Changelings
by James A. Ford
Richard Lipton took a sip of beer before looking at his close friend Peter Grund on the other side of the white plastic patio table. Peter sat leaning forward on the table, his large hands fidgeting with a metal beer cap.
A bottle of beer was perched on a sweat ring of moisture on the table top in front of him. A large blue and white umbrella sprouted from a hole in the centre of their table providing valuable shade from the blazing sun. The waitress had left the bill ten minutes ago and hadn’t appeared since, apparently she hadn’t thought they looked much like drinkers.
After another moment Richard spoke. “Peter, you are telling me that I am actually somebody else.” He shook his head slightly in disbelief and stared unblinking at his smaller, bald-headed friend. In the sunlight, Peter’s professorial eyes gave the truthful impression that he spent most of his life indoors.
“In a way Richard, yes. I cannot say you are somebody else, but I can say you are definitely not the person you were nine years ago.” Peter clicked his beer bottle against his friend’s.
Richard winked. “Nobody is the person they were nine years ago.”
“Ain’t it the truth?” Peter smiled. “But I mean it quite literally.”
“I guess I still don’t really understand it, Peter.”
Before he responded, Peter glanced around the restaurant patio. It was almost empty despite the sunny July afternoon. No one was close enough to hear their conversation.
“Well, it is quite simple - all the cells in your body replace themselves completely every nine years.”
“You’re serious.” Richard said and took a long pull on his beer.
“Oh yes, it is a scientific fact,” Peter answered. He took a quick sip from his bottle and continued. “My lab is doing research into the phenomenon as we speak.”
“Where do they go?” Richard asked.
“Where do who go?” Peter asked.
“The cells, Peter, the ones that are replaced, where do they go?”
“Oh, well, they get absorbed, or digested by the body. Cells on the outside just fall off...” Peter stopped in mid-sentence, seeing Richard waving a finger at him in excitement.
“Yes, Peter, that’s right. I actually heard that ninety percent of household dust is dead skin cells.”
“Exactly,” Peter said and finished his beer, wiping his beard with the back of his hand.
The two sat in silence for a moment enjoying the sun. Then Richard spoke. “Are they all dead when they get replaced? The cells, I mean?”
“Good question. Some, but not all. Many reach a point where new cells can function more efficiently so they are not actually dead when absorbed.”
“So it’s like... like another me is out there?” Richard asked.
Peter chuckled. “I wouldn’t go as far as that Richard, but there is a definite trail of your former self out there in the environment. Soon after leaving your body, the cells would die if they’re alive when replaced. Skin becomes dust; internal cells from your leg bone, or heart or brain, for instance, would all be excreted in your...”
“Yeah, I get the picture, Peter; thanks for that.”
The two men dropped their money on the table and stood to go.
“Ouch!” Peter said and jerked his hand up from the table.
“What happened?”Richard asked.
“Look at that! Son of a...” Peter held up his hand, the skin on the palm was scraped and a slight welt of blood could be seen just under the skin. The two men looked down at the table. The beer cap lay on its back on the table like a flipped over turtle.
“I must have driven my hand onto the ridges when I stood up. Stupid,” Peter said, still examining his hand.
“You should sue them, you know,” Richard said, pointing his chin toward the restaurant, feigning seriousness.
“I’m sure I’ll live,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.
That night Richard had trouble sleeping. He tossed and turned for a while and then just lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, thinking.
After his discussion with Peter, Richard couldn’t shake the absurd but disquieting notion: what if all those cells, all the cells replaced in his body over the past years had somehow formed into, or reformed into... another Richard.
Absurd. Patently.
But what if... he thought. Wouldn’t that other self fit quite nicely into my life/ My life, which was actually its life once as well. Weird. He lay staring at the ceiling for another hour thinking the thoughts of a late-night insomniac. Then gradually his eyes closed and he finally fell asleep.
Soon after his first snore there was a creaking on the stairs leading up to his bedroom. A moment later a shadow appeared outside his room.
* * *
Three days later Peter ran into his friend Richard on the street. This walk was Peter’s daily route leading to his university research lab; it seemed that Richard had lain in wait.
“Peter, I need your help,” Richard said as he emerged from a doorway. It had rained all morning and Peter’s umbrella was riding low, fighting a headwind. It partly blocked his view, preventing him from seeing Richard until his friend had spoken.
“Richard! Hello... my help? Yes, yes, of course. What’s wrong?” Peter replied, somewhat startled. He tried to share his umbrella, but Richard was too tall. Peter noticed his friend was wrapped in a long, hooded rain slicker that made him look like an ancient druid.
“I have to show you something,” Richard said, then turned and moved rapidly down the sidewalk. Peter shrugged and started off after him. Richard seemed highly agitated, and there was something else, something about him that was out of place, but Peter couldn’t quite pin it down.
Richard’s house was near the main street of the town and they arrived after a brisk two-minute walk. Peter followed Richard through the house. He found it very strange that Richard, a certified clean freak, had made no attempt to remove his boots or indicate that Peter should either, and tramped down the basement stairs with his wet rubbers on. This must be important, Peter thought.
Richard led Peter to the basement and a large storage box in the furnace room. The lighting was poor and long strands of white cobwebs crisscrossed the ceiling.
