Once in a Lifetime

After inexplicably awakening inside another home with a different wife, a man experiences an existential crisis, as new memories replace old.

I’ve woken up in bed with a stranger.

No idea why.

Have I been kidnapped? How did I end up in a London flat? For that matter, why am I so sure I’m in London?

I glance at the woman next to me. Long blonde hair. Black nightdress. I can’t see her face because she is turned away from me, still asleep.

I stagger out of bed, gaping at the unfamiliar bedroom, trying to piece together what has happened since last night.

I had put the boys to bed, and then spent a cosy evening with Emily in front of the fireplace, drinking red wine and watching television. We retired to bed at around eleven and fell asleep cuddled up together.

How am I suddenly here? Where are Emily and the boys?

I decide to wake the strange woman and get some answers, but as I approach, I notice a framed photograph on her bedside table. To my astonishment, the photograph shows me with an attractive blonde woman in her late thirties standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, seemingly on holiday in Paris. I peer at the bed’s dozing occupant and finally see her face.

She is the same woman from the photograph.

For the next few seconds, I stand dumbfounded. My eyes dart between the sleeping woman and the photograph. How has she obtained my likeness? The photograph must be a fake, but why? Who arranged this elaborate abduction, and for what purpose?

I scan the magnolia walls. A few framed landscape pictures and a couple of other photographs are displayed, one showing the blonde woman and me beneath the pyramids of Giza. Another photo shows us beneath moody skies next to the outskirts of Wistman’s Wood on Dartmoor.

That image brings to mind a recent memory, from the previous Sunday afternoon. I close my eyes, shutting out the muffled noise of traffic, and the quiet breathing of the sleeping woman.

We had decided to take a walk on Dartmoor. I drove Emily and our boys, James and Steven, through Princetown, past Dartmoor prison, out into the bleak countryside. After passing many rugged hills with craggy tors, we eventually crossed two stone bridges and parked next to a few remote farm buildings, before heading off on our walk.

James and Steven were excited, as I had told them sinister tales of witches from Wistman’s Wood folklore. They chattered together whilst we ambled along a stony path, which curved around the edge of a steep hill, the River Dart rushing beneath us on our left. The path went up a little, turning right, before the landscape opened out, revealing rolling hillsides covered in heather and golden bracken. A gradual climb followed, over boulder-strewn moorland, ascending onto a high ridge offering a spectacular view across the various tors and peaks. In the distance, about a mile ahead, we caught our first glimpse of Wistman’s Wood.

‘Daddy, are the witches dangerous?’ asked Steven.

‘That depends,’ I replied. ‘If you don’t upset them, they’ll probably leave you alone. But if you’ve upset a witch, they could put a curse on you. I heard about a man who mistreated a witch in Wistman’s Wood. She punished him by drinking the blood of his children. Afterwards, she turned him into — ’

‘Hayden, you’ll end up scaring them,’ Emily interrupted.

‘It’s just a bit of fun.’

‘OK, but remember, James is five and Steven is seven. They don’t need to be terrified to the point they end up having bad dreams.’

‘They won’t have bad dreams.’

Emily gave me a look that combined disapproval with weary acceptance. ‘You’re staying up with them tonight, if they get scared at bedtime.’

Eventually, we reached the one-mile-long cluster of dwarf oaks and halted at the southern edge of Wistman’s Wood, staring up into the gnarled branches and tumble of moss-covered boulders at their feet. The air was still, with a lingering chill of approaching winter. Leaves had turned brown, and the sun glared through afternoon clouds, bathing the area beneath the branches in a mystical golden glow.

‘I don’t want to go into the woods,’ said James. ‘I don’t want to meet a witch.’

‘Don’t be a wuss,’ said Steven. ‘We’ve got to explore now we’re here.’

Emily raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps we should stay here, whilst you two go in.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to go in?’ I asked my youngest son.

He shook his head.

‘There aren’t really any witches. Daddy just likes to pretend.’

‘Come on James, let’s find some witches,’ said Steven.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t wind up your brother.’

I regarded my family with a profound sense of contentment. Emily and I had been happily married for over ten years. Our children were clever, imaginative and playful. I had a well-paid job in a local software company, and we owned a beautiful home in an equally beautiful village. Our life seemed idyllic; a safe little bubble of bliss. That day felt like another little adventure together, within that bubble.

Just before we headed into the woods, Emily gave my hand a squeeze. She smiled, and around her I perceived the special glow, which only I see when I look at her. A sudden breeze blew through her long brown hair, revealing the heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of her neck. She laughed as she brushed away strands of hair from her mouth, and her sparkling green eyes reminded me of just how captivated I had been when I first saw her.

As the boys walked ahead, we stole a brief kiss. I knew we nauseated other couples who thought we should be sick of one another already, but I’ll never stop feeling this way about Emily. I would be lost without her.

‘Mummy! Stop kissing Daddy and come on!’

Summoned by Steven, we ventured into Wistman’s Wood. The boulders were a little slippery in places, with lichens and mosses providing a challenge for firm footing. During summer months, adders were sometimes found lurking between the rocks, but given it was late October, we didn’t expect to see any snakes. Every now and then, I glanced up at the looming branches. A curious tension seemed to hang over the wood, and as I listened, I realised the birds had fallen silent. Even the murmur of the distant River Dart seemed muted.

Eventually we came to a fence separating the northern part of the wood. Notices instructed walkers to keep out, as the area had been designated a nature reserve. Steven turned to James and shrugged.

‘Looks like there weren’t any witches after all.’

No sooner had he spoken those words, I caught sight of a figure clambering down from behind a thickly clustered set of trees on our right. She was about my age, in her early forties, dressed in walking boots, tracksuit bottoms, and a thick, brown woolly jumper. Her blonde hair was tied back in a bun, and she wore glasses. I didn’t recognise her, but the moment she caught sight of me she beamed.

‘Hayden Jones,’ she said. ‘Is it really you? Wow.’

‘Er… I’m sorry… Have we met?’

‘Lucy Curdle. We were in school together, remember?’

I cast my mind back and eventually placed her. ‘Lucy Curdle? Yes, yes of course! We were in the same primary school, right?’

‘We were indeed.’

‘Goodness! I don’t think I’ve seen you in, what, thirty years at least? I’m amazed you remember what I look like.’

‘Oh, I always remembered what you looked like.’

Her stare unsettled me.

‘Er…This is my wife, Emily, and our boys, Steven and James.’

‘Hello,’ said Emily, offering Lucy a hand to shake.

Lucy shook her hand then turned to the boys. ‘Have you seen the cave?’

‘What cave?’ Steven asked.

‘It’s just up the slope a little, beneath some large boulders.’

‘I didn’t know there was a cave,’ said Emily.

