The Other, Who Looks Like Another

By R. S. Cunningham

Clara took a few deep breaths to steady her nerves. In for one–two–three–four. Out for one–two–three–four.

She repeated this four times, just as her therapist had taught her. I can do this, she told herself. I’m good at my job. The breathing helped; her pulse slowed enough for her to reach forward and click Join now.

“Hi, Heidi!” Clara said brightly, trying to sound casual. Ever since she’d heard that an over‑enthusiastic intern had been fired on the spot for greeting Heidi with a cheery “Hi‑de‑hi‑de‑hi‑de‑hi!” on Teams, Clara had to physically restrain herself from doing the same.

Christ. She’d give anything to be fired.

“Thank you for joining us at last, Clara,” Heidi replied, sounding every inch the Bond villain. Clara checked the time. 11:00. Not even one minute late. But anyone who joined a call after Heidi was late in her mind, because she had had to wait on them. And there was no “us,” only Heidi. Clara should have been used to the power plays by now, but they still irked.

“How have you been?” Clara asked.

“Did I not have the conversation about my feelings on small talk with you already, Clara?” Heidi said, head down over her notepad.

“You have indeed. Apologies. Force of habit.” That, and not being a stone‑cold cu—

“Yes, yes. You British and your small talk. My mother‑in‑law is the same. Witter, witter, witter.” Heidi’s British husband, Gary, a stay‑at‑home dad, and the rest of his Mancunian family were frequent subjects of gossip, mockery, and the occasional cartoon in Clara’s marketing agency.

Heidi looked up and locked eyes with her. “But as you have asked, despite being asked repeatedly not to ask, I will answer.”

Clara held her breath.

This was new.

“Odd things have happened,” Heidi said flatly. “And I do not care for them.”

“Oh? What kind of od—”

“I trust the new and drastically improved graphics are ready for review?” Heidi cut in.

“They sure are,” Clara said, relieved to be back on familiar ground. She shared her screen, and for the next thirty minutes they dissected the (few) merits and (many) improvements needed for the new Mother’s Day adverts for Heidi’s Schattenglanz jewellery range. Schattenglanz meaning ‘Shadow Shine’ in German, a language Clara was fluent in.

When they finished, Clara stopped sharing and saw Heidi full‑screen, her luxurious open‑plan kitchen behind her.

“Hi!” Clara called cheerfully, waving at a figure peeking through the doorway behind Heidi.

Heidi’s head snapped around. “Oh, don’t you bloody start!” she barked over her shoulder.

Clara straightened. “Excuse me?”

Heidi whipped back, eyes blazing. “Who are you saying ‘hi’ to? There’s no one else here!”

Clara squinted at the doorway. Empty. “Sorry, Heidi. Must’ve been a shadow. I thought I saw Elise.”

Elise was Heidi’s six‑year‑old daughter. Clara braced for a tirade, but instead Heidi turned again, scanning the room behind her. A few awkward seconds passed.

When she finally turned back, she looked tired. “Contact my PA and book a final review for later this week. And remember! As the client, I shouldn’t have to point these improvement needs out to you.”

The screen went black.

Charming.

Clara padded off to make a coffee and decompress.

—

Later that week, Clara joined the call two minutes early, breathing exercises complete, presentation polished and approved by the creative director - a man almost impossible to please, but who knew exactly how to make Heidi happy.

Clara was almost excited. She sipped her coffee, smiling.

She waited.

And waited.

She checked her calendar. Right time and Heidi had accepted the meeting. Contacting her to ask if she was joining was unthinkable. Logging off was worse. Clara was just considering sprinting for a jammy dodger when Heidi finally joined.

“Hi…” Clara trailed off.

Heidi looked dreadful. Eyes down, face puffy and blotched, cheeks pink and swollen. Had she been crying? This was not the woman who recited her twenty‑four‑step skincare routine to anyone foolish enough to ask how she looked so young in her forties.

“No small talk today, Clara?” Heidi asked, still not looking up.

“How… how are you?” Clara stuttered.

“I’ve been better. If you must know.” Heidi finally looked up. Her bright white T‑shirt made her pale, makeup‑free face look even more washed out. Her eyes were red and swollen.

