds. Bobby and I don't even take the time to look around. I grab her in my arms and carry her upstairs to the king bed in the loft bedroom overlooking the rest of the chalet. The sun has almost set before we climb out of the tangled sheets. Bobby hunts for her underwear and sweater. While I grab my t-shirt and jeans. I am starving. She stretches, and I almost pull her back for another go. She can sense it and swats at me, even though I haven't moved a muscle. Can you bring in the bags while I make dinner? No problem, but you might need the groceries first. Bobby laughs. Yeah, those help. We get dressed, kiss hard and deep, then play grab ass as we laugh our way downstairs. I throw on my jacket and pull on my shoes, while Bobby heads into the kitchen and starts taking inventory of what tools and seasonings she has to make us a fine meal. Outside, the air has dropped a good 10 degrees already. It's going to be a cold night, but the chalet boasts plenty of firewood as well as central heat, so we'll be fine. My first task is to grab the groceries out of the trunk. It's so cold outside that even in the trunk, the groceries are still cool. I snag what I can carry and head inside. First load in. I set the bags on the kitchen counter. Bobby waves at me, her head in the fridge. Second load coming up. Thanks, baby. Her voice is muffled, but I can hear the pure joy in her tone. It's good for her to get away from work. It's good for us to reconnect. Things haven't been easy, not since the home invasion. Let me stop you there, this home invasion. They never caught the guy, right? I shake my head. No. He beat you and your wife pretty bad, didn't he? I nod, a lump in my throat forming quickly just at the thought of that night. No sexual assault according to the report. I shake my head and wince. He threatened it. A lot. The two detectives share a look that I do not like. What? Something on your mind. I sigh. Can I get that water? It's on its way. How about you continue, Mr. Means? Keep telling us your story. It's pointless to keep talking. They don't believe me. And my lawyer is going to shit ten tons of bricks when he finds out. But a huge part of me wants this out. And wants it out now. With my hands occupied with the cooler handles, I kick the front door with the toe of my boot. Bobby, a little help. I can hear faint music inside. Bobby must have figured out how to connect her phone to the sound system. That's good, because I am useless without stuff. I'd probably blow out the speakers and fry my phone if I tried to make it work. I kick again. Bobby, come on. It's cold as shit out here. No answer. Did the music just get louder? No. I swear to God, if she's messing with me, I'm going to get her back big time. My arms start to shake from holding the cooler. Add in the ever-increasing cold, and I'm about to shiver myself into an epileptic fit. Bobby. This time, I know the music gets louder. It's some old jazz tune, some bebop song by Charlie Parker or one of those guys. Okay. You asked for it. I set the cooler down and grabbed the door handle. It's locked. Seriously? I pound on the door. Real funny. Open the door, Bobby. The jazz only gets louder. Cute. Real cute. Punching in the key code, I wait for the whir of the lock to automatically open. There's no whir, just an angry red light staring back at me. I try again. Same results. Slapping my pockets, I hunt for my phone, which is sitting next to the bed upstairs. Shit. Bobby, it's freezing out here. Come on, open the damn door. The song ends, and I sigh as I listen for my wife's footsteps. Then the next song starts, and I hear nothing except for my own breathing. My chest hitches with a hard shiver. Screw this. Going back to the car, I open the huge double bag on the back seat, pulling out my ski jacket. I quickly pull it on, grateful for the sudden shield against the encroaching temperature drop. I return to the front door one more time, give it a hard kick, rattle the door handle, then pound with both fists. Bobby! Nothing. I step away from the front door, walking back a few steps to look up. Maybe she's in the upstairs bathroom. Then a thought hits me. Oh man, she started to bath and can't hear me down here. She should be making dinner, but knowing my wife and how snow and cold weather are all revved up, I bet she changed her mind. Not that I'm complaining. As I think this, the light upstairs turns on. Bingo. My little horny toad is making it super romantic up there, I bet. A shadow comes to the window and pushes the drape aside just to crack. I frown. That's a big shadow. Bigger than Bobby. Then I laugh at myself. It's all distortion. The light behind her is making the shadow look bigger than it is. That's all. Except if she's out the window and able to push the drape aside, then that's not a shadow. That's a silhouette. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more, then head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it. That purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the US. From major brands like Mattel and Gymshark, to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place. From customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. 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Speaker 4:
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Speaker 7:
