Background information
- Name: Emily Hatchett
- Pronouns: She/her
- Date: August 9, 2020
- Occupation: Songwriter
- City of residence: Unknown
- Date(s) of account: June 2020-August 2020
- Subject of account: Impostors
Account
I met Klaus Hatchett when I was twenty years old. We were in college at the time, and he needed a lyricist. Over time, our professional relationship developed into a friendship. He asked me out, I said yes, and we became a steady couple.
Klaus proposed to me when I was twenty-three years old. I said yes. Shortly after, we found a house in our area that we liked, and it wasn't over our budget. With no real reason to move away, we've lived there ever since. Besides, it became very familiar and comfortable to us. I've always been a homebody, never one to enjoy sleeping away from home for too long at a time, and the idea of trying to adjust to a house I knew wasn't mine wouldn't work. The house was what Klaus and I had done together for years, and the longer it went on, the less I wanted to leave.
We were happy. We were never wealthy, but we made enough money between the two of us that we didn't have anything to complain about. And we had each other.
But one day in June, I woke up in a bed that didn't feel like my bed. The person next to me looked like Klaus, but the way he stared at me was nothing like my husband.
I tried to ignore it. I tried to go back to sleep. But I dreamed about cables entangling my body and ripping me apart, and I woke up again shortly after.
The bed still felt wrong, and the person I knew wasn't Klaus was still staring at me.
The days after that are still sharp like a knife. That was when I first had to adjust to the fact that what looked like my husband was not my husband, what looked like my home was not my home. It made me sick to my stomach. How could this thing pretend to be my Klaus?
Its smile was too wide. Its laughter sounded nothing like Klaus's. It didn't like the same movies he did.
My home's doors were too narrow. Its steps were too steep. They didn't creak when I walked on them anymore.
One day, I was too busy trying to tell whether its eyes were the same color as Klaus's to laugh at one of its jokes. It seemed upset, but it couldn't quite make the facial muscles work properly somehow.
"You used to love me," said the thing that was not Klaus.
I nodded.
"But not anymore," it said. I wasn't sure if it was a question or not.
I sighed.
It stared forward, but it was looking past me. After all, they weren't its eyes to look with. "We've been together for seventeen years, Emily. Don't give up on me now."
But our sixteenth anniversary was coming up that weekend.
That was shortly after he was replaced, back in June. In the months since then, "Klaus" and I grew more and more distant. It still pretended to be my husband. It still seemed concerned about me. But I could tell it wasn't. Its face didn't look right. It was wearing Klaus's flesh, but it didn't know how to play the part.
Maybe it wanted me to realize something is wrong. Maybe it already replaced everything else in the world and it just wants to tip me off to how deep it all goes, make me question everything. After all, if it replaced my home and my partner, what other skins could it wear? I don't look nearly as closely at most things as I do Klaus and my home. It could have replaced many things without my knowing.
For months, I did not know what it was. I knew it was neither who nor what it pretended to be, but I did not know what lies behind my husband's face and my home's facade.
Earlier in August, though, I found something.
I was looking for a cake knife- there were butter knives upstairs, and I always carry a pocket knife, but obviously those aren't the kinds of knife you use to cut cake. It wasn't anywhere I could think of, so I decided to check the basement.
There were rows and rows of cardboard boxes and plastic bins that I had never seen before down there. They all bore vague labels like "DECORATIONS" or "FOR LATER."
I couldn't find anything that sounded like it might include any cake knives, so I went deeper into the basement, trying to see if the boxes I remembered were down there.
I didn't find them. Instead, I found that the basement was getting stranger and stranger. The floor was cold even through my socks and shoes, but the air felt warmer and warmer the further I got. The drywall was peeling off in pieces, revealing metal. It proved to be cold to the touch, though the air was oppressively stale and warm by that point.
Finally, I reached the end of the basement.
It took far longer than it should have.
The furnace stood, tall and metal, with a network of pipes extending out from it. The air was unbearably hot.
Sitting in front of the furnace was a baby doll I had never seen before. It was old and worn with age. As I picked it up to examine it, I felt something resist me. There were thin metal cables, too many to count, extending from its back and reaching into the furnace, keeping it bound in place.
I dropped it in surprise when it started laughing in the voice of the thing pretending to be Klaus.
I turned around to see the thing that was not Klaus standing over me. It was taller than it should have been.
"Oh, Emily," it said, shaking its head. "You should've left this place while you still could. All this, and for what? A knife?"
I felt cold metal wires wrap themselves around my arms and legs.
"What are you?" I asked as I struggled against the cables.
"Any answer you could understand would be an oversimplification." It laughed. "If you want, though, you can call me Klaus."
"Stop using his name."
"You're in no position to give orders." It leaned in and tilted its head. "What a curious little thing you are," it said, examining me. "Such ferocity, and yet for nothing."
"Give him back."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," it said, stepping back. "He's not here anymore." It shook its head. "Just me. And you, of course."
More wires grew out of the walls and floor of the thing that was no longer my house, covering me.
"I'm going to kill you."
"You may certainly try." It smiled. "It's no matter. I really must be going now."
It walked away, but when it looked back at me, it smiled with Klaus's face.
At that moment, I remembered how much Klaus- the real Klaus- meant to me.
Klaus and I met when he needed a lyricist for his band in college. I was an aspiring poet, so I agreed to help him out. Looking back, the reason why was pretty obvious. He'd never had a way with words, as per his own admittance, although he was such a kind person I didn't mind. He'd always credited me very publicly for my work, always gave me opportunities to do more in the band if I was interested, always supported and encouraged me when I worked on my own projects. It was only natural that we became friends, and from there, we started going on dates, and from there, we got married.
He was perfect, and this thing was wearing him like a suit.
I wasn't scared anymore. I was angry.
The wires loosened their grip on me, letting me fall to the floor. I picked myself up, quietly walked over to the thing that wasn't Klaus, and punched it in the back of the neck.
It fell over, but its head turned around jerkily to look at me, just a little further than a human head should be able to turn. It got up and grabbed me by the throat, but I took my pocket knife and stabbed it in the leg. A fluid poured out that wasn't blood.
"I'm not scared of you anymore."
Its eyes widened. "No," it said. "No, you're not."
It dropped me onto the floor.
The air grew cool again, and the floor was no longer ice-cold. It was as if a presence had gone away in the house.
I haven't been back there since then. But I won't give that thing the satisfaction of seeing me run away. I've found a new home, and I'm not leaving it unless it chases me here.
I'm not scared of it anymore.
Analysis
This is interesting. It may just be because there are so few accounts where the person giving the account isn't scared by the end, but I haven't seen any before this where losing your fear allows you to resist the effects of the supernatural.
Mind you, it's hard to say what this actually means, given that Alex and I were unable to do any meaningful follow-up to confirm or dispute this account. Emily was understandably unwilling to give us her husband's contact information, though she did provide us with confirmation of her time in prison for assaulting him with a knife, time she apparently didn't feel worth noting in her account. Unsurprisingly, we couldn't find official reports that he bled motor oil or battery acid instead of blood.
It's superficial, but I'm reminded of Account 08. Still, the fact that two different people sent in stories about people being replaced or controlled by mechanical being doesn't prove much when it comes to credibility.
Lots of dead ends. The only thing clear to me right now is Harold Miller, and I don't know what to do about him.