Clara felt helpless. “I, uh, think you’ll like the new graphics.”

The silence that followed was glacial. Heidi stared at her, radiating fury.

Clara tried again. “Is the, uh, trial taking its toll?”

Wrong move. Heidi’s glare sharpened. Clara’s stomach dropped.

Abruptly, Heidi broke eye contact, muttered, “Ich muss pinkeln,” and stood. She wove unsteadily through the kitchen and disappeared through a door, presumably heading to her bathroom.

Clara exhaled. Hungover? Impossible. Heidi didn’t lose control. Ever. And she’d never left a meeting minutes after joining.

What on earth was happening?

As Clara watched, Heidi slowly peered back around the doorframe.

Clara leaned in.

Heidi leaned in too, scanning the room with a smooth, deliberate sweep from left to right. Then right to left. Satisfied, she stepped out. Her footing was suddenly sure. She walked a few paces into the room and stopped, smoothing her hands over her taupe woollen jumper before letting them fall to her sides by her black leggings.

Then she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

One breath. Two. Three. Four.

A cold prickle crept up Clara’s spine. Is she… smelling?

An undefined panic surged in Clara. On impulse, she reached for her mouse to end the call, but missed and knocked her coffee cup to the floor.

It hit with a loud splat.

On screen, Heidi’s head snapped toward the laptop, eyes wide open.

Clara yelped.

Slowly, almost sensuously, Heidi walked toward the camera. Clara’s pulse hammered. Something was off. Badly off.

Heidi slid into her office chair and stared straight at her. Clara had the awful sense that Heidi could see her, not the webcam.

This is all wrong, Clara’s senses screamed at her.

Heidi leaned closer, filling the screen.

That was it! Clara realised at last. Heidi looked… perfect. Smooth skin. Bright eyes. Eyes that hadn’t blinked once. And she wasn’t wearing the white T‑shirt and jeans she’d had on minutes ago.

Had she changed?

Suddenly, Heidi smiled.

Too wide.

Showing too many sharp teeth.

Clara screamed.

“Clara? Is that you?” called Heidi. But not the Heidi on screen. The voice came from the hallway she’d disappeared into.

On screen, the serrated‑toothed Heidi closed her maw and slid, serpent‑like, off the chair and out of sight beneath the desk.

Clara slammed her laptop shut and bolted from her flat.

—

Clara phoned in sick for the rest of the week, claiming a vomiting bug. She barely slept. When she did, she dreamed of an arm shooting out of her laptop and grabbing her by the throat.

By Sunday night, dread sat heavy in her chest. Sick pay was discretionary; rent wasn’t. Monday was coming whether she wanted it or not.

At 8:15 a.m., she sat at her laptop, drafting an email to say she was back online, when a Teams call shattered the silence. It was Heidi.

Clara froze. Heidi never called anyone. Ever.

She didn’t answer. The call ended. Clara exhaled shakily.

Another call came through immediately.

Reflexively, Clara clicked Accept.

Gary’s face filled the screen, looking grey, and stricken. They stared at each other for a long, stunned moment.

“Heidi’s dead,” Gary blurted, then broke down sobbing.

—

The next week passed in a blur of whispered “just awful”s around the office. Though it wasn’t always clear whether people meant Heidi’s death or the PR fallout.

Clara’s workload evaporated as senior staff handled the crisis. She should have been planning backup campaigns, but she couldn’t think about anything except the thing she’d seen on her laptop. The too‑wide smile. The razor-sharp teeth.

She doomscrolled German news late into the night, researching the trial Heidi’s family were embroiled in. So much speculation. It was a tabloid frenzy.

A Teams call from her manager snapped her out of it.

“Hi, Ellen,” Clara said, forcing brightness.

“We’ve received the funeral details from Gary,” Ellen said briskly. “Will you book your own flights, or shall I get Michelle to do it?”

“Sorry? You want me to go to Germany?”

“Of course. You were closest to her.”

Clara almost laughed. Closest. Heidi had once called her a “marketing retard.” But the image of the Other Heidi barring her sharks teeth, flashed behind her eyes.