[14:34] I cut my cold hands to my mouth and shout, Bobby, I'm locked out. The drape moves back and the light goes off. What the hell? Okay, I'll go around back. Maybe the doors on the deck are unlocked. Stuffing my hands into my coat pockets, I stomp through the snow and head to the stairs on the side of the house. There's a low gate at the base of the stairs, and I try to open it, but the latch is jammed, so I have to swing a leg over. My foot slips when I set it down on the first step, and I almost lose my balance, which would suck because I'd land crotch first on the top of the gate. Oh, Bobby is in for it now. I am going to tickle torture her until she almost pees herself. I swear to God I'll do it. Tickle torture? You sure that's all you ended up doing? There was an awful lot of blood for just a playful tickle sesh, Morris. I moan at the pain in my head, then take a deep breath. I didn't get to tickle her or even touch her again. I told you, the doors were locked. Then, they were locked. Then, they were unlocked when the deputy arrived though, weren't they? I nod. All that blood, and you using the word torture, and doors unlocked that you swore were locked, doesn't add up. No, it doesn't add up. I lick my lips and continue, not for the detective's benefit, but for mine. I have to say all of this out loud, even the crazy stuff, even if I know they won't believe me. Stumbling my way up the slippery stairs like I'm in some old silent black and white slapstick film, I finally get to the back deck. There's another gate at the top, which is an even bigger bitch to climb over. I tumble onto the deck, roll onto my back, then see that the gate has no latch, just a long spring that keeps it in place. I could have just pushed it open. Bobby will get a kick out of this, after I kick her sweet little ass into next week, with love of course. Picking myself up, I brush off the snow from my jeans and coat, then hurry over to the French doors that are glowing brightly now that the sun is fully set. I almost feel the warmth from inside wafting out in waves. I try the French doors, but both handles are locked. I knock on the glass and peer inside. Bobby, come on, you've played your joke. Now let me in before my nuts freeze off. I wonder how close the nearest neighbors are. Can they hear me shouting? I hope not. We have a great guest rating on Verbo, and I don't need some annoyed neighbor ruining that score. I knock again, but just a little softer this time. Bobby. Narrowing my eyes, I study the scene inside. I can see a pot on the stove, steam billowing out of it, probably pasta water. But Bobby must not have dropped the pasta. Otherwise, she'd be standing over that pot, like a mama bird protecting her hatchlings. Bobby only eats al dente pasta, so she watches her water like a hawk. Aliens could land in the kitchen, and she wouldn't turn away from the pot. But there's no Bobby in the kitchen. Then I see a shadow on the stairs and smile, tapping at the glass. Bobby! The shadow materializes into a person, a person who is not my wife. It's a man, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist, his back to me. He moves to the stove, looks at the pot, then moves on to the fridge. I don't know what to do. I'm so stunned that I take a few steps away from the door as I stare at the man's back. There's something familiar about it, but I can't quite place it. He opens the fridge and bends over. I lose sight of him, my view blocked by the kitchen island. A faint voice echoes from upstairs, and the man straightens and turns. He's drinking straight from a can of beer. Where'd the beer come from? I haven't even brought the cooler inside yet. Then I blink a few times, because the cooler is sitting on the kitchen floor next to the island. But that's impossible. I rush the French doors and grab the handles, jiggling them with all of my strength, still locked. The flat of my hand smacks against the glass. Hey, hey, get the hell out of there, asshole! The man pauses. Then he lowers his beer can and turns to face me. I gasp, stumble, and fall on my ass. The seat of my jeans is soaked by the snow, but I barely notice. My attention is on the man and the man only. Shaking my head back and forth, I try to make sense of it as the man smiles and walks to the French doors. He gives me a wave, a wave with my own hand, because the goddamn man is me. I am staring right at my own face. This part I hadn't told the detectives earlier. I said a man. I didn't say the man was me, or looked exactly like me at least. Even down to the scar on his left shoulder and the birthmark above his right nipple. My scar, my birthmark. Needless to say, the looks on the detectives' faces at this revelation are more than skeptical. Robbins leans back and scratches his chin while Green only frowns at me, one eyebrow raised like he thinks I'm crazy. I don't blame him. I could easily be crazy because none of this can be true. Yet it is. Robbins finally clears his throat and tries to put a friendly smile on his face. It just makes him look like he has gas. You saw yourself through that window? I nod. Are you sure it wasn't just your reflection? I laugh and it comes out bitter and scared. If it were my reflection, I'd have been staring at a me that was wearing a coat and jeans, not just a bathroom towel around my waist. Maybe you were. Maybe you only had a towel on and were suffering from hypothermia. Severe hypothermia can cause acute hallucinations, you know. Why would I be wearing only a towel outside? Makes more sense than seeing your doppelganger. My what? Doppelganger? Someone who looks just like you. It wasn't a doppelganger. It was me. I know it was. Robin's nods. So you did get inside? I slam my palms against the table. To their credit, the detectives barely react, except for a tightening around their mouths. I didn't get inside! I never got inside! Green holds up his hands, trying to placate me. Got it. You never went inside. You only witnessed what happened from outside on that deck, right? I take a few deep breaths and nod. Right. I had to watch it all from out there. That must have been horrible, watching it