The front door was open. Not forced, not broken, just ajar. He felt a shiver run down his spine. It was three in the morning and he didn't remember leaving it like that.
-Is anyone here? -he asked in a dry voice.
Nothing. Just the hum of crickets outside.
He entered cautiously. The living room was in order, the dining room too. He made his way to the kitchen when he saw the steaming cup of coffee on the table. His cup. His coffee. But he hadn't made it.
His breath hitched. Something moved in the hallway. A rustle, barely audible. He ran to his room and grabbed the pistol from his bedside table.
-Get out! -he shouted, pointing it down the corridor.
The silence grew thicker. Then he saw him: a small shadow, barely a silhouette. But it had his face. His same clothes. His same horrified expression.
-Sooner or later, I had to find you, -the copy whispered, in a voice identical to his own.
He felt the chill of a knife on his back before he lost his balance. The copy smiled as it held him, watching him bleed out on the floor.
The house fell silent. Outside, the crickets were still chirping.
