Stolen Skin

"Do you know what it means to steal someone's fate?"

She wears the same clothes as you. Eats the same food. Sleeps in your bed.
Eventually, she becomes you.

Everyone has that one cousin. The kind who worships you when your family's doing well, then treats you like garbage when you're not.

Mine was named Chloe.

A year ago, when my family was still wealthy, Chloe practically lived in my shadow. She begged for my old Chanel bags and tagged along on every vacation like a lost puppy. I hated it—but she was family, so I put up with her.

Things changed when I got accepted into a graduate program in London. Chloe wanted me to take her with me. I refused—she wasn't my responsibility, and I knew she couldn't handle life overseas.

She threw a tantrum, then stormed off. We didn't hear from her all day. That night, her mother called me in a panic—Chloe hadn't come home.

She was missing.

We searched everywhere—malls, parks, old hangouts. Nothing. She'd simply vanished.

Three months later, the police in a remote town in Colorado called.

They'd found her in the mountains—half-naked, her body scraped and bruised from thorns, curled up inside an abandoned cabin. A pair of lost hikers had stumbled across her just in time—otherwise, she would have frozen to death.

I flew out to see her. She hadn't regained consciousness yet.

The doctors said her brain had suffered some kind of trauma. She might never wake up.

I stared at her sunken cheeks, her limp limbs, the colorless shell of the girl who used to be my closest friend. We'd grown up like sisters—inseparable. People used to ask if we were twins.

I held her cold hand and whispered, "If you wake up... I'll give you anything. I promise."

That's when her eyes snapped open.

And the look she gave me chilled me to the bone.

Her voice was raspy but filled with a strange intensity.

"I finally got it," she whispered.

"...Got what?"

Before I could react, her nails dug deep into my arm, breaking skin. Nurses rushed in and pulled her off me. I staggered out into the hallway, bleeding.

Still shaking, I peered through the window into her room.

She lay there, motionless. Alone. Her skin had turned a sickly gray, her eyes sunken and wild. She looked less like a patient—and more like a mannequin. A funeral doll carved from ash.

Her lips moved soundlessly, over and over again.

I got it.
I got it.
I got it.

I couldn't hear her voice, but the words echoed in my skull like a curse. My ears rang, and a rancid smell filled the hallway—sour, rotting, like something dead had been dragged through incense.

Then it vanished.

I told myself it was my imagination—just trauma and guilt playing tricks on me.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

After she was discharged from the hospital, Chloe changed.

Everyone noticed it.

My parents, who used to complain about her being too loud or spoiled, now praised how "calm" and "sweet" she'd become. She rarely spoke unless spoken to. She spent most of her time either studying or sketching quietly beside me.

But something about her felt... wrong.

Off.

She started copying everything I wore. Same coat, same shoes. Even my engagement ring—she bought a cheap imitation to match mine.

When we walked down the street, strangers asked if we were twins.

Tonight was my mom's birthday. Like every year, our relatives were coming over for a big family dinner. Chloe, of course, would be there.

But this time, she was different.

She greeted every guest at the door, poured tea, served appetizers. Then she went into the kitchen to help cook—something she'd never done before. She was more helpful than me, her own cousin, the birthday girl's daughter.

At first, I didn't mind. It meant I could relax.

When my fiancé arrived with a few gifts, I pulled him aside to sit on the couch.

"I've been thinking," I said, half-nervous, half-excited. "What if we get married before I leave for London?"

He smiled, surprised but happy.

We were still deciding between a beach ceremony and a garden wedding when my mom emerged from the kitchen, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"Anna, go help out in there, would you? Your cousin's been doing everything by herself!"

I blinked.

"...You mean Chloe?"

My mom looked confused, then laughed awkwardly. "Oh my goodness—of course! I thought it was you! You two look so alike these days I got mixed up."

When I entered the kitchen, my stomach dropped.

Chloe had changed clothes. She was now wearing the exact same outfit as me.

I had picked this blouse specifically to avoid matching her. It was brand new.

