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The harvest had just finished in Greenville. The fields were left with empty stalks of corn that were to be sold off to whichever corporation would pay the highest. Any leftovers used for holiday meals and the fields repurposed for mazes. The air began to chill. Autumn had fallen onto Greenville.
It was time again for the Greenville harvest hoedown. Hosted in the old warehouse, the harvest hoedown was one of the most anticipated events of the year. A small platform was wheeled in as a makeshift stage for the band hired to play. Tables surrounded the area, a place to rest or to eat some of the food from the potluck. The middle was cleared out as a dance floor. Residents gathered to celebrate the year’s harvest.
This year’s promised to be better than all prior. The decoration committee spared no expense. Lights strung from the ceiling, casting a warm orange glow on the dance floor. The food was wonderful, casseroles and baked beans and home-cooked bread and turkey. The band played loud, calling out instructions for dancers whilst playing lively songs. There hadn't been a greater turnout on the dance floor. It was crowded in the best possible way. No one found themself without a partner. Everyone who stepped on the floor that night found themself filled with energy, all compelled to dance like they had never before.
Yet there were none who matched the energy of Mr. Pottinger. He’d traded his suit for a plaid shirt and jeans, his dress shoes swapped for boots, tie switched for a belt. He spent the whole night dancing. His smile was stuck on his face.
He’d arrived late. All he had was his smile and cornbread casserole. As he walked towards the dance floor, people shot sideways glances at him, whispering among themselves. Mr. Pottinger? That can’t be him. He’d rather be caught dead than come to one of our events. And yet with the vigor of his dancing and the thrill of the night, everyone seemed to forget their doubts. Plus, his casserole was good. He spun the top, do-si do-ed, and peeled bananas until the sky was pitch black. The music moved him like a puppet. Mr. Pottinger had never looked more alive.
People hollered at Mr. Pottinger as he left, requesting him to return, to stay in touch, to teach them how to dance. Mr. Pottinger did not respond. He only smiled and walked back to his house.
The next morning was the same as always. Mr. Pottinger showered, got dressed, ate breakfast, and readied himself for work the same way. As he placed his briefcase into his car, a woman greeted him.
“Mr. Pottinger! Leaving us already? Some of us thought you might stick around longer after last night.” Her smile was wide across her face, an invitation for him to do the same.
Mr. Pottinger’s face did not accept, mouth staying downturned in the usual frown. “Last night?”
“Yeah!” Her voice leaked with enthusiasm. “At the hoedown! I just wanted to drop by and say how much fun it was to have you there! Who knew you were such a dancer?”
“I didn’t go to a hoedown last night.”
“Oh aren’t you a jokester! Of course you were there! Why, you breathed new life into our hoedown!” “I didn’t go anywhere last night. I didn’t even know a hoedown was happening.”
The woman’s smile faltered. “Quit playing. Everyone saw you last night! Did you have too much hard apple cider?”
“I wasn’t drinking last night. I stayed in like always.” His frown deepened, annoyed with the woman.
“No you were not!” She raised her voice. “You came to our hoedown! You danced like crazy! If you’re just doing this to annoy me then I take back all the nice things I said about you!”
Mr. Pottinger’s voice stayed flat. “I’ve got to get to work. Would you get out of my driveway so I can leave?”
She scowled. “And here I was, thinking that maybe you had changed. But guess I was wrong. You're just the same big city snob you’ve always been, thinking that you can just party the town down and then act like you don’t even know us the next morning. What a disgrace. Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mr. Pottinger replied, words laced with ice.
“Fine. Be that way. Just know that us town folk won’t take too kindly to you anymore, bucko.”
Mr. Pottinger shrugged. “Okay.”
The woman spat at his feet as she stormed off muttering to herself. God, the people here were so dramatic. Mr. Pottinger got into his car and drove to work.
He lived in Greenville during the weekend, but his job was in the city. Every Monday morning he made the drive back to the city. Mr. Pottinger liked this routine. Working during the week and relaxing on the weekend. But it wasn’t like he had any friends in either place.
Everyone in Greenville thought he was a rich businessman mooching off their town. Everyone at work didn’t talk to him. He was a lower-level employee after all. There was no one in the world who could have told you who Mr. Pottinger really was.
There was nothing in Mr. Pottinger’s apartment when he came back from work that night. He set down his things and hung up his coat. The apartment was colder than usual. He opened the fridge to make dinner. There wasn’t any food. But he had gone grocery shopping the day before. The fridge should have been packed. There was nothing left on the counter. Nothing in the cupboards, or the cabinets, or the drawers. Then he checked the safe. Nothing. He got robbed.