“I can’t,” Clara said.

Ellen narrowed her gaze. “Do you have something better to do? Given your workload has evaporated and you’re not assigned to a new account? Or does representing the agency to the Schattenglanz board, i.e. Heidi’s family, sound like a good use of your time?”

The threat was unmistakable.

They stared at each other; mutual disdain thick in the air.

“Fine,” Clara said. “Send me the details. I’ll book my own flights.”

“Keep the cost down.” Ellen hung up.

—

A couple of days later, Clara was driving her hire car through the Black Forest toward Heidi’s lakeside home. The scenery was absurdly beautiful. Literally like a fairytale.

According to the sat nav, she had twenty minutes to go. She scanned for somewhere to buy flowers, cursing herself for not grabbing some at the airport. Her thoughts drifted back to Heidi. Heart attack, officially. But after what Clara had seen on that call? Impossible.

She’d hoped the funeral would be in a church or funeral home. No such luck. A humanist ceremony in Heidi’s house. Perfect. What if “Other Heidi” turned up as a guest? Clara laughed out loud at the thought, nerves shot.

She spotted a small shop with flowers outside and pulled in. Inside, two older women stood at the counter. Clara chose a bouquet and approached.

“Freundin?” the shopkeeper asked.

“I’m English,” Clara said quickly.

“For your girlfriend? Mother?”

“No. Bauer funeral.”

The shift was instant. The friend muttered something guttural; the shopkeeper spat on the floor beside Clara.

Clara froze. She knew the Bauers weren’t popular, but this was… extreme.

She reached for the flowers. As she turned to leave, the spitting woman said spitefully in German, “Watch out for the Other...”

Clara turned back. “What Other?” She asked in German.

The women exchanged a look, surprised.

“The Other, who look like Another,” the spitter said, leaning forward.

A chill ran through Clara. She hurried out, heart hammering. She sat in the car, unable to start it. What if I just drove back to the airport? What’s the worst that could—

EE EE EE! The Psycho theme blared from her phone. Clara jumped.

“Hi, Ellen,” she sighed, starting the engine.

“Gary called! The service is starting soon. Where the hell are you?!”

—

The service was beautiful. Heidi’s sister spoke; Elise sobbed; Gary looked broken. Journalists hovered at the gates. Clara tried to blend in, but Gary’s Mancunian relatives kept seeking her out to translate. They treated her like staff, not a mourner. And Gary’s mother really did “witter on.”

Hungry and irritated, Clara escaped to the kitchen. The same kitchen she’d stared at through Teams for years. She glanced at the door the Other Heidi had come through and shivered.

Get a grip, she told herself. The house was full of people.

She piled her plate with rye bread, trout, pickles, ham and creamy potato salad. Avoiding the tables, she found a single chair by a window. On the sill were a few family photos.

She glanced at them, and screamed, dropping her plate. It shattered loudly, sending food and shards flying across the tiled floor.

Gary appeared instantly, kneeling beside her, murmuring something soothing she couldn’t hear. Her eyes were locked on a photo of Heidi and Elise in their garden, smiling. Heidi wore a taupe polo neck and black leggings. Elise looked about two.

A four‑year‑old photo. But Clara had seen that exact outfit. On the Other Heidi.

This was the Heidi that “Other Heidi” had mimicked. Clara was sure of it.

“Clara. Clara!” Gary’s voice cut through her panic. “Are you okay?”

“Er… yes. Just upset. Sorry.”

Gary gathered the broken plate and food, dumped them in the bin, and returned with a cloth. “Can I get you more food?”

Clara shook her head, still staring at the photo.

Gary followed her gaze. “Come on,” he said gently, taking her arm. “Let’s get some air.”

Clara let him steer her outside. They sat on the tasteful patio furniture in an awkward silence.

“Did you know you were one of the last people to speak to Heidi before she passed?” Gary said at last.

“Is that right?” Clara replied lightly, stomach twisting.

“Elise and I had moved out a week before she… before it happened.”

Clara had no idea what to say, so she said nothing.