I stood beside her and peeled garlic. Trying to brush it off, I joked, "My mom just mistook you for me. She thought you were in here cooking."

Chloe smiled slightly, eyes fixed on the frying pan. "Then maybe we should switch places, Anna."

Her voice was soft. Almost too soft.

I tried to laugh, but it came out awkward and forced.

Every now and then, she'd glance sideways at me. When I turned to catch her, she quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the stir-fry.

It was unsettling.

Later, I stepped out to greet more guests and nearly bumped into my dad.

He handed me a bag of lobsters with a grin. "Chloe! I got your favorite. There'll be leftovers for you to take home."

I froze. "Dad... It's me."

He looked confused. "You...? Oh! Right. My mistake. You and Chloe—too alike these days, honestly."

It wasn't just the face. Or the clothes.
It was everything.
The tone, the posture, the way she tilted her head.
The way she smiled just like I used to.

That night, Chloe didn't leave.

She stayed over at our house.

When I went to my room to change, I found she had already placed a matching set of pajamas on the bed—identical to mine.

Something inside me snapped.

I confronted her.

"What happened in Colorado, Chloe? What really happened to you out there?"

She looked at me, blinking slowly. "I'm not sure. That time feels like a dream."

She sat down beside me.

"Anna, I've always envied you. Ever since we were kids. I used to wish—wish I could be you."

I sat at my vanity, removing my makeup. I thought she was still sulking about the whole study abroad thing.

But behind me, the room was silent.

Too silent.

I called her name once. Twice.

Nothing.

Not even the sound of breathing.

I turned around slowly.

Chloe was still lying there, eyes wide open, staring blankly.

Her skin had lost all color. Her limbs were rigid.

She looked like a corpse.

A moth had flown in through the open window, landing on her cheek. She didn't blink.

The moth crawled to her lips—slightly parted—and slipped inside.

She didn't react.

It was like watching a horror film in slow motion.

Then the moth flew out.

Still nothing.

I stepped closer, heart pounding. Reached out, trembling, to check for breath.

Cold.

No pulse.

Her skin felt like wax. Her fingertips already turning blue.

Suddenly, her eyelids twitched.

Her head lolled to the side—unnaturally, like there were no bones holding it up. It landed on my hand with a thud.

Then she spoke.

"What are you doing?"

The voice was sharp. Metallic.

"I'm in your bed now.
You'll have nothing left."

"I'm not crazy! She's not even alive!" I screamed.

But no one believed me.

After what happened at Mom's birthday, everything spiraled out of control. People said I had attacked Chloe for no reason. That I was unstable. Dangerous.

My parents agreed to take me for a psychiatric evaluation.

I couldn't stay in the same room as her.
Not when she watched me sleep.
Not when I could feel her breath beside me even though she didn't move.

Every time I tried to explain, Chloe played the victim.

"If you don't like me dressing like you, just say so," she'd say softly, eyes filled with tears.

Everyone believed her.

They looked at me like I was insane.

But I knew what I saw.

That night, I locked myself in another room. The darkness whispered. I swore there were eyes on me—always watching, waiting for me to let my guard down.

The hospital tests came back clean.

No hallucinations. No mental illness. Just "stress-induced paranoia," they said. Gave me sleeping pills and sent me home.

Chloe stayed away for a while. I focused on school. My wedding plans. I barely saw my fiancé.

Then came the fitting day.

The boutique was supposed to have my custom wedding dress ready.

But when I arrived, they looked confused.

"Excuse me," said the saleswoman. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I'm Anna," I replied. "The dress is under my name."

Her expression changed. "Oh! Yes. Sorry—we thought you'd arrived already."

My heart skipped.

I walked past her.

Inside, my fiancé was talking with my parents. He looked nervous, constantly checking his watch.

I rushed over, arms outstretched. "Surprise! I'm here early!"

He stared at me like I was a stranger.

"Anna...?"

And then the fitting room door opened.

Chloe stepped out.

Wearing my dress.

My custom-made wedding dress.

She smiled at him.

"Do you like it?"

He blushed. "You look... amazing."

