Author’s Note:
This was originally written for a horror submission call about memory, identity, and the things we inherit without permission. It didn’t make the final issue, but I still like its nasty little vibe.
Weird dream, I thought as I dragged myself out of bed to start my day. The strangest part was that I remembered it all so clearly — usually I was lucky if I even recalled I’d had a dream. But this one had been vivid and detailed.
I’d woken next to a beautiful woman I didn’t recognize. That was odd, too, since I was generally pretty hetero. But I couldn’t ignore or deny the woman’s loveliness or her grace as she stretched like a cat and languidly draped herself over me.
She’d drawn figures on my chest with long, slender fingers tipped with scarlet nails. Though she’d never done anything overtly sexual, the entire experience had felt erotic. I’d watched her drawing on my skin for a while, then reached for her hand and pulled her in for a quick kiss.
Had I been running the dream, that kiss would’ve been just the beginning. But apparently I wasn’t, because I got out of bed and got dressed. The stranger in the bed pouted as I pulled on a t-shirt with a band logo I didn’t recognize. I knew where my jeans were even in the darkened room. Knew which pocket held my keys. Knew the stale-floral smell of the apartment like I’d been there a hundred times.
I grinned and blew her a kiss, made some inane aside about leaving them wanting more and left her apartment.
Then I woke up. Like I said, weird dream.
My day continued the way I expected — normal and boring. Breakfast. Work. Lunch at my desk. It was midafternoon when the next odd thing happened. I was lounging at my desk, feet up and leaned back in my ergonomic chair, talking on the phone to an old client who’s more of a friend. The next thing I knew I was telling him about the time I caught a rat in my parent’s basement — biggest rat I’d ever seen — and it had bitten me twelve times before I managed to drop it into the big trash bin.
Except that never happened to me.
It happened to my sister Ciara when we were nineteen. We were already on the road to estrangement at that point. I’d gone away to college, and Ci had stayed with our parents and gotten a job. She didn’t see any value in higher education. Or any education that didn’t involve real world experiences — the more extreme the better.
I’d heard the story many times from my Dad as we’d all sat around the dinner table at one holiday or another. He’d been more impressed by her extermination skills than he ever had by my MBA.
But as I told the story, I knew every detail. I could remember grabbing the rat by its long rough tail and lifting it. Feel the sharp pinpick heat of its teeth sinking into my palm and fingers. The sense of satisfaction as I tossed it into the big garbage bin and slammed the lid.
All of that could be explained, I suppose. Imagination is a powerful tool, and I’d heard the story enough to know most of the details.
But the next part I’d never heard, and I remembered it, too.
I remembered grabbing the hose and the duct tape. Taping the hose to the tailpipe of Dad’s car, then sticking the other end into the bin and taping it in place. Starting the car and suffocating that rat.
I shuddered as I finished telling the story. There was silence on the other end of the phone. I forced a laugh and said, “Gotcha!” as though it had all been a bad joke.
But I remembered it.
The call ended in awkward silence. I didn’t explain myself — how could I? I just sat there, heart hammering, mind racing, while the details of a life that wasn’t mine played on loop in my head.
I needed to escape. To reset. I told my boss I was feeling sick and left early, heading straight to the gym.
Swimming laps was a daily routine that I missed only in the most dire circumstances — it was my way of resetting, clearing my head.
I parked, headed in, and pulled on my suit. Within minutes I was freestyling my way down a deserted lane. Stroke, breath, kick. Stroke, breath, kick. The repetition was a salve as my muscle memory freed my mind up to analyze what had happened — replay the entire memory.
I knew I’d never heard about that last part. Even my proud father would’ve balked at the idea of gassing a rat in the trash bin.
I swam for an hour, then pulled my tired body from the pool. The next step in my routine was the sauna. Pleased to find it deserted, I cranked the heat and settled in. As sweat dripped down every inch of my body, I found myself remembering another time I’d felt the trickles of sweat pouring from my hairline down my face and the back of my neck.
I’d been climbing at Cochise Stronghold with my friend, Douglas. We’d gone to one of the most remote and challenging runs, and we were approaching the top. The heat was intense and I was having a blast. The top was almost in reach when Douglas slipped, and his sudden weight dragged me down several feet, my fingers and feet scrabbling to retain purchase on the rock face.
I managed to wedge my foot into a crack and arrest our fall, listening to his panicky gasping rising from below me. My good mood — that sense of being in the moment of success and the power of overcoming nature — was gone. Douglas had killed it with his incompetence.
I glanced down at him where he hung, clinging desperately to the rope, his face pink from the heat and eyes red from the tears of fear streaming from them. Without me, he’d probably be dead right now.
And that seemed… right. If he wasn’t capable of a climb like this, what the hell was he doing here? I’d have reached the top by now if not for him.
His wavering voice rose to my ears, “Thanks, Ci. That one scared me. I’m okay, though.”