Lucy nodded. ‘It’s well hidden, and the entrance is small, but inside it’s quite large. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Steven and James looked intrigued as she led the way back up the boulders for about a hundred yards. The trees were more densely packed in this part of the wood, but eventually we came upon a sudden dip in the ground, leading to a black maw surrounded with large granite slabs. The cave was well concealed.

‘It’s funny, I’ve visited this place several times and never found this cave,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s lucky you ran into me,’ said Lucy, smiling at the boys.

‘Can we go inside, Mummy?’ said James.

‘Yes,’ said Emily. ‘But be careful. Watch where you step.’

‘It’s perfectly safe, don’t worry,’ said Lucy.

I took my phone from my pocket to use as a torch, and followed Lucy as she entered the cave. Emily used her phone too, illuminating the path ahead of our children. The stone entrance broadened out quickly as the muddy ground sloped downward, leading to a curious bowl in the earth with a cavernous roof. Soon, we all stood at the bottom, staring around at the dripping granite ceiling.

‘It’s massive!’ cried Steven, his voice echoing inside the cavern.

I moved the phone light around the cave, surveying the walls, mounds of stone, and puddles. There were various used candles scattered throughout, and I wondered who had placed them there. Presently the light illuminated a white sheep skull. James yelped and took a step back, hiding his face in Emily’s coat.

‘It’s perfectly safe,’ said Emily. ‘It’s just an old animal skeleton.’

I kept my light fixed on the skull. The way it sat on a large, flat piece of stone seemed quite unusual, as though it had been placed there as an ornament. I scanned my light a little lower and saw a pile of animal bones.

‘I hope we’re not in a den of witches,’ I whispered.

Steven and James exchanged unsettled glances while Emily rolled her eyes.

‘Seriously Hayden. Stop trying to scare the children.’ She turned to James, who looked worried again. ‘There’s nothing to be afraid of.’

I clambered around to get a closer look at the bones. They mostly appeared to be from sheep or rabbits. However, before I could examine them further, Lucy sidled up next to me.

‘Fascinating isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Nice and creepy.’

‘I wouldn’t touch them, if I were you. They might carry disease.’

I stared at the bones for a few seconds, feeling oddly compelled to pick one up, regardless of what Lucy had said. I carefully removed one from the top of the pile, gingerly gripping it between my thumb and forefinger. It had been stripped clean of flesh. I wondered if some wild animal lurked nearby.

‘Just remember to wash your hands when you get back,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s always important to wash your hands of everything.’

A wave of peculiar dizziness came over me, and my vision went dark. However, a second later, I came to, steadying myself against the side of the cave. I put the bone down and headed back to the others. Lucy continued to talk as we climbed down.

‘So, how have you been Hayden?’

‘Er, I’m very well, thank you.’

‘Looks like you’ve got a great family.’

‘Yes.’

‘I bet you’ve a great job too. And a nice house. I always thought you’d succeed in life. You were a natural leader at school. People always looked up to you and copied what you did, even if what you did was bad.’

‘Well, I don’t think I was that popular…’

‘Oh, you were popular. Trust me, I noticed.’

James glanced up at Lucy, and a flicker of worry crossed his eyes. I noticed him whispering to Steven and heard Lucy’s name mentioned, along with the word strange. I spoke loudly to cover their echoing conversation.

‘Well, it’s certainly been a long time since Ridgeway Park primary.’

Lucy laughed, but her laugh sounded forced, and in the echoing cave, it set my teeth on edge.

‘That’s the one. Good old Ridgeway. Or not so good, for me at least…’

‘Not so good?’ said Emily.

‘I had a hard time there. I was bullied a lot.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I said.

Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t you remember I was bullied?’

‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

A strange anxiety gripped my stomach as she continued.

‘It was a very, very difficult time for me. Some of the therapists and counsellors I saw afterward said my problems stemmed from that time, and it’s why I’ve had such difficulties in later life. I eventually found my own vocation, but much later than I would have liked, and obviously I’m still alone.’

An awkward silence fell. Emily and I exchanged deer-in-headlight glances.

‘I’m sorry you had a hard time,’ said Emily.

‘Are you sorry? Because most people say that without really meaning it.’

Emily looked distressed. ‘I’m genuinely sorry. No one should have to endure bullying like that.’

‘Bullying like what? I didn’t tell you how I was bullied.’

‘Er…I think any kind of bullying is awful.’

‘I was always the butt of jokes, because I was often slow to learn, and people thought I looked ugly. One time, several other children cornered me in the playground. I needed the toilet, but they wouldn’t let me past, and in the end, I wet myself. Everyone just stood there and laughed at me. It was unbearably humiliating.’

The pause that followed was excruciating, especially in the shivering darkness of the cave. I looked to Emily and back again. James had started to move away from the strange woman.

‘Well, we really must be going,’ I said, breaking the silence.

‘I think I’ll stay in here, for a while,’ said Lucy.

‘Great. OK, well it’s been lovely to bump into you like this.’

I turned to leave, but as I did, she placed a hand on my shoulder.

‘You don’t remember anything.’

‘No, I don’t, I’m sorry. But I wish you all the best with all you have going on now.’

Lucy smiled, but something in her eyes alarmed me.

‘That’s very kind of you, Hayden. One thing I can promise you is I am very good at what I have going on now.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re happy now, anyway,’ said Emily. ‘Goodbye, Lucy. Lovely to meet you.’

With forced smiles pasted onto our faces, Emily and I led our boys away from Lucy Curdle, out of the cave, and out of Wistman’s Wood. We didn’t look back, and only once we were well out of earshot did we discuss the awkward encounter.

‘That was uncomfortable,’ I said.

‘I feel sorry for her,’ said Emily. ‘Sounds like she really had a tough time in school.’

‘I suppose.’

‘I’m just sorry it caused her problems, later in life.’

‘Yeah, well, we all have problems we have to overcome in life. Some people overcome them easier than others I suppose…’

Back in the unknown woman’s bedroom, I stare at the photograph of me with her, next to Wistman’s Wood. It has to be faked. There is no other plausible explanation. But, why? I still have no idea how I got here.

I glance down at the boxer shorts I am wearing. I don’t recognise them. I peer at the wardrobe opposite the double bed and open a door. Inside are dresses and her other clothes on one side and smart suits, shirts, and trousers on the other. They look as though they are my size. I pause again, bewildered. I appear to have woken up in an entirely different life.

Adjoining the bedroom, I notice a door to an en-suite bathroom. I enter this windowless room and turn on the light. A fan starts up, and behind me, the woman stirs in the bed. Everything is spotlessly clean and at perfect right angles, with gleaming white tiles and a neatly divided his-and-hers section either side of a basin in front of a large mirror. I pick up some shaving cream and note it is the brand I normally use.

Then I see a tall figure in the mirror behind me.

I turn around at once, but there is no one else in the bathroom. I turn back to the mirror and the figure is still present. It is entirely white, with no facial features. It has a humanoid shape, but the surface of the figure is hazy, like cotton wool. I can’t tell if it is male or female. I stand absolutely still, frozen in confusion. The figure remains motionless.

