The first time Liam heard it, he thought he was talking to himself.
He was in his room, playing with his toy cars, when he heard a voice whisper his name.
"Liam."
He looked up.
No one was there.
The house was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Mom was in the kitchen. Dad wouldn't be home until later.
He went back to his toys.
"Liam," the voice said again.
This time, he froze.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't scary. But something about it was… wrong. It sounded like him.
Like when he talked to himself in the bathroom mirror.
But he hadn't spoken.
Liam sat perfectly still, gripping a little red car in his hand.
"Hello?" he whispered.
Silence.
For a moment, he thought he imagined it.
Then—
"I can hear you," the voice whispered back.
Liam scrambled to his feet and ran straight to the kitchen.
Mom looked up from her book. "What's wrong?"
"There's someone in my room," he said, heart pounding.
She frowned and wiped her hands on a towel. "What do you mean?"
"I heard it. It—it sounded like me."
Mom sighed, walked him back, and checked the room.
Nothing.
No one under the bed. No one in the closet. Just his stuffed animals, his toys, and the half-open window letting in the cool afternoon air.
"It was probably the wind," Mom said. "Or maybe you were thinking out loud."
Liam wanted to argue, but he didn't. Grown-ups never believed things like this.
That night, as he lay in bed, the voice came again.
"Are you asleep?"
Liam's eyes flew open.
The voice wasn't coming from inside his head.
It was coming from under the bed.
He yanked the covers up to his chin, forcing himself to stay still.
The voice giggled.
"Why are you scared?" it whispered. "I'm you."
Liam squeezed his eyes shut.
The bed creaked.
Something was moving underneath.
The voice whispered again, softer this time.
"You don't have to be afraid. I just want to come out."
Liam's breathing went shallow. He reached toward the lamp, fingers shaking, and switched it on. The glow filled the room.
Silence.
He slowly leaned over the side of the bed and looked down.
Nothing.
But when he sat back up—
He saw himself.
Standing in the doorway.
Liam stared, his body turning ice cold.
It was him. Same pajamas. Same messy brown hair. Same wide, terrified eyes.
But it wasn't him.
The other Liam tilted his head, smiling just a little too wide.
"You left the closet open," it said.
Liam turned his head toward the closet.
The door was open just an inch.
When he looked back—
The other Liam was gone.
Liam didn't sleep that night.
He told his parents the next morning, but they brushed it off. Nightmares. Imagination. The usual things grown-ups said.
He tried to forget.
But then, small things started happening.
His toys weren't where he left them. His shoes were missing in the morning, only to turn up in strange places—inside the fridge, under the sink, buried in the backyard.
And then, one evening, he heard his mother calling him.
"Liam, dinner!"
He ran downstairs—only to freeze halfway.
Mom was still in the kitchen. She hadn't called him.
The voice had come from upstairs.
From his room.
"Liam?" Mom looked up. "You okay?"
He didn't answer.
Because he could hear it again.
A soft giggle.
And then, his own voice whispering from the dark hallway—
"Mom can't tell us apart."