“I like to think it brought her comfort,” Gary continued. “Having a friend to talk to while she was alone.”

She once told me she’d met boiled potatoes with more talent, Clara thought. But she nodded, trying to look sympathetic rather than trapped.

Gary stood. “Mind if I give you a hug?”

“Not at all,” Clara said, rising.

He pulled her in tightly. Too tightly. After a few moments, Clara shifted to signal she was done.

Gary didn’t let go.

Clara cleared her throat.

He rubbed her back.

Clara leaned away; he leaned with her.

“Gary,” she snapped.

He released her at once. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s been a hard day.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Clara said, avoiding his eyes as she headed back inside.

In the kitchen, Elise stood by the windowsill, holding the photo of her and her mother. She looked up at Clara.

“Die andere Mutter,” she said softly. The Other Mother.

Clara’s blood ran cold. Oh,I have had enough of this shit.

She headed for the door, muttering about flights whenever anyone tried to speak to her.

“Are you going to Baden Baden airport?” a voice asked.

Clara looked up to see a friendly face.

“Sean,” the face said, pointing to himself. “If you’re on the 19:30 flight to London, I’d be eternally grateful for a lift.”

Well, she could hardly refuse. “Sure. But I need to leave now.”

“Okaaaay,” Sean said, glancing at his watch. It was barely 3 p.m.

Clara stared him down.

“I’ll get my coat,” he said.

The first ten minutes of the drive were silent. Sean stared out the window, wisely keeping his thoughts to himself. Clara realised she must seem completely unhinged.

As Heidi’s house receded behind them, her shoulders loosened a little.

“So, Sean,” she said at last, “how do you know the Bauer family?”

He turned, relieved the silence was broken. “Solicitor. My firm represents them in the dispute with the Goldbergs.”

“Oooh,” Clara said. “The Feud.”

Sean snorted. “We call it ‘The Dispute,’ but yes, “The Feeeuud!” And you?”

“My agency handles Schattenglanz. I was working with Heidi on the Mother’s Day range.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Is that one of her pieces?”

Clara tugged the necklace forward. “Gift from Heidi following the success of the last campaign.”

The black diamond gleamed. She wondered how much it had gone up in value since Heidi’s death.

A comfortable silence settled. Clara glanced at Sean. He was handsome, just a few years older. Against her better judgement, she asked, “Do you mind me asking—”

“Did the Bauers steal the jewellery empire from the Goldbergs during the war, recreate their designs, and get rich off them while the Goldbergs watched helplessly, despite a wealth of evidence that the business was theirs before Heidi’s great‑grandfather; a senior Nazi, took it?” Sean said in one breath, still looking out the window. Then he turned back. “Or were you going to ask something else.”

Clara laughed. “I take it you get that a lot.”

“All the time. And the answer is always the same: that’s for the courts to decide. The other question is usually, ‘How do you sleep at night?’ And the answer is: like a baby. The pay helps.”

“So you do feel guilty. Good to know.” Clara grinned. “Honestly, I get those questions too. The Bauers picked a London agency because most Brits don’t know about the Feud. Even then, they struggled to recruit. I’m amoral, based in Ely, fully remote on London wages. I too sleep like a well‑paid baby.”

They shared a dry laugh.

—

A few weeks later, Clara was juggling her phone and the door of her favourite delicatessen, trying to text Sean back. They’d hooked up a few times since Germany, bonding over a shared love of Germany, Scandi noir, food and wine. He was coming up for the weekend. She wanted wine, cheese, chocolate. Supplies for not leaving the flat.

“Hi!” she called to the servers at the till.

Silence.

Hmm. Clara turned. Louisa and Eric, who she was on first name terms with, were staring at her, stone‑faced.

A spidery chill ran down Clara’s spine.

“Er — hi Eric. Hey Louisa.” She forced a smile. “How are you guys?”

“We are good,” Eric said, voice icy. “How are you?”

“I’m… fine?” Clara’s pulse quickened.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Eric said. “Isn’t that a relief, Louisa?”

“Huge relief,” Louisa said flatly.

Clara blinked. “Um… do we need to clear the air about something?”