I take a quick glance behind me, but still see no one else. My gaze returns to the mirror, and the figure takes a step toward me. I try to speak, but no words come out. My heart begins to beat faster as the figure slowly stretches out its white hand and places it on my right shoulder. I can’t feel the hand, but I can see it is there in the mirror. I shiver. Goose pimples erupt on my skin.

The figure moves its head closer to mine, and although I can see no mouth, a voice hisses in my ear.

‘You don’t remember anything.’

Perplexed and unsettled, I slowly turned my head, to try and see the entity that had just spoken. But still there was no one else in the bathroom. When I look back toward the mirror, the figure has vanished.

I glance back in the direction of the bedroom. The blonde woman continues to stir, eventually sitting up and staring bleary-eyed in my direction.

‘John, why didn’t you set the alarm?’ she says.

Regaining the use of my shaking legs, I emerge from the bathroom and stare blankly at the woman, who evidently recognises me and thinks my name is John.

‘I’ll be late,’ the woman continues, getting up and walking toward the bathroom. She pushes past me, takes off her nightdress and steps into the shower. Amid the sounds of water and steam, the bewilderment of my recent encounter lingers. I’m still trying to rationalise seeing the white figure in the mirror before I question the unfamiliar blonde woman.

Except, she isn’t unfamiliar.

I know her name is Claire. I know her second name is Mangrove.

I wander out of the bathroom and glance around the bedroom. I must have seen her name written down somewhere…

My eyes come to rest on a briefcase in the corner of the room. There’s something familiar about it. I approach and slowly pick it up, running my hands over the smooth but slightly worn leather surface.

In my mind, I see a desk in an office. A computer screen shows properties to let, and I recall being on the phone, talking to a customer about property rental agreements. A stack of business cards to one side of a computer bear the name John Hunter.

My name.

But it can’t be my name, can it?

I continue to examine my surroundings. I look in Claire’s side of the wardrobe and examine her clothes. I run my fingers over a black cardigan on a hanger.

With alarming clarity, I recall a doctor’s office. Claire in tears. Being told we can never have children. I want to marry Claire anyway, but she refuses, even though we’ve been together for three years and have lived together for two.

I touch another of Claire’s outfits, a smart black suit. In my mind, I see her entering a solicitor’s office. She works here.

My hands leap to a black dress. I touch it and recall walking around Rome with Claire. I then recall being with her in several foreign locations. She is happy, but I feel irritable. I tolerate travelling holidays for her sake, because she loves it. Mind you, she can be so selfish at times, increasingly so these days…

Wait. That’s not possible. How do I know any of this? I am not this person. I am Hayden Jones. I live with my wife Emily and our two children. I work in a software company, in Plymouth. I live in the village of…A village on the edge of Dartmoor, called…

‘Can you pass me my towel?’

Without thinking, I take a towel from a handrail and pass it to Claire. She glances at me for a moment, frowning. Eventually, she speaks.

‘Why are you being so vacant this morning? You keep staring at me like you don’t know who I am.’

‘I don’t know who you are.’

‘Oh, here we go. Are you going to finish what you started spouting last night? About me being different? About me changing?’ Claire adopts a mock whimpering tone. ‘I just don’t know who you are anymore, Claire. People change, John. It’s a fact of life. Get used to it, and stop being so bloody immature.’

‘No, I mean, I really don’t know who you are.’

‘Oh please…Get out of my way.’

Claire pushes past back into the bedroom and starts getting dressed. I watch dumbfounded, unable to comprehend a single thing that has taken place since I awoke in her bed, seemingly inside the life of this John Hunter, whose memories I can inexplicably recall.

‘You’d better get ready too, or you’ll be late,’ Claire says.

This is ludicrous. I am not John Hunter. I’m Hayden Jones. I have a wife and children in the southwest, and I am going back to them.

I stride out of the bedroom, and find myself on a landing with a red carpet. I head downstairs and make a brief search of my surroundings. The sitting room and kitchen are both immaculate, sterile, impersonal places, with minimal decoration. There are no books on the shelves, or records, or films. Instead, carefully arranged ornaments, perhaps souvenirs of travel. A large flat-screen TV is mounted on the sitting room wall. Next to it, on a windowsill overlooking a small concrete quad at the rear of the house, I find my mobile phone plugged into a charger.

Or rather, I find John’s phone. I type in the passcode without thinking. How do I know it? I’m not John Hunter. I’m Hayden Jones.

I call Emily’s phone. The number isn’t recognised.

I dial Hayden’s number — I mean my number. The number isn’t recognised.

I call the house landline. The phone rings, and eventually a woman answers. She sounds elderly.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello its Hayden. Is that Emily?’

‘I think you’ve got the wrong number.’

‘I’m looking for Emily? Emily Jones?’

‘I’m terribly sorry. There’s no Emily Jones here.’

‘Are you sure? Is that Green Acres, Elm Drive?’

‘Yes, but I promise, there’s no Emily Jones in this house. I’ve lived here for over thirty years. I’m going to have to go now. Goodbye.’

If the elderly woman claiming to have lived in my house for thirty years sounded baffled, that was nothing compared to my confusion. I felt dizzy and staggered around the sitting room, eventually collapsing on a white leather armchair. Upstairs, I can hear Claire getting ready for work. I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. She’ll have to hurry. It’s almost eight o’clock, and normally she likes to leave the house around this time.

Again, how do I know that?

I pick up my phone — I mean John’s phone — and log into Facebook. It’s already set up with his account, and on his profile, I see photographs of him with Claire, as well as photographs of his friends, and my parents. I mean his parents. Why do I remember his parents? Why do I suddenly recall a childhood growing up in Henley-on-Thames, instead of Plymouth? Why am I struggling to recall my own parents, or even what they look like?

I search through Facebook to find Emily’s profile. She isn’t there. I check her maiden name. Emily Still.

Lots of profiles. None that are my wife.

I search the internet to find details of the school my children attend. The school exists, but the photographs featured on their website, showing my children in their playground, have been taken off.

I decide to make another phone call, to Emily’s workplace in Derriford hospital. I call her ward, but the nurse that answers has never heard of her.

I look up some of Emily’s friends on Facebook, sending them a few messages. But those who respond haven’t heard of Emily — or me, for that matter.

Finally, I decide to call my own parents, but as I dial, I realise I am dialling the number of John’s parents, in Henley-on-Thames. I stop short, trying to recall the number for Hayden Jones’s parents. But I can’t remember it. I can’t even recall where they live precisely. I know it was somewhere in Oxford…

Utterly disorientated, I leave the sitting room and open the front door. I shiver, and realise I must look pretty stupid, standing there on the steps in my boxer shorts, staring out at the terraced houses of Lincoln Lane, Kensington. A few passers-by glance in my direction then look away, hurrying past my front door. Grey skies boil overhead. A thin drizzle falls. I stare at the railings at the side of the steps, feeling as though someone just dropped an anvil in my stomach. Why do I feel like a convict about to begin a long prison sentence?