Mr. Pottinger called the police. He walked through the cleaned out apartment while dialing. The window had been shattered. He was about to inspect it closer when he stepped on something. It squashed beneath his foot. He picked it up. It was flat, thin, and hollow. There was something familiar about it. There was a lump of hair near the top of it. Mr. Pottinger’s eyes widened. A full face mask. There were two holes for the eyes, the only place somebody’s real face could poke out. The mouth couldn’t open. The ear’s couldn’t hear. The nose couldn’t breathe. Mr. Pottinger kept staring at it, trying to decipher what was so familiar. Then it clicked.
This wasn’t anybody’s face. It was his.
The police couldn’t gather much information. Only the window and the mask. No witnesses, no security feed, no tracks. Mr. Pottinger held the mask. He stared into the empty eye holes. The mask smiled back at him.
It was an interesting story, news interviews started cropping up. His story stayed the same. He found the apartment robbed after an unremarkable day of work. They asked the standard questions. Was everything taken? Do you know who did it? What do the police know?
Mr. Pottinger’s responses were short and clipped. Yes, no, I don’t know. Only one reporter asked; What was it like, seeing that mask? What did you see? Mr. Pottinger’s face stayed completely serious as he answered. Like a handsome motherfucker motherfucking looking back at me.
Nothing changed at first. Some people asked Mr. Pottinger about it at work, but nothing else came up. He bought new things to replace what had been taken. The police kept the mask. Life went on. At least it did, until one day, a weekend in the country. He was buying groceries when the grocer talked to him.
“Interesting to see you again. I thought you bought enough yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Mr. Pottinger asked.
“Yeah, you came here yesterday to buy groceries. The same things you’re buying now. Bread, cheese, some meats. Food just for the week.”
“I wasn’t here yesterday.”
The grocer looked confused. “Really? But I could have sworn-”
“It wasn’t me.” Mr. Pottinger cut him off.
“You’re right. It couldn’t have been you.” They bagged the groceries. “You wouldn’t have smiled as much.”
Mr. Pottinger shrugged it off and returned home. He put away the food and pulled out a book to read. He had almost gotten invested when he heard a knock on the door. He opened it to find a young woman.
“Hello!” She smiled at him. “I’ve come to return your book! Thanks for letting me borrow it!”
“...What book?”
“This one!” She pulled out the book from her bag. “I really liked it.”
“I- I never-” He glanced back at the couch, where the same book sat. “I didn’t give you that book.”
“But, you did. I remember you giving it to me.”
Mr. Pottinger tried to get her to leave. “Well, why don’t you just keep it? You liked it, right?”
She paused for a moment. “Alright. If you say so.” He shut the door as she left. Mr. Pottinger stood by the door. His hand lingered on the doorknob. He watched the girl through the window until he couldn’t see her anymore. He blinked. Carefully, he walked back to the couch and picked up his book. He read slower than before.
Mr. Pottinger attempted acting normal at work the next day. But people were smiling at him, saying hello, holding the elevator for him. Not normal.
“Well, if it isn’t the man, the myth, the legend Pottinger!” A co-worker slapped him on the back. “What’re you doing here? We thought you might not show up after yesterday. You’re crazy, man.”
Mr. Pottinger stared at him. He hesitated before he spoke, “What happened yesterday?”
“You came out with us! Who knew you could be so fun? I don’t think I saw you smile before then.”
Mr. Pottinger’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, that wasn’t- it wasn’t me! I wasn’t even in the city yesterday!”
“How much did you drink dude? I’m pretty sure you were with us. Although, I drank quite a bit as well…”
Something was wrong. Too many people had said he’d done things he hadn’t. Too many for them to be thinking of the wrong person. “Is this some kind of joke? You’re all just messing with me, aren’t you?”
His co-worker looked confused. “Uh, no?” Mr. Pottinger tried to think of anything else it could be. Him in places he wasn’t, doing things he didn’t do, smiling. When did he smile? “Look, I should probably go-” That's when it hit him.
“Wait!” Mr. Pottinger called after him, “What did I look like? I was smiling, right?” His co-worker nodded. “Did I talk? What was I like?”
“Um, you were like you, if you were cool. But no, you didn’t talk at all.” Mr. Pottinger scowled. He was right. It wasn’t him. It was someone else. Someone pretending to be him. Someone with a mask of his face.