“Richard, what is this all about?”
“Peter, all the stuff we discussed on the patio the other day was true.”
“Of course it was, but wha—”
“Listen to me, Peter,” Richard interrupted.
In the semi-light, Richard’s eyes looked hollow, and sunken, and deadly serious.
“What is it, Richard?” Peter asked. He willed himself to remain calm. “Why have you brought me here. What is in the box?”
Richard stared at Peter for a moment as if trying to decide something, then he stepped closer. “Let me see your hand, Peter, the one you injured on the beer cap the other day.”
“What are you talking about, what...” Peter protested, but Richard the much larger and stronger man reached out and took hold of Peter’s right hand. He held it firmly and moved it under the light of the one dim bulb so as to see it clearly.
“Peter, you scraped your hand on the beer cap the other day, at the restaurant patio. Remember?” He examined Peter’s hand. A purplish welt stood out on the palm in a small circle. Richard blew out a sigh of relief.
“It’s you, Peter. Thank God, “ he said, and shook the hand he had been examining.
Peter stared in disbelief. Was his friend having some sort of breakdown?
“Of course it’s me. Who else?”
Richard smiled his broad smile and winked at his friend. “Peter, Remember our discussion that day?”
Peter nodded agreement.
“I was troubled afterwards, and couldn’t sleep till late. I awoke in a semi-sleep at around three a.m. Something had made a noise, something was in my house.”
“What was it?” Peter asked. “An intruder, a burglar?”
“I’ll get to that,” Richard answered, leaning both hands on the large brown storage box. “Anyway, I took a deep breath and slipped out of bed without a sound. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep under my bed and slowly moved toward the upstairs hallway.
“The intruder was standing just outside my doorway. I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, but he immediately raised his arms and started moving toward me. I never even had time to think. I swung the bat hard and planted it right alongside the man’s skull. He immediately dropped and didn’t move again.”
“My God... You killed him. He’s dead.”
“Yes, Peter, he is.”
“For God’s sake Richard, who was it?”
“You, Peter. It was you.” As Richard said those words he lifted the lid of the storage box.
Peter gasped as he saw himself lying dead in the box.
* * *
Peter Grund had only been able to look at himself in the box for a minute. It was beyond strange seeing himself lying dead, and yet his practised eye could see some differences: The body, besides not having any bruise on its hand also appeared to be a younger version: less gray in the hair and even less wrinkles around the eyes. The examination, even though cursory, quickly became too much for Peter and he shut the lid.
Even though the two men were in a closed room in the basement and no one else was around, they found they spoke in quiet voices.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it,” Peter said, shaking his head slightly. “What an incredible discovery.”
“Discovery?”
“Well, yes, Richard, you have discovered something quite profound.”
“Peter, think a moment: do you really believe this has only happened once?”
“No. No, I think it may be an ongoing phenomenon occurring fairly often.”
“Exactly, Peter, over the long history of mankind I would think that even if whatever conditions needed are extremely rare, it could still have happened thousands, perhaps millions of times. I mean, countless billions have been born, lived and died, right? There would be plenty of opportunities.”
“Well conceivably, yes. But what are you getting at, Richard?”
“It hasn’t come to light before because the double... the former self, almost always wins. It surprises the current self and then gets rid of it and takes over the life once again. After all, it should know almost everything except perhaps for very recent events.”
“Yes, yes... that makes sense,” Peter said and then thought for a moment and added: “Richard, why do you think my double came to your house. I mean if it wanted to kill me and take my place again, why come here?”
“I haven’t come up with an answer for that one yet. Maybe it thought you might be here; you visit a lot. We spend a lot of time together.”
“Maybe, Richard, maybe, but I’m not usually here at three in the morning.”
“You were last Friday. You had too many beers and slept on the living room couch. Remember?”
“Yes, you’re right,” Peter admitted. “But maybe there is more to it.”
“Meaning?” Richard asked.
“Perhaps they don’t know they’re imposters.”
“Peter, that is very good. Perhaps the other you was simply coming to visit me,” Richard said and then added, “Peter, don’t ever come visit me at three in the morning again. Thanks.”
“Technically, I never have. Richard, how did it get in at that time of night?”
“It knew where the spare key was hidden. It knew what you know.”
“Amazing,” Peter said. “Well, our next move is to alert the authorities. But first I want to call my lab. They are not going to believe this.”
* * *
The two friends moved up the stairs and out of the basement into the clearer light of the first floor. The sun was out now and the rain was drying in the summer heat. Richard had removed his hood and was taking off his slicker raincoat.
Peter suddenly snickered to himself.
Richard turned to him. “What?” he asked.
“When did you decide to start coloring your hair again, Richard?” Peter said as he moved toward the phone on the kitchen wall to notify his lab. “Vanity too much for your will power?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your hair. You haven’t colored it in over a year. Remember you swore you would never color it again. You said that you believed women liked you better with it grey.”
“I haven’t colored... Oh... Oh my God! It can’t be?!” Richard said as he stared into the hall mirror.
Peter suddenly understood. The phone dropped from his hand.
Copyright © 2011 by James A. Ford