‘John, for God’s sake, get back inside!’

Like an obedient lapdog, I automatically return to the hallway as Claire slams the front door. She is now smartly dressed for work, wearing her usual cream-coloured skirt with matching jacket and high heels.

‘What the hell were you doing, standing outside like that?’ Claire says. ‘Our neighbours will think you’re having a nervous breakdown.’ She fixes me with a cold expression. ‘Perhaps you are, after everything you said last night and this morning. You have been taking your medication, right?’

She’s pointing at me, waving her finger exactly the way she did last night.

Last night. Now I can recall the conversation.

‘You’re so damn selfish, John.’

‘Selfish? I’m selfish? You only care about yourself. It’s all about your career, your money, your status, your bloody wardrobe, and your superficial bloody friends!’

‘At least I have friends!’

‘You call them friends? They are shallow as hell. So fake. So insincere. So bloody competitive. Claire, for God’s sake just take a look in the mirror. It wasn’t like this when we first got together. It’s like all the fun has been sucked out of our relationship. You’ve changed.’

‘You never understand me. You’ve never cared about me. You’re unsupportive.’

‘I’m unsupportive?’

‘People change, John. It’s a fact of life. Wanting things to be the way they were is pathetic. You have to deal with the way things are right now.’

Why do I suddenly recall, in vivid detail, the row I had with Claire last night?

They aren’t my memories. Those were the memories of John Hunter, the man who looked and sounded exactly like me. The man whose life I now seemed to inhabit, at the apparent expense of my own.

‘Claire, listen to me. I don’t know what’s happening, but my name isn’t John Hunter. My name is Hayden Jones — ’

‘John, please just stop having a bloody mid-life crisis first thing in the morning, and get yourself ready. I’m already late, and soon, you will be too. We’ll talk later. Hopefully by then, you’ll have pulled yourself together. And take your medicine, for God’s sake.’

I watch as Claire grabs her handbag from the kitchen table. She then pushes past me, striding out of the house and slamming the door behind her.

For a moment, I stand in the hallway, incredulous and unable to accept what has happened. I keep pinching myself to check this whole thing isn’t a dream, but it’s all too real. My insides twist in knots, as though Emily and the boys have suddenly died. But they haven’t died. They can’t have died. I close my eyes and try to think of their faces, but it isn’t easy. Their faces are fading.

Fading…

My right shoulder tingles. I look behind me and see no one. But I sense a presence. I rush back up to the bathroom to look in the mirror and check.

The same white figure appears behind me, and once again, that hand is on my right shoulder. My heart pounds, but anger temporarily overcomes fear, and I start to yell at the entity.

‘Who are you? What do you want from me?’

‘You don’t remember anything.’

The words freeze my soul, and I notice this time the figure has a mouth. There are also strange eyes forming within the head, along the beginnings of a nose. The shape appears feminine, though the features are still not properly defined.

‘Let go of me!’ I cry, attempting to pull away from the figure. But as I move, I see in the mirror that the figure remains behind me, with her arm on my shoulder. I twist and turn attempting to push her away, but my hands just go through her, as though she were a ghost. Panic starts to overtake me, as I begin to suspect what is happening due to the touch of this figure.

I am forgetting my life.

Slowly, little by little, the memories of Hayden Jones are being drained away. I cannot recall the name of the village where I live. I can’t remember what my parents looked like, or where they lived either. Now I am struggling to recall the faces of Emily, Steven, and James. Entire chunks of my past are a black space.

By contrast, the life and experience of John Hunter is coming into sharper focus. I recall sights, sounds, tastes, feelings, childhood traumas, and brutal punishments at the hands of my parents. I remember falling in love with Claire, and the crushing sense of disappointment now that her true nature had been revealed, but being too scared of loneliness to risk ending the relationship.

I don’t want to live the life of John Hunter, a man whose parents constantly felt disappointed in him. A man continually overlooked for promotion at work. Lacking confidence, deep friendships, a loving partner, children. Ridiculed and laughed at behind his back. A man with deep, crushing phobias who even now fears the dark.

‘Stop it!’ I shouted.

The figure in the mirror retains the grip on my shoulder and a cruel smile forms on her lips. The crushing, agonising realisation that everything I ever knew from my life as Hayden Jones is being erased from my mind becomes too painful to bear. My panic escalates. Tears form in my eyes. Why is this happening to me? I must be able to do something to break free.

‘You don’t remember anything,’ the figure hisses once more.

‘No!’ I cried. ‘No, I remember everything. I remember the first time I saw Emily, and how her eyes drew me in. I went out drinking with her, and we laughed about so many things. I remember every film we went to see. I recall the beaches we lay on, the music we liked, when we decided to have children. I remember our children. I remember Steven and James. I remember everything. You can’t take that from me!’

But my words were futile. With every second that passes, my former life slips away. When it is gone, I will remember nothing. I will be John Hunter. Something has to be done. Increasingly desperate, I plead with the figure in the mirror.

‘Please, stop! I beg you!’

The figure keeps holding my shoulder. I perceive her knuckles gripping tighter than ever. Whatever this being is, she is merciless.

‘Why are you doing this?’

No answer.

‘Please, give me my life back. I’ll do anything. Anything!’

‘Kill her.’

The command is cold and terrifying. An image of Claire Mangrove flashes through my mind, and straight-away, I understand what this white figure wants. Is this a condition of returning to Emily, the boys, and my former life?

‘Kill Claire?’

‘You have until midnight,’ says the figure. The hand releases my shoulder and the entity backs away, disappearing into thin air.

‘No, wait!’

But the figure has gone.

I stand in the bathroom in shocked disbelief. Murder Claire Mangrove? I’m desperate, but not a killer. Nor do I know whether this malevolent being will keep her word.

As if to remind me of the stakes, I recall more details of John Hunter’s childhood. Being yelled at by primary school teachers, being bullied, and shunned by other children. Cruel punishments at the hands of his parents. Pain. Humiliation. Loneliness.

At the same time, I suddenly realise I can no longer recall my own childhood. It’s gone completely. What’s more, as I strain to think of incidents in my teenage years, I think of something, and then a moment later, I can’t recall it. Perhaps I should spend the day writing this stuff down. Perhaps, if I write an account of it all, it will help defeat this being. Then I won’t have to kill Claire. Then I’ll still have my memories.

But I won’t really have them. They’ll just be on paper. I will only remember what John Hunter remembers. What’s more, I’ll still be stuck in this life with a woman I can’t summon the courage to leave, permanently parted from Emily and my children. Is murder really the only way to get back to them?

Kill her.