Everyone found out about the imposter sooner or later. Most were told, word traveled quickly in small towns and slow office buildings. Someone’s pretending to be him. They watched Mr. Pottinger wherever he went, dissecting him with their eyes, trying to figure out if he was the real one.
Some people met the doppelgänger. On accident mainly, sometimes on purpose. He would be at the store, or the park, anywhere Mr. Pottinger would be. Standing, walking, smiling. Unlike Mr. Pottinger. There were only minor differences between the two. The fake would wear gloves to hide his real hands. His clothing was more scuffed, not always limited to a fine pressed suit. The mask was the most obvious. Mr. Pottinger never smiled, but the mask was stuck that way. It wasn’t tailored to fit the imposter’s face and would hang slightly off his jaw. The eyeholes revealed eyes brighter than Mr. Pottinger’s. If anyone talked to him, he wouldn’t respond. He would just look at them, eyes shining.
That wasn’t all he did. He gave one woman a rock, sharpened like a knife. He lit one cigarette on another, still in someone’s mouth, only to be unable to smoke it. Somebody swore that he followed them for ten minutes only to steal their coffee and give it to a nearby squirrel.
Worse rumors began to circulate about the doppelgänger. He’s a murderer who broke out of prison, trying to live as Mr. Pottinger to escape the police. He was in love with Mr. Pottinger and got rejected so now he’s trying to destroy Pottinger’s life. He’s a lunatic who spun a wheel and decided to commit identity theft. None were too hard to believe. Only a crazy person would pretend to be Mr. Pottinger. Only a crazy person would want his life.
Everyone talked about Mr. Pottinger, though they pretended they didn’t when he walked by. He could hear his name whispered around him. Like he wasn’t there. The only time they talked to him was when they thought he was the doppelgänger. It was almost like the way it was before. Almost.
Some local paper decided to run an article on it. They wanted to interview the doppelgänger. After he declined, they settled for Mr. Pottinger. I’ve never met him, he said. I only know he exists because other people told me about him. Yet, it’s like he’s always there. Watching me. Around the corner. Down the hall. Following right behind. It’s like if I make one wrong move, he’ll be there. Ready to replace me. It feels like that every day. He’s always with me. In the back of my mind. I haven’t been truly alone in a long time. It’s terrifying. The interview ended shortly after.
People stopped wanting to talk to the doppelgänger. Colleagues would sometimes ask Mr. Pottinger if he was alright. Neighbors would show up with home cooked meals. Superficial things. None of them could imagine what the situation felt like.
There were cars parked on his street in places where they could see into his house or apartment. Police cars, mostly. He recognized some of the cars, they belonged to neighbors and co-workers. He couldn’t recognize all of them. Police, he told himself. Just the police. Who else would it be?
Mr. Pottinger could feel the avoidance. Every time someone watched him. Every awkward smile when he caught them watching him. Every small step someone took to get a bit further from him. It pressed against his neck, a smothering scarf of solitude. Everyone seemed to know about him. About how there were two men, almost identical, who shared the same face. Some pitied him. Most were afraid.
He heard every whisper. That’s the real him, isn’t it? It’s so hard to tell. What does it matter? Is there a difference? Mr. Pottinger would jump at sudden sounds behind him. His eyes always scanned crowds, searching hopelessly for the imposter. Occasionally someone would say what the doppelgänger did last. They’d tell their friends and talk about poor Mr. Pottinger, not noticing him behind them. Some would laugh. Wasn’t it funny? He could give away a large sum of money. Or he might slap someone with a fish.
Mr. Pottinger didn’t return to the country that weekend. He didn’t even leave his apartment. He still hadn’t seen the doppelgänger in person. The only photos online were blurry. He didn’t risk going outside and meeting him.
That next Monday was the last time he showed up to work. He hid all day in his cubicle. He didn’t get any work done. He couldn’t look away from the entrance. He saw everyone who walked by. None of them looked like him. He couldn’t stand it. His hands shook as he grabbed his briefcase. His legs gave out beneath him. Sweat ran down his neck. Mr. Pottinger trembled on the floor. He pulled himself up and stood in the elevator, back pressed against the wall. It was the longest elevator trip of his life.
The doors opened at last. Cold air pierced his skin, the moon covered by clouds. It was getting dark earlier with winter on the horizon. A single lamppost shown at the corner of the street. It was all Mr. Pottinger could manage to look at. He ran to his car. He stepped in the car, breaking his eyes away from the light. It took only a second to turn the key and start the car. The second seemed to last forever. Driving home, he swore never to leave again.
