The Wrong Door

You've attended three funerals. None of them made you cry. You justify it: you didn't know the person well enough. You were there for your friend. Someone else needed the tissue box. But when the third coffin slides behind those black curtains and you still don't shed a tear, you start to wonder if you're incapable of feeling the appropriate emotion at the appropriate time.

Then, at 2:17 a.m., a text arrives from an unknown number.

You have been invited. Come tomorrow at midnight. 442 Westlake. Don't be late.

You don't erase it. You read it for eleven minutes, standing in your kitchen in socks with holes in both big toes. Something stirs in your stomach. Maybe it's curiosity. Maybe it wants more. You can't tell.

The next night, you pass 442 Westlake three times before you park your car. It's a warehouse area. Trucks pull in at all hours of the early morning, and no one cares what's in the boxes. There is no signage. The windows up top are dark. But the loading dock door is open about an arm's length. You could walk through it. You won't. You just want to make sure. Your hand reaches for the door handle. It's cold. You pull the door wide.

It's dusty inside. It smells of wet cement and, underneath that, something fruity. One light hangs from the ceiling, the only light. It illuminates a row of chairs, two sets facing each other with an aisle between them, leading up to a curtain on a platform. It's the same velvet as the crematorium.

There are many people sitting in these chairs.

You should leave. Turn around. Walk home. But the woman at the end of the last row catches your eye. She's wearing a coat you almost bought last year. It's missing one button. She motions for you to sit down, as if she knew you would come. The chair squeaks when you sit. It's so mundane that you relax a little.

The lights go down. Not completely out, just dimmer, as if preparing for something. A man emerges from the curtain wearing a blood-red suit. You can't keep his face in your mind, so you try harder to.

"You have been welcomed here," he says. "You were invited because you are harmless. Because you are not of this world."

The crowd stirs. You don't say anything. You can't comprehend what he said. Harmless? Not of this world?

"What we're going to see tonight is a life you can replace," he continues. "That person is currently alive. They are not aware that you are here, watching them. Unless one of you decides to tell them."

He pulls back the curtain.

A window is revealed. Not a TV screen. An actual window, with wire mesh running through the glass, like the ones in your school when you were younger. Through it, you see your bedroom. Your messy bed. Your dresser. Your own window. You are looking at the room from the direction of the glass. You can see yourself.

Asleep.

You know your breathing patterns. How you tuck your left hand under your pillow. How you snore with your mouth open. You're watching yourself not know what you're doing. It's horrifying.

"You have thirty seconds to make your decision," the man says. "Once the timer runs out, you can replace that life."

"Replace?" a man chimes in from somewhere in the back row.

"Replace. Take their life. Take over. You can live their life. Maybe they have better finances. Maybe they have a loving family. Maybe they know how to grieve for a loved one."

You want to get up. Get out of there. Run. Your body won't let you. Your legs are stuck. Why are you so afraid? You are looking at yourself, sleeping in your own bed, in your own body. You realize something. All of the walls you've put up around you, you built on the outside, to keep people out. Nothing was ever guarding the inside.

Twenty seconds.

The woman next to you leans in. She smells like fruit. "Don't do it," she whispers. "I took someone's life last month. You don't get to live their life. You take their place. It's hollow. Always hollow."

Fifteen seconds.

You stare at yourself, sleeping. On the other side of the glass, you frown. You twitch. Your body senses something: that you are being observed, even through glass, even miles away from your home, even at midnight.

Ten seconds.

She grabs your arm and scratches you with her fingernails. "Don't look at it. Look at me. Look at anything but that window."

Five.

Your sleeping self opens its eyes.

It isn't waking up. People wake up slowly, confused. These eyes are not human. They are too aware. They are staring through the glass at you. Your mouth smiles. It is not your smile. All of your teeth are showing, and your eyes stay wide open.

Three.

Your body sits up in bed. It doesn't look right. It moves differently. It slides off the bed, walks toward the window, lifts one arm, and touches the glass.

Two.

You lift your hand without knowing why. You feel the glass through your palm, cold but also warm. Through that glass, you can feel your own home. Your own body. Your life. Your double mouths something at you: I want to come in.

One.

You jump out of your chair. Trip over the legs. Sprint to the door. The man in the red suit watches you flee. You burst through the door into the cold night air. You run until you make it to your car. You can't get the key in the ignition. You cry. Harder than you ever have at a funeral.

You drive home. Drive around the block to make sure no one is following you. You climb your stairs. Open your door. It jams like always. You push through. Start to cry again.

You flip all the lights on. Check everywhere. Under your bed. Your closet. Your cabinets. No one is there. You are in your body. You poke yourself to prove it. Hold your face under cold water. See your reflection react when you flinch. Stand in front of your bedroom window. Place your hand on the glass. It's empty. Nothing but night.

You don't sleep. You sit on your bed and watch your window all night long.

Your phone buzzes at 2:17 a.m.

A picture of that room. The chairs. The curtain, open now. The window, empty. Nothing but darkness. And you.

In that window.

Smiling.

Your phone buzzes again. One word.

Soon.

You throw your phone. It hits the wall and drops to the floor. You are in your bedroom, lights on, in your body. Or at least what you think is your body. Because that man was right. You are harmless. You are not of this world. The place you belonged to was taken from you. Something else will fill that spot, and it will want to try others on.

You don't sleep again that night.