The instruction chills me to the bone. I have all day to ponder this, to decide whether to do as the entity commands. My mind races with the insanity of my predicament, and I burst out laughing. This entire situation is preposterous. I can’t kill this woman, no matter how badly she treats me. I am not a killer.

I collapse on the bed frantically laughing myself hoarse. Then I weep, crying bitterly and pounding the mattress until my knuckles are raw. I scream. I swear. I lie on the floor in a foetal position, squeezing my eyes shut, willing myself to wake up with Emily again, and for this to have been nothing more than a terrifying delusion. But it’s no good. I’m stuck with this situation. I have no choice, but to make the decision: kill Claire and hope to appease the entity? Or refuse, and condemn myself to a life as John Hunter?

Whatever else happens, I determine to lose no more memories. I force myself to calm down. I even dress in one of John Hunter’s black suits. Perhaps I look like I’m heading for a funeral.

My stomach rumbles, but for the moment, I ignore my hunger. Instead, I head downstairs to phone work. As John Hunter, I know I need to call in sick. It feels strange to have the fading memories of Hayden Jones in my head whilst speaking to John Hunter’s boss, Eric Grenville. I dislike Eric at once, and John Hunter has hated him for years, even though he wouldn’t dare to express an opinion to that effect.

‘Eric? It’s John. I’m afraid I shan’t be in work today.’

Eric breathes heavily down the phone. ‘This is rather unfortunate, John. We had meetings today with the legal department, as you know.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Unfortunately, as I said, I am feeling very unwell.’

‘How unwell?’

‘I have a migraine. I just need to wait until it lifts.’

‘Well, I must say, this is very inconvenient. You’re letting the team down.’

‘If I get better, I’ll try to come into the office later.’

‘Could you not just come in anyway?’

‘I’ve already explained I have a migraine.’

‘The world keeps turning whether or not you have a migraine, John. If you don’t come in, it means your other department members will be forced to pick up the slack. You chose a very, very bad day to get ill.’

‘I didn’t choose to be ill, I just am ill.’

Eric continues to breathe heavily through his nose, and I dislike him more with every passing second.

‘Very well, John. But I’m not happy about this. I hope to see you later today.’

Eric puts the phone down.

Memories continue to fade, so I decide to start writing everything I still remember about my life. Next to the sitting room is a study, where I know there is paper. I enter the study and sit at the desk, searching the drawers until I eventually find writing materials. Using a blunt pencil, I hurriedly scribble rather incoherent details of what has happened to me on several sheets of A4 paper. As I write, I speak out loud, trying to keep details from disappearing from my mind.

After about half an hour of vigorous writing, my arm begins to tire. What I really need is a computer. Then I remember I have a laptop in the second bedroom. I head upstairs to retrieve it, but inside the second bedroom, I pause for a moment. The room is minimally decorated, with a bed, small chest of drawers and a landscape painting of Dartmoor on the wall. However, a curious ornament has been placed on the windowsill. It appears to be a mounted and preserved animal skull.

A sheep skull.

I stare at this peculiar ornament. It feels familiar, but I can’t place it. My heart beats faster, my stomach churns, and I find inexplicable tears in my eyes. I wonder if it is an occult artefact of some kind, but John Hunter has no interest in such things. Nor does Claire Mangrove, unless she is hiding such an interest from John.

Dismissing this curious unease, I return to my main concern of losing my memories. I grab the laptop and head back downstairs to the study. Why does it take so long to boot up? I drum my fingers on the keyboard.

Come on, come on…

My fingers race at lightning speed over the keys once the computer finally permits it, detailing as many incidents as can be recalled from the life of Hayden Jones. Even as I write them and look back over them, they disappear from my mind. Memories of childhood have all but vanished, so I start with teenage years, rewriting some of my scribbled A4 notes as I go. I move on to my twenties, and how I met Emily. But again, details are increasingly sketchy. For example, I can’t remember our wedding anymore, so I skip and go straight to the honeymoon.

Three hours later, I’m hungry, tired, and it is not yet even noon. After grabbing some toast and tea from the kitchen, I continue typing. I keep at it until one o’clock in the afternoon and eventually halt. My eyes are watery and my head aches from staring at the screen, but nonetheless, I read back over my life story. There are gaping black holes in the narrative, and to my dismay, I realise some of what I have chronicled regarding my work career are not my memories, but the memories of John Hunter. Our memories are colliding and overlapping. Slowly, but surely, his story is taking over mine.

I delete sections that are from John Hunter’s past, and highlight in bold anywhere I am unsure if they are memories of John or Hayden. All the time, a voice nags in my head, insisting my actions are futile. The strange entity is still present, invisible, but clutching at my shoulder, draining my mind. There has to be something I can do to stop my life from disappearing, but what? Emily, Steven, and James grow ever fainter in my thoughts. Soon, they will be gone forever. I can’t lose them like this.

The whispered instruction of the white figure returns to my thoughts.

Kill her.

What am I prepared to do to get my old life back?

What about my current life? Is it really so bad? John loves Claire, in spite of the appalling way she treats him.

I glance outside. The skies blacken as heavy rain lashes against the windows. I shiver, and once again panic twists my stomach. A shock of goose pimples forms on my arms once more. Although I can neither see nor feel the entity, I sense it is there, standing behind me, placing an arm on my shoulder.

To be sure, I rush back upstairs, this time heading for the main bathroom at the top of the staircase. A gleaming white bathtub, toilet, and sink lie to the right, but to the left is a full- length dress mirror. I switch on the light and face the mirror, knowing what I will see. Sure enough, the white figure is behind me, her hand clutching my shoulders, draining my memory. Her features are becoming clearer, and now I see what appears to be bunched up hair, in addition to nose, mouth, and glaring eyes that pierce my mind like daggers.

Out of instinct, I try to shake the arm away, swatting uselessly at the air. But as before, in the mirror, my hand simply passes through it. Trying to escape is pointless. Wherever I go, the figure follows, clinging to me like a ghostly limpet. Shivering dread seizes me, and I yell at the malevolent presence.

‘Leave me alone!’

A pitiless smile forms on the lips of the entity.

‘Leave me alone! Please!’

‘You have until midnight.’

Her voice freezes my blood. I can almost taste the malice emanating from the entity. As those eyes bore into my very soul, I fall to my knees, hands shaking as I place them over my face. I am condemned without mercy. I feel like a convict under a death sentence, and in a way, that is exactly what has happened. Hayden Jones, for all intents and purposes, will die.

Unless I kill Claire Mangrove.

The entity withdraws, but my memories keep vanishing. Whenever she touches me, her grip seems to accelerate the process. Perhaps her grasp is like a sting, delivering venom that wipes my mind and continues to take effect even once she has let go. Have I any guarantee she will return me to my other life if I kill Claire? Will I be returned with my memories intact, or has the poison of the entity’s touch destroyed them forever?

I decide to keep fighting. I must preserve Hayden’s memories.