The doppelgänger only became bolder. He started with petty theft, shoplifting at every store he went to. It wasn’t like he could pay anyway with the police always on his back. Sometimes he’d pick pockets. He’d take a bag left alone. And no one would miss their phone, right? There wasn’t any solid evidence that the imposter was doing this, yet it wasn’t hard to figure out. He always left before the police could arrive.
Vandalism was next. He spray painted the office where Mr. Pottinger worked. He carved Pottinger’s name into benches. He egged police stations. After that, he moved onto arson. Nothing was safe. Trashcans, lampposts, sidewalks, anything and everything would be set on fire. His biggest target was Mr. Pottinger’s house in Greenville. The fire department showed up before any permanent damage could be done. The real Mr. Pottinger never paid for repairs.
The local paper was the first to hear from Mr. Pottinger since he stopped appearing in public. It was the real Mr. Pottinger that accepted an interview with them. The fake Mr. Pottinger showed up. The interview happened anyway.
That was the first time anyone heard the doppelgänger speak. His voice almost sounded like Mr. Pottinger’s. It slid out of his throat, slimy in a way that made those who heard it shiver. The mask didn’t have an opening for the mouth. The voice seeped out anyway.
“You won’t call the police on me, right?” He asked. The interviewer didn’t respond. “Scared?” There was a buried thrill to the question, like it was wearing a mask too. “Don’t be. What’s the point in being afraid of me? Don’t you have more important things to worry about? I’ve never bothered you, have I?” The doppelgänger waited for an answer. The interviewer stayed silent. “Shouldn’t you be the one asking questions? This isn’t my job is it?” He joked as if he were delivering bad news.
The interviewer finally spoke. “The questions we prepared were, um, made for Mr. Pottinger.”
“You can still ask them to me. There’s hardly a difference between us anymore.” His eyes, the only real part of his expression, lost their light, turning deadly serious. “Soon,” his voice kept the same light tone, drenched with enthusiasm, “Very soon. I will become Mr. Pottinger. If I am not him already.” Sirens screamed down the street. The police were on their way.
The imposter stood. He walked toward the interviewer slowly, like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Soon,” he mused, eyes staring straight through the interviewer. “Soon, soon, soon,” he sang the words, the tuneless song flowing out above the sirens. The mask stretched. The face of Mr. Pottinger distorted. The fake smile widened as a real one grew beneath it. The mask had seemed real before. How inhuman it became when the man hidden behind it smiled.
He slipped out before the police burst in. The interview was never published.
His neighbors in the country were hesitant to forget him. They talked about him more than his colleagues. Only they spoke in private, shut away in houses instead of break rooms. They wouldn’t mention who lived in his house when they passed, but they would report on the condition of it. His driveway was always empty. Mail piled on his doorstep. The power shut off. No one bothered to tell him.
The office didn’t really see any less business in November. Time only seemed slower for its employees, itching to get home to their families. It didn’t help that Mr. Pottinger wasn’t doing his work. He wasn't fired yet. Pity from the higher-ups. His desk was still the way he had left it. Workers only remembered him when they passed by his desk. He hadn’t shown up for weeks. They had more important things to worry about. To them, Pottinger was nothing more than the story of the week.
None of Mr. Pottinger’s old co-workers were paying attention when someone sat at his desk. No one noticed the frenzied writing as forms filled out. Not a single one thought to check Pottinger’s cubicle. No point, if he wasn’t going to be there anyway. They didn't want to be the ones to discover if he was.
It wasn’t until one of the employees went to take a smoke break in his cubicle that someone finally saw the doppelgänger. The cigarette fell out of the employee’s mouth. The doppelgänger lifted a finger to the smile, the other hand still filling out forms. No one else found out he was in the building that day.
The doppelgänger went to a gas station after work. All he bought was a pack of breath mints. He wasn’t recognised. Everyone thought he was another office worker; the news hadn’t touched the story for a while. The last interview was weeks ago. The doppelgänger paid. Mr. Pottinger’s credit card swiped without any trouble.
He flicked the car keys into his hand. Mr. Pottinger’s car hummed to life as he turned the key. The radio played static. He listened to it the whole drive. The key to Mr. Pottinger’s apartment was on the same key ring as the one for his car. The apartment key fit in the lock. The front door clicked open. He stepped inside. He peeled the mask off. The smile underneath it was real.