all happen, and you couldn't do anything about it. It was awful. I see the look they give each other, but I continue my story anyway. I smile at myself. Well, no, I don't smile at him. He smiles at me. Who are you? Get out of there! Stay away from my wife! The doppelganger only shrugs. Then he puts a hand to his ear, and his smile widens. Stepping to the side, he gives me a view of Bobby walking into the kitchen with only a towel on. I leap to my feet and race to the French doors, pulling the handles and shaking the doors and their frames with all of my strength. Bobby! Bobby! It's not me! That's not me! She doesn't even turn around. It's as if I don't even exist. I hear her say something, but it's not to me. It's to him! The doppelganger laughs, then walks away from the window, heading for the kitchen. I slap the glass over and over and over again. It doesn't matter. Bobby can't seem to hear me. Looking around, I spot some deck furniture. I hurry to a metal chair and pick it up, turning around so fast that I slip in the snow and almost fall onto my side. But I keep my balance and stomp over to the French doors. The chair held over my head. The doppelganger must sense something, because he looks over his shoulder just as I slam the chair into the glass. The chair bounces off without even leaving a mark. The doppelganger smiles wide, too wide, like his mouth can go on forever and ever. I throw the chair at the French doors, then go back for another. I throw that, and the next one, and the next one. Bobby doesn't even glance at me. The doppelganger shakes a finger, then heads toward the kitchen once again. Pressing my face to the glass, I watch in horror as the fake me reaches my wife. He wraps an arm around her waist, and I can hear her faint giggle as she swats at him. She drops pasta into the boiling pot, and the fake me tries again, this time sticking his whole arm up under her towel. She squeals and spins about, wrapping her arms around his neck. I can see her face. I can see her looking right at me. My hands bang and bang on the window. I put so much force into it that I should be coated in shattered glass. But if a patio set can't break through, then my almost numb from the cold hands aren't going to either. The doppelganger must say something funny, because Bobby laughs and pushes back from him. She looks up with a smile that always fills my heart with joy. Then the smile starts to slip. She pushes harder, but the fake me isn't letting go. Bobby's smile turns to a frown, and now she's actively shoving at him. He throws his head back and laughs. She starts beating at his chest, shouting words I can barely hear. He laughs again, spins her around, grabs her by the back of the neck, and shoves her entire head into the pot of boiling water. No! No! Bobby! The doppelganger doesn't look my way, but he flaps a hand in my direction, dismissing me with a casual wave. I throw my shoulder into the glass. Pain shoots down my arm, and my hand tingles from the impact. I don't care. I try again and again, each time crying out as some nerve in my shoulder gets pinched over and over. Bobby is thrashing against the fake me's grip. Her arms are swinging backwards, her fingers like claws trying to stop him. Then her thrashing slows, and she goes limp. The doppelganger catches her around the waist before she can fall. He heaves her body up onto the island, sending bottles of olive oil and red wine vinegar, salt and pepper shakers, and a napkin holder flying in all directions. The doppelganger smiles at me as he slowly reaches behind him for something, but I don't see what it is, not at first. My eyes are on Bobby. Her chest is moving, so she must still be alive. But her face, her hair is matted to her head, and her skin is almost sloughing off from the boiling water. Those rosy cheeks I love so much are nothing but dripping skin. I can see the muscle peeking out from underneath. She rolls her head back and forth, and I can tell she's crying now, even though her tears are lost in the damage the pasta water did to her. No, the pasta water didn't do it. He did. I'll kill you.

Speaker 2:
[25:44] I will kill you.

Speaker 7:
[25:46] Fake Me shakes his head, then shows me what he had been reaching back for. A chef's knife, a long one pulled from the chalet's wood block that sits next to the stove. The guy makes a point of showing off the blade, turning it this way and that. He runs a finger along the blade and pretends it cuts him to prove how sharp it is. Touch her and you're dead. He laughs and rolls his eyes. Then he plunges the knife into Bobby's chest. Blood spurts from the wound as my wife screams and screams. The man yanks the blade out and with one flick of the wrist, Bobby's neck opens. Blood pours from the wound. She tries to clamp her hands over the gash, but the doppelganger swats her arms away. I can see her gasping, struggling to breathe. Then at the last second, her head tilts my way and she sees me. She sees me. I know she does. Bobby, I'm coming. But I don't move. I can't. Her hand reaches for me, her arms stretching and stretching until it's no longer there. The doppelganger has switched to a meat cleaver and with one swing, he's taken her arm off at the shoulder. Bobby's eyes go wide. Then they go dead, all life having left them as her shoulder spurts blood everywhere. I scream and cry and throw myself against the French doors and the fake me only smiles, watching me freak out, amused with it all. Then he gets to work. Piece by piece, he dismembers Bobby. He takes the other arm, holding it up to show me. He takes her right leg, her left leg. He slices pieces of her off that I can't even talk about. Then he packs her up in the cooler and goes upstairs.