After returning downstairs, I keep typing every possible detail I can recall from his life. Everything I write is then printed, and soon, sheets of paper lie scattered around the office and sitting room. I also make back-up copies on a specially created email account, as well as saving my work on USB memory sticks. I am determined I will not lose the life of Hayden Jones. Whatever can be salvaged will be.

It takes monumental concentration to make sure I only write his memories, and not those belonging to John Hunter. As the hours wear on, this becomes increasingly difficult, and eventually, impossible. By five o’clock, once darkness falls outside, I am exhausted. I can no longer distinguish between my memories and those of Hayden Jones. In fact, I am fairly certain almost all of Hayden Jones has vanished. I just remember he was married to a brown-haired woman, whose face I can’t recall. I think he also had two children. Two boys. It says so on these bits of paper and on the screen in front of me, but I don’t remember them.

My head throbs, and as I stand up, I feel dizzy. Thin beads of sweat form on my forehead, and I realise I must look a state. I stagger to the sofa and collapse facedown. Relentless rain continues to pound against the windows. I close my eyes, but all I can see is the face of the white entity, her eyes gleaming in sadistic triumph. I don’t know who she is, or what I did to offend her. Perhaps I’ve done nothing at all, and she is just an evil spider gloating over the fly in her web. Her chilling words play in my mind over and over again.

You have until midnight.

If I am to kill Claire, how could I do it? Stab her? Bludgeon her? Poison her? I would need to make sure she couldn’t fight back, but I’m no good with violence. I always freeze up.

Even if I am successful, what then? If I kill her and am not instantly transported back into the life of Hayden Jones, I’m in serious trouble. Disposing of the body will be difficult. I couldn’t carry her corpse out the front door and into a car boot without risking being seen. I couldn’t leave her inside the house either. The very next day, people would know she was missing.

I couldn’t bury her in the basement without drilling through concrete, and I don’t have the tools to do that. I couldn’t bury her in the garden, for the same reason. Perhaps I could cut up the body, sneaking out several times, and dispose of the pieces in different locations? No, once she is reported missing, the police would be all over this place looking for clues. I’ve read enough detective fiction to know that no matter how well I scrub the place clean, there will be traces left. Clues that can be followed.

I shake my head in despair. Why am I even contemplating this? I don’t want to kill Claire. I love her. I know we’ve been through quite a rough patch lately, but we’ll come through it. There has to be another way.

Could I try telling her the truth? She didn’t listen when I tried to explain this morning, but then again, she was late for work and still annoyed about our argument last night. When she comes back, I could talk to her and try to reason with her. Maybe she would listen this time.

Then again, she might just think I’m crazy, as usual. Even if she doesn’t, what then? She lives with me. She shares a life with me. I know, deep down, she loves me. Will she even want me to go back to being Hayden Jones, if such a thing is possible without killing her?

My mind swims. The words of the entity overlap in my mind, and confusion as to how and why this happened to me is drowned out by a torrent of fear. For a moment I lose consciousness.

At least, it feels like a moment. In fact, it is after eight o’clock by the time I feel arms shaking me. I open stinging eyes and see a very worried Claire. I smile, and without thinking, an inane question forms on my lips.

‘How was your day?’

‘John, what the hell happened?’

‘Oh, I didn’t feel well, so took the day off.’

‘You were unconscious. I was about to call an ambulance.’

For a moment, Claire just stares at me. I wonder if she is about to start yelling again, and I brace myself for the usual tongue-lashing. However, when she speaks, her voice quivers a little. I can tell she is upset.

‘John, I’m sorry I didn’t listen this morning.’ She puts a hand to my forehead and nods. ‘You’re definitely running a temperature.’

‘I understand. You were in a hurry.’

‘I think you’re delirious. No wonder you started going on about being someone else.’ Claire’s eyes dart around the room, which has sheets of printed paper scattered around on the floor. I’ve no idea how they got there.

‘Have we had burglars?’ I ask. ‘What’s all this mess?’

‘John, I think you did this.’

I frown, confused.

‘What did I do?’

‘You wrote all this strange stuff about being another person called Hayden Jones.’

I sit up a little and prop myself up on an elbow as my head spins. Swiping a hand across my forehead, it comes away slick with sweat. ‘I remember writing something. It was important I think.’

‘Perhaps you should see a doctor.’

I glance at the clock on the mantlepiece. ‘Bit late for that today, surely?’

Claire places a hand to my face again and rubs my cheek. ‘You look a fright. I’m going to run you a bath. Then I think you should have some hot chicken soup.’

‘That’s probably a good idea.’

I can barely stand. Claire helps me up the stairs and runs a tepid bath. I sit on the bathroom chair, slowly taking off my clothes. My shirt is soaked with sweat. As I peel it from my skin, I stare into the mirror. A strange fear rises in my stomach, and I look away immediately. Why don’t I want to look?

In that same instant, I glance at Claire, who is adjusting the taps on the bath. Why do I have a near-uncontrollable urge to seize her, wrestle her into the bath, and drown her? So great is the urge that I find myself on my feet. I stand behind her and stretch out my hands. They no longer shake, but a dark purpose fills my mind. I need her to die. Why do I want her to die? I love her. It isn’t that I want to kill her, but a voice in my head tells me I have no choice. I have to do this. If I don’t do this, something terrible will happen.

For a full thirty seconds I stand, poised to drown Claire. It feels like an eternity. A frozen moment in time dragging interminably. A torment. I know one absolute truth, though I do not recall why. I must kill Claire. It is the only way to get back to…Well, I don’t know where, but somewhere I need to be.

But I am not a killer. I can’t kill Claire. I love her. I want to work on our relationship. I want things to go back to the way they were when we first met. My urge to kill her makes absolutely no sense, and in the end, I force myself to sit down again. Claire turns to me and smiles.

‘Not wanting to be someone else anymore?’

‘No.’

But although she smiles, I see real concern on Claire’s face. She says she thinks my earlier statements about this Hayden Jones person are a result of being feverish, but what if there is more to it? I just wish I could remember what I said. Or why I wrote all those pages. Does she think I’m crazy? Am I crazy? I shake my head. I can’t be mad. I’m just ill, that’s all.

I slowly place myself in the bath and stare up at Claire. She’s so good at taking care of me. I open my mouth to thank her, but she speaks before I get the chance.

‘I’m going downstairs to make you some hot soup. After that, early bed for you tonight.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

Claire kisses my forehead then leaves the bathroom. I continue to soak in the bath, staring around the room. My eyes keep avoiding the mirrors. Why do I feel inexplicable fear every time I look at them?

I slide down, immersing myself under the water. As I close my eyes for a split-second, I imagine a white female silhouette with burning, vengeful eyes. She speaks, and her voice is like a dagger of ice in my heart.

‘You have until midnight.’