The two exchanged a look.

“Nooooo,” Eric said, voice rising. “You can come in, not speak, sniff like a police dog, and break three bottles of wine without apologising, paying, or helping to pick them up ANYTIME YOU LIKE.”

Clara’s stomach dropped. “When… when was this?”

Another look between them, this one uneasy.

“Oh,” Eric said, softer now. “Was it not a memorable night for you too?”

“Please,” Clara whispered, panic rising. “When was this? And… what was I wearing?”

Louisa hesitated. Then, gently: “You must have been going somewhere nice; you were wearing a beautiful one‑shoulder green silk dress.”

Clara vomited all over the shop floor.

—

She cancelled Sean and fled to her parents’ house for the weekend. It didn’t help. On the mantelpiece sat a photo from her cousin’s wedding. In it, Clara was smiling in a one‑shoulder green silk dress, the Schattenglanz black diamond at her throat.

She quietly placed it in a drawer. Her parents didn’t comment, but their worried glances were suffocating. Clara barely spoke.

By Monday, she forced herself back to her flat. She moved through each room, gathering every photo she owned and shoving them into the hot press under a pile of towels. She couldn’t bear to see her own face anywhere.

Tea in hand, she sat at her laptop and tried to think logically.

This couldn’t be happening. Shouldn’t be happening. But it was. Wasn’t it?

Eric and Louisa had no reason to lie. And she had seen the Other Heidi with her own eyes.

Her phone rang, jolting her. Sean.

“Hey, you,” she said.

“How’s the patient?” he asked, as she’d faked a bug to avoid him.

They chatted briefly before Clara remembered something she’d read.

“Can I ask you something about Heidi?”

“Course. Shoot.”

“Were you at court the day there was an altercation outside?”

“I was. Security was usually tight, but someone slipped through and confronted her.”

“Was it one of the Goldbergs? The article didn’t say.”

“No. Someone sent by them.”

“How do you know? Couldn’t it have been a protester?”

Sean snorted. “No. She wasn’t Jewish. I thought she looked Romany.”

“Roman? Like Italian?”

Sean laughed. “Romany. Travellers. Another group the Nazis targeted. She was older, dressed like a cleaner. Told the police she was late for her shift. They only realised later there was a separate staff entrance.”

Clara scoffed. “Good disguise. Look old and insignificant. Use people’s bias against them.”

“Indeed. Why do you ask?”

Clara didn’t answer. Not truthfully. “Heidi wasn’t herself before she passed. I wondered if this had something to do with it.”

“Doubt it. She wasn’t hurt. Just furious.”

Clara thanked him and hung up.

She logged on to find an email from HR waiting in her inbox.

It was an invite to disciplinary investigation meeting. Oh shit, what now?

—

Clara sat opposite Ellen and Mike from HR, trying not to cry. Her hands twisted in her lap; her legs shook.

Mike cleared his throat. “So, to recap,” he said in his slow Canadian drawl, “your response to intern Michelle’s accusation that you ‘appeared in her garden after hours and peered through her window’ is… ‘It wasn’t you, it’s hard to explain, and could she tell you what you were wearing.’ Have I got that right?”

“Mmmhmm,” Clara managed.

Mike and Ellen exchanged a look.

“Clara,” Ellen said, leaning forward with a sigh. “We’ve worked together a long time. I know losing your dear friend Heidi has been hard.”

Heidi once asked if my work was so poor because I was trying to get fired or because I was mentally retarded, Clara thought. But sure. Dear friend.

Ellen continued, “You have two options. One: attend a disciplinary hearing and hope the disciplinary panel believes your version of events over Michelle’s and her flatmates’, who all say they saw you peeping through the window at them late at night. If the panel believe them, it’s blatant gross misconduct. You’d be dismissed without notice.”

Clara’s throat tightened.

“Or, option two…” Ellen said, lowering her voice, “you resign today. We put you on paid garden leave for your eight weeks’ notice. You’d get access to counselling and Michelle won’t feel obliged to report the incident to the police.”

Tears spilled down Clara’s cheeks.

“Do you understand your options?” Mike asked, peering over his glasses.