Speaker 3:
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Speaker 6:
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Speaker 4:
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Speaker 7:
[28:32] Robbins looks like he wants to hit me. Green is hiding it better, but a vein pulses in his neck. What did you do with the second cooler, Mr. Means? There was no second cooler. See, that's hard to believe. We found all that blood inside. We even found a pattern of blood on the floor, same shape as the cooler's bottom. Yet when the deputy arrived, there was a cooler still on the front porch. No blood on that one, which means there was a second cooler. It must have been a doppelganger like he was. You like that word now, don't you? Doppelganger helps explain all this crazy shit. Makes you feel like it's not your fault. It's the doppelganger's fault. There's no second cooler, just a doppelganger cooler. Convenient. Not for me. Green laughs at that. Okay, so you watched the doppelganger review, pack your wife's body into a doppelganger of the cooler you brought. Then what? Robbins looks at his partner like he's lost his mind. Green just shrugs. Robbins shakes his head and leans back in his chair. Yes, Mr. Means, then what? Fake Meat goes upstairs. I look around for something else to break the glass with. But other than an umbrella stand, which is way too heavy for me to lift, there's nothing. The doppelganger reappears in the kitchen, fully dressed now. That was fast, too fast. Giving me a quick wave, he bends down and picks the cooler up, then turns and walks toward the front door. I race away from the French doors and slip-slide my way down the side stairs, nearly tumbling over the bottom gate. I jump it, manage to keep my footing, and sprint around to the front door. Decorative rocks peek up out of the snow, and I snatch one as I take the steps, ready to smash the electronic lock or the doppelganger's face, whichever I get to first. But there's no one on the porch. Only the cooler I left behind, and the front door is wide open. Bobby! I scream her name over and over as I run inside. Blood trails from the door to the kitchen, and I pause when I see the mess on the island. My stomach lurches, and I turn and throw up. When I stand back up, wiping my mouth, I almost expect to see the mess gone and Bobby standing at the stove, hovering over her pasta. But there's no Bobby. Only blood. So much blood. Whirling around, I go back outside and scream for my wife. No answer. Nothing. Then I look down at the cooler. I don't want to open it, but I have to. Using the toe of my boot, I kick the lid up. Groceries. Only groceries. Ham, cheese, and veggies. Salsa and hummus. Condiments. Salad dressing. Two bottles of white wine. No pieces of Bobby. Bobby! Bobby! I scream her name until my voice gives out. So then you called the police? That's what you did next? A nod. Green is about to say something, but there's a knock at the door. A police officer looks in and beckons for Green to join him in the hall. Be right back. Robbins never takes his eyes off me as his partner leaves. We sit in silence until that silence is broken by Green shouting. What do you mean you got the front desk? Robbins frowns and looks back over his shoulder, just as Green bursts into the interrogation room. What is it? He's free to go. What? Why? Green fixes his eyes on me. His wife is here to pick him up. I barely hear the words before I'm being unshackled and led out of the room by Robbins and Green. They walk me through the station's halls and into the front lobby, where Bobby is standing, smiling at me. But that's not my wife's smile. No, no, I know that smile. It's his smile, the doppelgangers. I am so sorry, officers. He went off his meds last week without telling me. I have a call in to his doctor. Green hands me over to my fake wife. No, stop. It's him. This isn't my Bobby. I keep protesting, but the detectives only shake their heads as paperwork is processed and I am set free. When fake Bobby takes my arm to lead me out, I try to yank away, but her grip is like iron. Thank you, officers. Again, I am so sorry for this trouble. Then we are outside, and it's dragging me to our car. A car that I left at the chalet when I rode back into town in the back of a police cruiser. Fake Bobby opens the passenger side door, then leans in close to my ear. Don't worry, it'll all be over soon. We'll get you back to your house and prep you up nice. Your wife is already dressed and ready to go in the oven. You will make the perfect appetizer at first course. It shoves me into the car, and I sit there, too stunned, too afraid to even twitch. When it gets into the driver's seat, it turns and gives me that awful smile. Even though it's all for me, I call meals like this dinner for two. Cute, huh? I look out the window and see Green and Robbins standing in front of the station, watching us. I slam my hands against the window and scream for help, but they can't hear me. They must not even see me, really, because they both shake their heads, shrug, and walk back inside, leaving me to be driven off by something that isn't my wife, that isn't me, but is very, very hungry. The doppelganger chuckles, its face shifting constantly as we drive. I start to cry. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe, and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.