With a jolt, I sit up in the bath again, gasping. What did I just imagine, and why did it frighten me so much? I have until midnight to do what? Kill Claire? I’m not going to kill her. That much I have already determined.

My heart races as I stare down at the water. What is the matter with me? I know something is wrong. Something is missing. Something horrible has happened, and I can’t put my finger on it. Deep within my soul, I feel grief, as though someone I love has died. But that’s impossible. Claire and both my parents are alive and well. There has to be a reason for this dark feeling, but it eludes me.

I remain in the bath for a while longer, trying to focus on other things. I think about work, and how annoyed Eric was when I called in sick earlier. No doubt I would be subjected to another tedious lecture about letting the team down, but I won’t argue with him. I’ll just let him rant and rave, the way I usually do. No point in arguing with people like that. No point in arguing at all, if you can help it.

My mind turns to my parents. I know they made some mistakes with me growing up, but it was probably my fault. I deserved what happened to me. Besides, spare the rod and spoil the child. I turned out all right in the end because of their firm hand. Really, I should be more thankful for them.

I should grateful to Claire too. She’s put up with a lot, and I owe it to her to do much better. I resolve that after I am well, I will suggest going on another trip abroad to Iceland. She’s always wanted to see the glaciers and hot springs. This could be just what we need to patch things up and make a fresh start.

Eventually, I get out of the bath, put on a dressing gown and make my way downstairs. Claire presents me with a bowl of soup, so I sit at the kitchen table and eat. Afterward, we relax in front of the television for a short time, watching a wildlife documentary about tropical fish, which attempts to debunk the notion that fish have short memories. I am still feverish, and the strange, lingering grief continues to gnaw at my stomach, but at the same time, I feel well looked after by Claire.

At ten o’clock, Claire insists I take my usual medicine and retire to bed, even though she will still be up for a while, tying up a few work-related loose ends. She tucks me in, kisses my cheek and turns off the light, as though I were a small child. I don’t mind, but I wish she’d come to bed quickly. I feel afraid without her. The dark has always scared me. Before Claire goes back downstairs, I ask her to leave the bedroom door ajar. She looks bemused, but indulges my request. I haven’t ever told Claire the truth about my fears. It would be too humiliating.

Ever since I was a small child, I have found the night terrifying. I used to get vivid recurring nightmares, about how the darkness acted as a doorway from the world of demons. Later, as I grew up, the nightmares continued, but I found ways to cope with them. Nowadays, I ignore the fear when it comes, but today, I feel more vulnerable. Possibly being unwell hasn’t helped. Even with the door ajar, the shadows of the bedroom unnerve me. Objects such as curtains and pictures on the wall, entirely benign in daylight, take on menacing forms as my imagination starts to play tricks. I see strange wispy hands groping in the gloom, reaching out toward me.

Eventually I drift off to sleep, but I awaken with a start a couple of hours later. Claire lies next to me, snoring gently. The rest of the house is in pitch darkness.

I glance across at the alarm clock. 12:01am. A peculiar sentence inexplicably enters my mind.

You have until midnight.

It is after midnight.

A stabbing terror pierces my insides, and I stare transfixed at the blackness of the bedroom. I don’t know why I am experiencing such intense fear, but a deep part of my soul knows something hideous has happened, even though I can’t put my finger on what.

Slowly, the fear subsides, and I become angry at my irrational feelings. Nothing bad has happened, and I must be a fool to feel this way. I will ignore these nonsensical fears from now on and go back to sleep.

But it isn’t that simple. Now I need the toilet. I knew I should have gone before bedtime.

I sigh, annoyed with myself. Getting up will make me feel more awake, and then it will be even harder to get back to sleep. Oh well. No good complaining about it now. I’ll have to go. Quietly and slowly, so as not to wake Claire, I remove the covers and get up. If I go to the en-suite bathroom, the fan will prove too noisy, so I creep around the bed, deciding to head for the main bathroom instead.

I grasp the handle of the bedroom door and slowly turn it. The handle makes no noise, but as I open the door, an alarming creaking cuts through the silence. I turn to the bed, but Claire remains asleep. My heart begins to beat faster, as the familiar fear of the dark starts to take hold. My hands begin to shake. I want to turn on the landing light, but the switch is several yards away, near the bathroom door.

Stealing along the carpet, I move onto the landing and head for the bathroom. My eyes wander to the window opposite the staircase, overlooking the street. The rain has stopped, and the road is silent. A gloomy mist has fallen outside, which snakes in and around the lampposts and parked cars. For a moment I stare at the pale night scene, half-expecting phantoms to emerge from the mist. It is like a scene from a dream, so just to be sure I’m not in a nightmare, I pinch myself.

After confirming I am definitely awake, the need for the toilet becomes greater than ever. I turn away from the window and head into the bathroom. After switching on the light, I glance at the mirror.

What I see causes my mouth to drop, my heart to race, and my stomach to contort in violent, painful configurations of absolute anguish. I drop to my knees, wanting to scream, but my vocal chords seize up, producing nothing but a choking gasp.

Instead of reflecting the bathroom, the mirror shows what appears to be the inside of a large cave. There are candles lit in various places, revealing the bowl-like shape of the interior. I see animal bones on the ground, and mounted on one of the boulders is a sheep skull. At the lowest point in the cave are two young boys, aged about five and seven. The older boy is bound hand and foot with strong cords, with black gaffer tape plastered over his mouth. His eyes are red and swollen with tears. I can see him writhing and screaming beneath the gag because the younger boy is dead. His throat has been slashed and blood gushes from the severed arteries.

Crouching over the body of the dead five-year old is a very strange female figure. At first, she appears to be entirely white, composed of a hazy substance like cotton wool. However, as she moves her head from where it is placed at the boy’s throat, craning it toward me, she reveals a toothy grin that drips with blood. Her terrible eyes meet mine, and as they do, her features and clothing come into sharp focus. The hazy white skin transforms into something more solid that appears human. She has blonde hair tied up in a bun, and wears a pair of glasses. She is dressed in tracksuit bottoms, a brown jumper, and wears a pair of walking boots. A horrified sense of recognition washes over me as I stare at this woman, but I can’t place her. All I know is she has abducted two innocent boys, killed one, and has been drinking his blood.

For a moment, I stare at this woman, silently pleading with her to spare the other boy. But I sense nothing except vengeful cruelty. My heart sinks a second later, as she picks up a shining dagger from the ground, brandishing it at me as though gloating. She seems to glide, rather than walk, toward the seven-year old, before placing the blade at his throat. Tears fill my eyes, and such is my dismay and terror that all I can do is utter a hoarse plea.

‘No… Please…’

The blade slices through the flesh of the seven-year old’s throat. Blood explodes from the cut, spilling all over the face of the gleeful, bespectacled blonde woman. She then places her mouth at the source of the copious bleeding and drinks from the fountain of blood. I let out a sob of absolute despair, and finally finding my voice again, I begin to shriek.