Clara swallowed. “Yes.”

“Take the day to think it over,” Ellen said, already standing.

Clara resigned that evening.

—

Without work to distract her, Clara unravelled fast.

No one from the agency contacted her. Not one message. Every time she thought of Michelle seeing “her” outside the flat, shame burned through her. God only knew what they were saying about her.

Clara stopped leaving the house. Tesco delivered everything. She ignored her friends. Ignored Sean. She had Gary’s number from the funeral trip but couldn’t bring herself to call and ask him questions. How could she put what was happening into words?

So, she bed‑rotted in her pyjamas, obsessively googling Heidi, doppelgängers, and Romany folklore. Most of it was nonsense, but occasionally she found something that resonated.

One man described years of “imposter sightings” until a psychic told him to find and destroy his “totem.” A totem being a small effigy binding the doppelgänger to him. He claimed a bitter relative had hidden one in his house following a will dispute. When he burned it, the sightings stopped.

The story lodged in Clara’s mind like a splinter.

She dove deeper into “The Feud.” The more she read, the worse she felt. It was obvious the jewellery business had been taken from the Goldbergs during the war. “Legally,” yes, but immorally. And Clara had happily worked on the account, blocked out the truth, and toed the party line.

She found photos from the late 1930s: a beautiful young Jewish woman wearing delicate gold‑and‑black‑diamond designs. Mathilde Goldberg. Debutante. Heiress. Dead in the camps.

Clara compared Mathilde’s photos to the glossy Schattenglanz campaigns she’d helped produce, with blonde, blue‑eyed starlets wearing almost identical pieces.

The irony made her sick.

Sleep came in fits. A few nights after her resignation, she clawed her way out of a sepia nightmare: Mathilde stalking toward her, black diamond in hand, shouting “Sieh!” over and over. Look. Clara jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

She needed water. A shower. A break. Anything.

She was staring at her open bedroom door, trying to gather the strength to move, when she heard it.

A slow, deep breath in.

From the living room.

Clara froze.

A long exhale followed.

It’s here.

She crept to the door and closed it as quietly as she could, sinking to the floor. Third floor flat. No escape.

Silence.

She pressed her ear to the door. Nothing.

She forced herself to breathe the way her therapist taught her; in for four, out for four.

As she inhaled, she heard it: a deep, slow breath on the other side of the door, perfectly matching hers.

Clara squealed and clamped a hand over her mouth.

Light taps followed — fingers drumming on the flimsy wood.

“Claaaarrrraaa…” A whisper so soft she could almost pretend she imagined it.

Another breath, right against the door.

“Did you scream, Claaaarrraaaa?”

Something snapped in Clara. She pounded on the door.

“LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVEMEALONE!”

A muffled voice yelled from the flat below. Clara screamed louder.

She was still screaming when the police broke down her door and found her curled on the bedroom floor, utterly distraught.

A few days later, back at her parents’ house, Clara was trapped in another nightmare. This time locked in Gary’s arms. She twisted, but he held her too tightly. She couldn’t breathe.

“Mind if I hug you? Mind if I hug you? Mind if I hug you?” he repeated in a flat, mechanical voice.

Clara jolted awake in her childhood bedroom, heart racing.

And suddenly, everything clicked.

Fucking Gary.

—

Two days later, Clara was back in her flat. Alone. Her parents, GP, and shiny new therapist had all begged her not to go.

“You’re not ready,” they’d said. “Think of the stress! Losing your job, losing your close friend.”

Heidi once asked if I’d slept with my lecturers to pass my degree, Clara thought. But sure. Close friend.

It didn’t matter. Clara was on a mission.

She checked every room before stepping fully inside. Memories of the Other Heidi clawed at her, but she pushed them down. She went straight to her wardrobe and pulled out the black tweed dress she’d worn to the funeral. The one Gary had hugged her in.

Her fingers found the bulge in the pocket.

A small carved wooden figure of a woman.

Gotcha.

—

In the Black Forest, Gary was staring at his phone on his patio when his phone rang. Clara’s name flashed on the screen.