I should’ve asked him. But I didn’t care. The rope tightened and swung as he tried to swing his way back to the face to get a grip on it. But he didn’t deserve that. I didn’t think too much more about it as I slipped the folding knife from my pocket and cut the rope below me.
His scream was oddly satisfying as it trailed through the air behind him. The wet thud of his body hitting the sand and rock at the base of the cliff sent a wave of satisfaction through my chest, and I grinned. Then I finished the climb.
I jerked awake with a gasp, my body drenched in sweat in the suffocating heat of the sauna. Bile surged, and I barely made it to the bathroom before I was on my knees, retching out what felt like ten meals’ worth of fear and confusion.
What the hell was happening to me?
I stared at my reflection in the mirror, still trembling. If these weren’t dreams… Memories. Ciara’s memories. They had to be. But why was I seeing them?
I needed answers. I needed context.
I’d always known my sister was a little crazy. How could you not know something like that about your twin? But this was different. Ci wasn’t reckless. She was dangerous.
I rinsed my mouth, showered, and got dressed on autopilot. By the time I reached my car, I was already dialing my mom. I opened with casual conversation, then tried to slip in the questions I really wanted to ask.
“Have you heard from Ci lately?”
“No, hon. Have you? Your dad’s a little worried about her.”
Of course he was. I was too, now. But I suspected our reasons were very different.
“No, Mom. You know we don’t really talk much,” I said.
My mom loosed a sorrowful sigh, “It’s such a shame. Twins are supposed to be so close, but you and Ciara have never been, not since you were babies.”
We’d heard that line a lot. When we were kids, people used to ask if we could feel each other’s pain. Ciara always said yes because she liked watching adults believe her. I always said no because it was true.
“We’re just very different people.” Maybe more so than I’d ever imagined. “Do you know if she ever went climbing in Arizona?”
“What?” my mom asked, nonplussed. “I don’t know. I can ask your father.”
“Please,” I said quickly. I needed to know if this was some kind of weird dream thing or an actual memory.
I waited impatiently while she called out to my dad. As I pulled into my driveway, she finally came back to the phone, “Your dad says she did some Cochise climbing thing there a couple years ago.”
My fists clenched on the wheel, knuckles going white. I fought to keep my voice calm as I answered, “Okay. Just wondering. Thanks, Mom.”
We hung up a few moments later with the usual empty promises to call soon. And I sat silently in the car as the garage door shut behind me, leaving me in the semi-darkness. I stayed there until the heat drove me into the air conditioned house.
I dropped my swimsuit and towel into the washer on the way through the laundry room, numbly starting the machine. The washer filled behind me. Water rushed through the pipes, hollow and cold-sounding, and for one impossible second I tasted plastic and panic.
It wasn’t a memory I recognized. But it was real. Too real.
I was sitting in a tub as water rose around me. The cold was intense, piercing through my skin everywhere it touched and leaving me shaking with pain that seemed to come from within rather than without.
The room was nearly dark, and I could only glimpse the hint of light reflecting from the water rising around me. It wasn’t a bathtub. It was a giant plastic barrel of some kind. My hands were trapped behind me, held together by what felt like duct tape.
I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten here, but I knew who had put me here. I’d met him at a climbing gym in Denver, and we’d hit it off. I’d planned to make him another notch on my belt. I was beginning to think maybe he had other plans.
Soon my teeth were chattering so hard it was a loud clicking both inside my head and echoing in the enclosed barrel. The water was up to my chin, and I had to tilt my head back to keep from swallowing it as my jaw shook.
I was not a victim. I was a predator.
The water rose above my chin until only my nose, eyes and forehead remained above it.
I was not going to be killed by someone who was mine. I wasn’t the one who died. That wasn’t the way the story ended.
I sucked in air through my nose, keeping my lips as tightly clamped as I could with my jaw shaking so wildly.
He’d just been some guy. Another entertainment. Another moment of pleasure and power and satisfaction…
I coughed as I inhaled water for the first time. I felt fear rise, overcoming anger for the first time. I didn’t wanna die.
I caught a glimpse of a reflection above me, and I realized the bastard was filming me. Filming my death.
I wished I’d been able to film my kills.
The water closed over my head, and the dark was complete. I held my breath as long as I could, but it wasn’t long enough…
Black.
And I was slumped on the floor of my laundry room, the sound of the washer spinning next to me.
If these memories were from Ciara… then why was I suddenly seeing them? Where was she?
I pulled out my phone again and dialed my sister. I hadn’t called her in four years. We hadn’t spoken in three.
I dialed anyway. It rang. And rang. As the ringing echoed in my ear, I realized I was afraid I’d hear her voice — so like my own — say, “Hey bitch.”
But she didn’t. No answer.
Maybe that was for the best.
‼️ If you liked this, check out some of my other psychological horror stories.
🐒 Did this story make you roll your eyes, cough, or raise a brow? If it did, buy me a cup of existential dread and maybe I’ll write a little more.
Omg. So glad I’m not a twin …
Chilling in the most effective way- really excellent story 👌