‘No! No!’

I feel warmth on my legs. Amid my absolute horror, a wave of humiliation surges through me. Memories of bed-wettings and subsequent belt whippings flash through my mind, mingled with the appalling knowledge I can do nothing to save these young boys, whoever they might be. All I can do is watch that demonic woman drink their blood. I continue to sob and shriek. Absolute hysteria overwhelms me.

After a minute or so, Claire comes rushing to the bathroom. She sees me writhing on the floor in a puddle of urine, foaming at the mouth, jabbing my finger in the direction of the mirror. She glances at it, but evidently cannot see what I see. Her confused face then turns back to me in my pitiful state.

‘John, what’s wrong?’

‘Can’t you see her?’ I cry. ‘Can’t you see the dead children?’

Claire shakes her head, clearly distressed. ‘I think we should call an ambulance. If you’re seeing dead children, I really think you need help again, and — ’

‘Look out!’ I shout. ‘She’ll get you!’

The woman in the mirror is gliding toward us. She reaches out her hand. I know if she manages to touch Claire, something terrible will happen. I try to pull Claire away. As I do, the evil being in the reflection continues to reach out, moving closer and closer.

‘Get back!’ I shriek. ‘Get away from her!’

‘For God’s sake, there’s no-one else here!’

But Claire is wrong. I see the hand, reaching through the mirror, penetrating the glass as though it were the surface of a puddle. The glass ripples as her hand crosses through into our world. Her hand and arm turn white and hazy once more, like a spectral mist, groping and clawing toward us.

Terrified beyond the ability to think, I act on pure instinct. I grab Claire and haul her out of the bathroom, hurling her onto the landing. Unfortunately, she loses her footing and tumbles down the stairs. An agonised scream rises from the hallway beneath as I slam the bathroom door. I then run down to find her in a twisted heap at the foot of the staircase. I switch on a light. Her right leg is bent upward, at a strange angle. My eyes dart over her swelling skin as it turns dark and bruised.

Claire continues to gasp and moan in pain. I know I need to call an ambulance, but first I have to get her out of the house and away from that thing. But I can’t do it alone. I need help. I open the front door and rush down the steps into the misty street, yelling and screaming into Lincoln Lane.

‘Help! There’s someone in my house, and I need to get her out! She’s broken her leg! Please help us! Help us!’

I wonder how I must look, running down the street in my wet boxer shorts, ranting and raving. But I don’t care. I have to get Claire out of there. If I don’t, she could well share the fate of those poor boys. Sickening grief twists my stomach, and I continue to run down the road, crying aloud. I see the headlights of a vehicle coming through the mist, and stand directly in its path, waving for the car to stop.

It’s the last thing I remember from that night.

I awaken confused. My head spins. Peculiar surroundings gradually come into focus. I’m in a raised bed next to a bleeping machine. An antiseptic smell assails my nostrils. Some of my clothes from home are in a pile on a nearby chair, neatly folded. Sun streams through a window, but from the water on the panes, I can see it has recently been raining. I glance at a clock on the wall and note the time as 9:20am.

I try to move, but it hurts. I pull down the sheets of my hospital bed, peering at my chest and see large purple marks. When I put my hand to my face, it feels swollen on the left side. I turn to a mirror and see the bruising. I look as though I’ve been in a bad fight. Almost immediately, I turn away again. I don’t want to look in mirrors, in case I see that thing again.

The full horror of what took place the previous night returns to me like a flood. I recall the murdered children and the horrible entity that drank their blood. I remember it trying to enter our home, Claire falling down the stairs and breaking her leg, me running out into the street, and being hit by that car.

I shudder. Is Claire alright? Or did that thing get her too? I want to get out of bed and find out, but my limbs are too painful to move.

I lie awake for a few minutes, feeling as though a lead weight is crushing my insides. Something much, much bigger is wrong, but I don’t know what. I feel as though I have forgotten something really important. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of those poor boys. I wonder what the hell I saw in that mirror. I’m convinced it was real, no matter what anyone else might say.

A moment later, two hospital staff in white jackets enter my room. A man and a woman, whose name badges read Dr Williams and Dr Still. Williams is tall, with thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. The woman has brown hair and an unusually kind face. She smiles at me and introduces her companion.

‘Good to see you again, John. This is Dr Williams. We’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘I’d like to ask a few questions too,’ I say. ‘Where’s Claire?’

‘She’s broken her leg and is being treated in another ward. Don’t worry. Apart from the leg, she’s fine.’

I breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Did she tell you what happened?’

‘Yes. John, that’s what we’d like to ask you some questions about.’

My eyes dart between the two doctors. ‘You’re from the loony bin, aren’t you?’

Dr Williams stiffens. ‘We don’t use terms like that, John. We’re psychiatrists. We want to ask you some questions, and try to help you.’

I shake my head. ‘It doesn’t matter what I say. You won’t believe me.’

‘Claire pointed us in the direction of some of the things you wrote yesterday,’ Dr Still says. ‘Stuff about being a different person, someone called Hayden Jones.’

I shrug. ‘I know I wrote that stuff, but I don’t remember why. I can’t even remember what it says, to be honest.’

They exchange glances.

‘Can you describe to us, from your point of view, exactly what happened last night, when you got up in the night and went to the bathroom?’

‘What’s the point? You won’t believe me. No one ever believes me. Why not just skip to the cliché questions about if there’s a history of mental illness in my family?’

Dr Williams put up a hand. ‘Please, John. Just tell us what happened last night. Claire doesn’t really know, and couldn’t tell us much, other than you apparently saw dead children in the mirror.’

‘I don’t know who they were,’ I say, tears filling my eyes. ‘I just know I can’t bear the thought that they’re dead.’

I go on to explain the whole story of what I saw in the mirror. I doubt they believe me. The expression on Dr Williams’s face suggests he is already formulating some clever theory about delusions, hallucinations, or the like. Dr Still looks more compassionate, but I can tell I haven’t reached her either. They make a few more inquiries, and eventually, Dr Still asks a question that takes me by surprise.

‘Why do you care so much about these children?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s entirely natural you would feel shocked and traumatised at what you saw, but your behaviour suggests a deeper relationship. It’s as though you knew them personally and are grieving their loss.’

I realise, as she says this, my eyes are welling up. Tears stream down my bruised cheeks. Dr Still hands me a tissue.

‘I’m sorry, John,’ she says.

Dr Still smiles. Our eyes meet for a moment, and in that brief second, I feel a profound sense of anguish that I cannot explain. Then, as she turns away, I notice an unusual birthmark on her neck, in the shape of a heart. The image seems familiar, like something I saw in a dream.

But perhaps I am mistaken.

Copyright 2018 Simon Dillon. The moral rights of the author have been asserted. For more information about short stories and novels by Simon Dillon, click here, and for more information about Simon Dillon on Medium, including additional short stories, click here.