The first of christmas songs played, earlier every year. The same songs as always, played for the ones waiting in the endless lines. Grocery stores brought out seasonal foods, turkeys, potatoes, cranberries, pies, everything. Coupons stacked, sales spotted, discounts found. The cooking, the cleaning, hosting dinner that lasted too long. Politics. Wine. Arguments. Thanksgiving at its finest.
Leaves cluttered the streets. People dug coats out of their closets. A cold front blew in. It wouldn’t snow. At least the rain was cold. The sky felt like it would be gray forever. No one lingered anywhere anymore. Who’d want to stay, when families were at home in heated houses? A cloud hung over everyone. The stress of the season had set in.
The poor weather had caused people to worry in Greenville. Thanksgiving was a big time for them. Parties moved inside. Hayrides canceled. Crop mazes weren't made with the constant rain. Work let off. Thanksgiving break began. People stayed inside, prepping for the holiday. Children made hand turkeys. The annual Thanksgiving pageant still happened, a play and poetry and games. The festivities were almost the same as the year before.
And the same as the year before, neither Mr. Pottinger showed up. No one said anything about his absence. After all, Mr. Pottinger never showed up for these things. There wasn’t anything weird about him not being there. He wasn’t any more important than any other resident. People pretended to forget about him. Why would anyone think of him on a holiday?
Everyone thought about it. It hung in the air, unspoken, but there still. Eyes darted around crowds. How long had it been since they found out? A month, maybe two, maybe more. Not long. It couldn’t have been that long. No one had seen the doppelgänger in a while. It was over. It had to be over. The doppelgänger must have given up. Surely he had.
The paranoid town acted like they weren’t paranoid. The weather cleared up just in time for Thanksgiving. The sun was shining, the air was surprisingly warm, and the day was perfect. No one needed to check behind them as they walked. Even if they still did.
The Thanksgiving parade was back on. Local, nothing Macy’s level, but not small either. Trucks trailed handmade floats behind them. Residents stood on floats, waving and cheering, reveling in the untainted joy. A marching band was hired, and they played loudly, drowning out any thoughts in every head. Everyone smiled all day long.
The sun turned the sky red as it set. The end of the parade rolled by, all tired but merry. The last float was the best in the whole parade. The tallest float, it towered over the streets. Performers would always throw candy to the crowd. Kids chased after what fell on the ground, fighting to get more pieces than the others. Sore feet stood waiting for the float to come. The penultimate float turned the corner. A loud honk roared from the end of the street. The last float was on its way. Candy rained down. Just as it had the year before.
Laughter flowed from the float. It oozed toward the street below, spilling into the waiting people's ears. He stood above them, tossing candy and laughing. The townspeople didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The red light from the sun cast shadows on the folds of the mask. The music cut off, replaced by shouting. They stopped grabbing candy, even as it continued to fall. All the people hissed, seething contempt for the man. The float stopped. Its driver ran out.
The imposter only laughed harder, his voice straining from the use. His riotous laughter was louder than the jeering of the crowd. The bag of candy fell from his hands. His body convulsed, hands clutching his sides. He fell to his knees.
The crowd cried out. They rushed to the side of the float and leaned against it. The float creaked. The crowd pushed harder. The doppelgänger lost his balance. The float swayed. The crowd gave it one last shove. It toppled, collapsing on the ground. The doppelgänger fell with it.
It was quiet. No one dared to breathe. The wreckage sat in the middle of the street, the doppelgänger buried underneath. A faint sound trickled from the pile. The sound was muffled by steel bars and wire. It sounded like a voice. The noise was a soft, tittering laugh, light and airy. The doppelgänger climbed his way through the ruined float. His suit torn and colored with blood. His tie got caught on one of the steel beams, ripping it off. He was missing a shoe.
He gasped as he broke the surface. He pulled himself up, finding his footing on the debris. His laugh began to fade. He stood above everything and stared at the crowd. The crowd stared back at him. He brought a hand to the mask. He slipped his fingers beneath it. The other hand pulled from behind. He lifted the mask off and threw it into the audience. The face everyone saw then was the same face on the mask.
Below, a small grin formed on every person’s face. They moved their hands to their chins. Nails dug into their skin. They tore the flesh from their faces. The mask wouldn’t come off. They grabbed at their hair, clumps of it came out in their hands. The mask wouldn’t come off. They gripped and pulled and tugged and yanked, blood streamed onto their hands, nails stained red, people cried, shouted, ripped at their skin, the harsh light of the sun blinding them, voices hoarse from screaming, their hands reached for something, anything, that could stop everything. But the mask wouldn’t come off.
Mr. Pottinger watched from above. And slowly, he began to smile.