The Stranger

Oh, my God. It fell. Jesus, forgive me. I didn't mean it. It just fell to the floor, the pot breaking into a million pieces. The plant is on the floor now, mingled with the dirt and the plastic butterfly. Hot damn. What am I supposed to do now?

No, no. I will mop this up. I don't care how long this takes. I will pick up every piece of this pot and glue it together. I will. I promise. There. Oh, crap. There's water everywhere. Why do I keep doing this? I break stuff all the time. My wife is gonna frigging kill me, man.

Calm down, dude. This is not the end of the world.

Yes, it is.

Hey, bozo, this is your conscience speaking. Remember me?

Yes. I do.

So, why don't you listen to me for a change. Mop it up. You can make it. Okay, boy. Take a deep breath now. You really did well now. Doing the garden while she was away, keeping it clean, vacuuming, and still managing to do lots of stuff with your daughter... and get some of your work done. That's good, isn't it?

Yes, yes, but look at this mess.

Glue, glue. I gotta get glue. Where's the frigging glue?

I am staying up all night if that is what it takes.

Man, these things only happen when I mean well. I thought the only thing missing was watering the plants and then I throw the damn pot down. I was so happy that she could be away for a few days and just chill, just take it easy.

Okay, there's the glue. What does it say? For paper? Oh, who gives a heck. I will spread that glue over and inside the pot and make it look like it never happened. Hey, I'm a night owl. I like being up at night. No problem. My daughter is asleep. My wife will be home first tomorrow. I have all night. Hey, bubba, gimme a five.

Gee wiz, this thing is gooey.

All right, that piece is sticking to the pot now, just two pieces left. Looks like I can paste it back together after all.

There. Who said I couldn't? Just that one piece left over. There we go.

Now the mess with the dirt and the water. Bring out the bucket.

What's this? I get that weird feeling again: me... thinking I am weird... for speaking to myself. It's like that part of me telling myself that... I am not who I think I am. This part calling me... a weirdo.

Weirdo, freaky-boy, come over and...

No, cool down, man.

You fixed the pot, you mopped it up, you put it back, turned the crack away from the room. She won't notice.

Unless...

Oh, my... What's that?

Oh, God. There's someone in the house.

Hello?

No, did I leave the back door open?

I hear steps.

Holy crap, this scares me.

Burglar.

I gotta get my phone. Where's the phone? Goddamn, I had it here a minute ago.

There are those sneaky steps again. What if... what if this is a ghost?

No, grab hold of yourself. There is no freaking ghost.

You're alone here.

Ah.

Who are you?

Why are you staring at me like that?

Oh, God. You... look... like... me.

You... are... me.

You... are my doppelganger?

Why are you here?

Where did you come from?

You will... what?

Replace me?

Be... the better me?

Eliminate the stranger... in me?

What?

You are the stranger?

Oh God...

No.

What are you doing?

911, there's a burglar in my house and he looks like...

Beeeeeeeeeep...

THE END

Bio: Mr. Moulton grew up in a trilingual and artistic family and spent his childhood on stage. He played his first role at age 11 and has since then acted and sung in over 100 stage productions. His publication credits include horror stories for SNM Magazine and Aphelion, historical articles for Socrates and Skirmish and literary fiction for Idea Gems and Pill Hill Press. Mr. Moulton enjoys versatile creativity, is married and has a daughter. His last Aphelion appearance was Wolf Cult in our July, 2015 issue.

E-mail: Charles E.J. Moulton

Comment on this story in the Aphelion Forum

Return to Aphelion's Index page.