“Shit!” he yelped, scrambling to get inside.

“Shit indeed, Gary mate,” Clara said.

Gary spun. Clara stood between him and the back door.

Gary let out a strangled scream and grabbed the nearest weapon — BBQ tongs. “GET AWAY FROM ME!”

“It’s me!” Clara shouted, backing up. “It’s really me!”

“SHOW ME YOUR TEETH!!” Gary roared, looking utterly demented.

Jesus Christ, Clara had not thought this through! She bared her teeth, feeling like an idiot.

Gary sagged, clutching his chest. “Don’t… do that. I nearly brained you…”

Clara folded her arms. “We need to talk.”

Gary looked like a trapped weasel. “Elise is inside. Let me put her to bed. Drinks are in the outdoor bar. I’ll be right back.”

Clara nodded. He vanished indoors.

She opened the fridge. Rows of chilled rosé and soft drinks made her realise how thirsty she was. She’d just lifted a bottle when a car engine roared to life.

“Oh, motherfucker,” she hissed, sprinting around the house just in time to see a black Range Rover tear down the drive.

“NOOOO!” Clara ran after it, tears streaming. “COME BACK!”

She collapsed to her knees. She’d come all this way for nothing.

The front door hung open. Gary had fled in such a panic he hadn’t even closed it. Clara shut it gently, then walked back to the patio.

Her handbag sat on the picnic table. She reached in and pulled out the wooden figurine. It was a beautiful, if sinister piece of craftmanship.

The sun slipped behind a cloud. The treeline darkened. The image of the Other Heidi flashed in her mind. Mouth too wide, teeth too sharp.

She couldn’t live like this.

She spotted bags of charcoal stacked in the corner. She grabbed one, dropped it into the BBQ, and lit it. Flames rose quickly. When the coals were blazing, she used the tongs to place the figurine on top, then lowered the lid.

For the first time in weeks, Clara felt lighter.

—

Driving back to the airport, Clara passed the little flower shop from the funeral trip. On impulse, she pulled in. Inside, the same woman stood behind the counter, thankfully alone this time.

“Halo,” Clara said.

The woman looked startled. “Halo.”

In German, Clara asked if she remembered her.

The woman nodded slowly.

“Last time I was here,” Clara said, “your friend told me to watch out for ‘the Other who looks like Another.’ Please. Tell me what you know.”

The woman studied her, then nodded. “Let me close up.”

She guided Clara to a small seating area outside, set a cold drink in front of her, and spent a few minutes locking the shop. When she finally sat beside Clara, her voice was gentle. “Tell me everything that’s happened to you. Leave nothing out.”

Clara did. All of it. The first sighting of the “Other Heidi”, the heart‑attack that didn’t feel real, Heidi’s funeral, the wine shop sighting, Michelle’s accusation, the presence in her flat, and finally finding and burning the totem. By the time she finished, she was shaking and exhausted.

The woman rested a hand on her arm. “Do you understand that it’s a curse?”

Clara shook her head.

The woman sighed. “The Other Heidi you saw, she was spotted here too. Like Heidi, but… wrong. A family on a boat were stalked by her on the lake. They almost believed she was real until she smiled. They raised the alarm. We have many old legends of ‘Others who look like Another.’ ‘Doppelgängers’ to some. They go by many names.”

“Where do they come from?” Clara whispered.

“They are used as a last resort. An ancient rule. Only when all else has failed can someone curse a family with an Other.”

“The trial,” Clara said. “It was ending.”

“Exactly.”

“So… the Goldbergs?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. The Bauers had many enemies. And very few know the old ways well enough to invoke such a curse. It is never cast for one person alone. It stalks all it believes have done wrong. And the curse is not just death.”

Clara’s breath caught. “It isn’t?”

The woman shook her head. “It begins with destruction. Reputation. Loss of sanity. Loss of loved ones, or whatever you hold dear. Sometimes the curse is to keep living after it’s finished with you.”

Clara’s mind reeled. She’d lost her job, her boyfriend, almost her mind. Heidi had lost her family before she died. How could she fight something like this?