My father wiped away a tear. "I always dreamed of seeing my daughter in white."

"Dad?" I gasped. "She's not your daughter."

No one listened.

They told me I was being dramatic. Emotional.

When I lashed out—slapped her, tried to tear the dress—they pulled me away like I was the villain.

Chloe cried into my mother's arms.

"She hates me for looking like her..."

My parents consoled her.

"She's just stressed, sweetheart. She doesn't mean it."

And then they made the decision.

They would have me committed.

The psychiatric facility smelled like disinfectant and despair.

My parents said I'd "get better" here.

That it was just "rest and observation."

They didn't even stay ten minutes after signing the papers.

My room was white. Blank. Sterile.

Every night, I stared at the ceiling vent, wondering when she'd come.

Not if—when.

And she did.

On the fourth night.

The nurses had just done their rounds. I heard the hallway door hiss shut.

Then—

The lights flickered.

I sat up. "Who's there?"

No answer.

But I could smell her.

Her perfume. The exact brand I used to wear.

My door creaked open.

She stepped in, barefoot, her steps soundless.

Dressed in white. Wearing my face. Wearing my life.

"Don't worry," she whispered. "This is just temporary."

I lunged at her.

But she didn't fight back.

She just stood there, smiling.

When the nurses rushed in, they found me alone.

Screaming. Clawing at my own reflection in the window.

"She was here! She was right there!"

They injected me with something. Cold and sleep-inducing.

That night, I dreamed of oil.

Thick, black, clinging oil. Poured over a doll made of wax and bone.

And someone—something—whispered:

"If you hollow something out long enough...
...it can be filled again."

A nurse wheeled in a tray.

Breakfast.

Except the eggs weren't warm. The toast was cold.

There was a strange scent in the room.

Like wax.

Like something burned.

I looked up.

A new nurse today.

She didn't smile.

Just stood by the door, staring.

Later, I realized—

I never heard her leave.

The dreams got worse.

I was back in the mountains. Naked, half-buried in earth, roots twisting through my limbs like veins.

My body wasn't mine.

It was hers.

I tried to scream, but my mouth was sewn shut.

Then—voices.

People chanting in a language I didn't understand.

They poured hot oil over me.

No—

Not oil.

Something thicker.

Something dead.

It burned.

It soaked into my skin.

Then I felt her.

Inside me.

A heartbeat that wasn't mine.
A breath that didn't belong.
A laugh that echoed from behind my eyes.

When I woke, my fingernails were black.

I tried to wash them.

They wouldn't come clean.

They released me weeks later.

"Recovered," the report said.

But the house wasn't mine anymore.

My room was hers.

My dog wagged its tail at her voice.

My fiancé?

He called me Chloe by mistake.

More than once.

One day, I came home and found my mother teaching Chloe how to cook my favorite childhood meal.

She didn't look up. Just smiled.

"Welcome home."

I stood there, numb.

My mother didn't even flinch.

"I invited Chloe to stay for a while," she said.

"She's such a comfort. Almost like you—only better."

I started sleeping with a knife under my pillow.

At night, I'd hear footsteps outside my door.

Sometimes I found hair in the drain that wasn't mine.

Sometimes...
I caught glimpses of her in mirrors.
Even when she wasn't there.

I found an old book in a locked drawer in my father's study.

Occult rituals. Folk curses.
And something called "soul transference."

If a soul is weak enough...
...it can be pushed out.
If another soul is hungry enough...
...it can slip in.

A soul displaced.

A body replaced.

Me.

It happened the night I fled.

I packed everything. Book, cash, one suitcase.

I stood at the threshold and whispered, "I'm not leaving my life behind. I'm taking it back."

And from the shadows behind me, her voice answered:

"You're too late."

The house went up in flames that night.

They said it was faulty wiring.

They found only one body.

Burned beyond recognition.

No one ever confirmed whose it was.

Now, sometimes, people say they see me.

Sometimes they say it's Chloe.

But no one can tell us apart anymore.

Not even me.

---

End of Stolen Skin