THE DOPPELGÄNGER: THE CYCLIST IN THE YORKSHIRE MIST

I had just turned twenty.

Working as a laborer at a derelict sawmill on the outskirts of Yorkshire, England.

Every evening after my shift, I cycled home along a lonely, desolate trail.

The road meandered past barren moors and ancient, gnarled oak trees.

There was a stretch of road there called Black Hill.

It wasn’t too high, but steep enough to leave you breathless on the way up and shivering on the way down.






That day, the sea fret rolled in, thick and frigid.

Dark clouds choked the sky; the wind shrieked through dry branches like a mourner’s wail.

I hunched over my handlebars, pedaling up the slope.

I murmured a Queen track under my breath to drown out the terrifying silence.

Just as I reached the summit, my heart nearly leapt out of my chest.

A man was cycling toward me, looming out of the fog.

He wore the exact same outfit: a faded denim jacket, worn jeans, and scuffed leather boots.

But the most horrific part was the Tweed flat cap—identical to the one on my head.

He had pulled it down low, covering his eyes.

I could only see a sharp chin and pale, bloodless lips.

As our bikes passed, a sound erupted that froze the blood in my veins.

A low, drawn-out chuckle.

It was raspy, like the sound of rusted metal dragging across a paved road.

I slammed on my brakes and spun around.

But the man had vanished into the white shroud, leaving not a single trace.

That night, I returned to my small flat with a gnawing sense of dread.

As I stood before the bathroom mirror to wash my face, I froze.

The reflection in the glass was smiling.

But my own facial muscles were completely motionless.

The grin in the mirror was distorted, stretching unnaturally toward the ears.

The lips were dark, peeling like the skin of a rotting corpse.

I screamed and recoiled.

Seconds later, the reflection returned to normal, leaving only my own ashen face staring back.

From that night on, my home was no longer a sanctuary.

Every night, the crunch of bicycle tires on the gravel outside echoed rhythmically.

Even though I knew for a fact that no one traveled this road at two in the morning.

Once, I gathered the courage to crack open the window.

Beneath the old oak tree, a figure stood perfectly still.

He wore my clothes. He wore my cap.

And he was baring yellowed teeth, grinning at me through the dark.

I told the story to my grandfather, an old highlander and a seasoned hunter.

His face turned ghostly pale; he gripped my shoulders with trembling hands.

"You’ve seen The Fetch, boy," he whispered.

He told me it was a shadow entity from British folklore.

It only appears when a person’s luck has run dry, or when death is looming.

It copies the form, the clothes, and even the breath of its victim.

Its sole purpose is to swap souls.

It haunts you, siphoning your life force until the real person withers away.

And then, it will walk into your house, living your life while the world remains none the wiser.

The next morning, the true horror began.

On the wooden floor, I found dark footprints leading from the door to my bed.

The boot size, the gait... they matched mine perfectly.

But they reeked of the rank, cloying mud of a graveyard.

I scrubbed them with a brush until my knuckles bled, but the stains seemed to grow from the grain of the wood.

By noon they would vanish, but by nightfall, they returned in greater numbers.

One night, I bolted awake to a freezing breath ghosting against the nape of my neck.

A raspy, giggling whisper sounded right against my ear.

I fumbled for the bedside lamp and flicked it on. The room was empty.

But in the large mirror in the corner, the figure appeared again.

He wasn't just standing in the glass anymore.

He was slowly stepping out of the silvered surface.

A grey, bruised hand reached toward me.

He grinned—a smile devoid of any humanity.

I feel myself wasting away; my eyes are sunken, my skin a sickly grey.

The neighbors look at me with terror in their eyes, whispering that I look like a ghost drifting through the fog.

This morning, I found an upturned plate on the dining table.

Beneath it lay a pool of thick, black water that smelled of the grave.

The moment I touched the plate, my own laugh echoed from behind me.

I turned, but saw only my shadow on the wall.

The shadow did not move with me.

It was calmly placing a flat cap on its head, watching me with pure mockery.

I know now... my time is running out.

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