“The totem,” Clara said desperately. “If that’s how it followed me… now that it’s gone, am I free?”

“If that was indeed how it found you,” the woman said softly, “then yes.”

Clara exhaled, shoulders sagging. “Thank you.”

The woman patted her hand, her expression sad. They exchanged a few pleasantries before Clara returned to her car. As the shop faded in her rear‑view mirror, she realised she hadn’t even asked the woman’s name.

Still, maybe things could change now.

—

A few weeks passed, and things had improved for Clara. She was temping in a local marketing department. A less glamorous role than her old job, but she loved it. She’d reconnected with Sean, who was staying for the weekend.

And best of all, no one had reported seeing “Clara” anywhere she hadn’t been. Hallelujah!

She called Sean to the table. She’d made risotto with olive ciabatta and a green salad. Sean poured Tesco wine. She still couldn’t face her local deli after that incident. They ate and chatted easily.

After a lull, Clara asked, “Any news with the Bauers?”

“Work talk? Really?” Sean groaned.

“Oh, come on. I’m curious.”

He sighed. “You know they won the final appeal.”

Clara nodded.

“They’re discontinuing Schattenglanz,” he continued. “Public opinion’s a mess. They’re selling off the stock and donating the profits to a Jewish charity. Smart move, given… everything.”

Clara had guessed as much. It wasn’t what she really wanted to know. “What about Gary and Elise?”

Sean narrowed his eyes. “Elise is with her grandparents.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Gary had a breakdown. Heidi’s death nearly finished him.” Sean held her gaze. “But I think you already knew that.”

Clara forced a smile. “I follow the news. Was it just grief?”

“Can you think of another reason?”

Yep. One with razor‑sharp teeth.

“No,” she said lightly. “And you’re right. No more work talk.”

“No more talking at all sounds good to me,” Sean grinned.

Clara laughed. “I’m going for a shower. You do the dishes.”

“Slave driver,” he muttered, but got up.

Clara showered, shaved, moisturised, and shook out her hair. She checked her reflection, ready to call Sean—

“Oh wow!” Sean shouted from the living room. “You look amazing!”

Clara’s blood ran cold. She gripped the chest of drawers to stay upright.

“Are we going out? You should have said, I haven’t pack— AAAAAAHHHH OH MY GOD!”

Clara stumbled into the hallway just as Sean burst into it, doing an almost comical double take at the sight of her… wrapped in a towel, very much not in the living room.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” he roared.

Clara could barely speak. “Run,” she croaked.

Sean didn’t hesitate. He flung open the front door and sprinted down the corridor, screaming.

“Claaaarraaaa…”

The call was melodic. Hypnotic. Clara forced herself upright. In the mirror, her eyes caught on the black diamond necklace. She closed her eyes. Of course, Heidi’s gift. Her fingers rose to it, trembling.

Her bedroom door eased open.

Mathilde stood there, wearing Clara’s green bridesmaid dress and the Schattenglanz necklace, gleaming at her throat. She touched it lightly. “Beautiful, isn’t it, Clara? My father’s proudest design.”

“I’m sorry,” Clara whispered.

Mathilde stepped forward and shimmered into Heidi, still in the green dress, still wearing the necklace. “Are you snivelling, Clara?” she asked coldly. “I don’t care for snivellers.”

Other Heidi smiled, revealing the too‑wide mouth, the nightmare teeth.

“Please,” Clara begged. “Please don’t hurt me.”

Another shimmer and Clara found herself staring at her own face. Other Clara smiled, a full shark’s grin.

“Why should we show you mercy, Clara? Do you deserve it?”

Clara tore her gaze to the mirror. In the reflection a crone stood in front of her. Ancient, clawed and razor‑toothed. The Other’s true form. Clara swallowed hard.

“No. I don’t deserve mercy. But I beg you. Please.”

The Other Clara shimmered back into Mathilde.

“No one showed me mercy,” Mathilde said softly. “In the camps, we had nothing left. Nothing to bargain with.”

Clara forced herself to meet her eyes.

Mathilde shimmered once more, returning to the crone.

“I think that belongs to us,” she said, reaching a clawed hand to the necklace.