The body on the ground looks like me.

But that can’t be possible…right? Because I’m standing over it. It’s got to be some elaborate dupe that Sydney set up to freak me out. A body double or something.

So why is it wearing my clothes?

I glance down, dumbfounded. I scan the olive-green top with a figure-hugging sweetheart neckline and beige corduroy bell bottoms, the corded bracelet Dad had made during one of his creative “phases” hanging from one limp wrist. It was an exact replica of the one currently dangling from my own. Absentmindedly, I play with it, fiddling with the sleeves of my own olive green top, the edges of my beige jeans brushing the carpet just inches from my carbon copy.

Although there is one pretty important difference. Her pants are covered with blood. Soaked in what appears to be buckets of the stuff, the bright red hue glistening under the dim yellow lights. Still fresh, I think, feeling faint. It definitely looks real.

I half turn, hoping to find Sydney laughing behind me at the scene, but the hallway is empty. Bits of strobe lights from the party downstairs and the steady thwomp-thwomp-thwomp of the bass are the only things I can see and hear, other than the steady pounding of blood in my ears.

How is the party still going on? Can’t they tell something terrible has happened just a few feet above their heads? Shouldn’t they be getting help?

Something flashes out of the corner of my eye. A digital clock flips. It’s only 11:37 p.m.

I take a step backward, away from the body. Someone has to do something. I have to call for help—

Hot breath ghosts down the back of my neck. I screech to a stop, hardly daring to breathe. My eyes widen with a sudden realization: the blood is still fresh, and I haven’t seen anyone leave the room.

The killer is standing right behind me.

Sudden, overwhelming fear takes hold, and my knees buckle. I shoot forward, away from the deadly presence, but I can’t quite make my legs work. I end up slamming into the carpet. I twist my head to the left, choking down a scream when I see I’ve landed right next to the body.

Dark boots appear in my line of sight. I take a deep breath and roll over, my eyes screwed shut. Someone is talking, begging for their lives, swearing over and over that they didn’t see anything, that they wouldn’t say anything, just let them go… It takes me an embarrassingly long time to realize that it’s me.

I’m the one saying everything.

The endless stream of word vomit slows, then stops entirely, and still the killer doesn’t say a word. I tense, waiting for the blade to come down and strike the life out of my body. Maybe they would do it in the exact same spot they struck my double. Maybe I would die here, just inches away from my doppelgänger, carbon copies of each other, down to our very wounds. Would my parents be able to recognize me?

But one second passes, and another, and nothing happens. Hesitantly, I open one eye and gasp when I see who’s standing above me.

Sydney Julian. My best friend.

I’m about to shout in sheer relief when my gaze drops down. I see the knife shining in her hand. It’s covered in blood, the tip hovering just above the wound in my doppelgänger’s chest.

Sydney…is the killer?

My mind reels in horror. The whole world shifts to grayscale, everything going fuzzy and soft at the edges. Only Sydney and her knife stand out in wicked relief against the TV static background. My mouth drops open, and I scream and scream until my throat aches with the effort.

Sydney doesn’t even look up, her face a mask of shock as she stands over the body on the floor. Then she smiles. I stagger backward, my brain frozen. None of this makes sense. How am I standing above everything now? When did I move? I didn’t move.

Then even Sydney gets blurred out, slowly, then all at once, as if a giant eraser had descended from the sky and scrubbed her from the world.

My scream finally gutters out as the fear is replaced by confusion. When the static starts to clear, I realize I’m in a completely different room. The contours are all different—the windows are embedded in the north-facing wall instead of the south, the bed pushed to the left wall instead of the right, bookshelves where a computer had once been. Daylight streams in from the open window, even though it had been midnight only a second ago.

With a start, I realize that I’m standing in my own bedroom as it was when I was twelve years old. Sitting on my bed is my old patchwork bunny, Mr. Snuggles. The terrible Sears portrait my mom had insisted on tacking on my wall is framed next to my bookshelf, even though I had torn it down when I was fourteen and hid it in a secret compartment of my desk so my mom wouldn’t be able to find it.

As my legs shake, I walk over to the bulletin board, running my fingers softly across the congratulatory ribbons, the summer camp friendship bracelets, my ten-year vision board. My drawing from first grade is tacked haphazardly in the middle, poorly drawn stick figure versions of me depicted proudly in the uniforms of my dream professions: a ballerina, an astronaut, and a president.

There are pictures of me taken in the middle of my many after-school activities—drama club, basketball, debate, student council—scattered across the cork. Shots of me with Mom and Dad. Little six-year-old me laughing at Disney World that one time we managed to take a family trip without a single fight. I bristle at the picture of Sydney and me. It’s when we became roommates. My arm around her shoulders, our heads thrown back in a hearty laugh at a joke lost to time.

It’s marvelous. It’s terrifying. It’s…a snapshot of my whole life, in one neat little box.

That’s when it clicks. If I’m here, in this impossible, frozen-in-time bedroom, looking at this impossible compilation, there is only one viable explanation. That body on the floor wasn’t some uncanny doppelgänger. It was me.

Which means that Sydney killed me.

“I’m…” I trail off, unable to say the word aloud. And then the silence is filled by a deep voice, rumbling behind me.

“I’m surprised you got it so quickly. It takes most people way longer to figure it out.”

I let out a quick scream and flip around, clutching my chest. Goose bumps erupt up and down my arms.

Before me stands the strangest-looking man I’ve ever seen. He’s tall, thin but muscular, and his skin is tinged with gray. He’s bathed in an almost-glow, as if a light is trapped just under his body and straining to get out. But his hair is jet black, the color of crows and shadows and deep midnight.

His appearance makes me shiver, as if I’m staring into a void. His high cheekbones and delicate features look angelic, as if crafted from the hands of Michelangelo himself. I know immediately I’m staring at something otherworldly, maybe even godly. His features are impossibly handsome, his skin—oddly gray as it is—without a single blemish. No human man could be so perfect.

His clothes, on the other hand, are simple and nondescript. His jeans and T-shirt are black, although they look soft and well-worn. Dark sunglasses obscure his eyes. I’m glad for it. Even with them on, the weight of his gaze burns like a brand into my skin. I can only imagine how intense he is without them.

I shiver, although it’s only half from the fear and the strangeness of him. Maybe it’s his careless yet leonine stance, or the power that rolls naturally from his very presence, but there’s something oddly attractive about the being that stands in front of me.

The silence creeps on. He only seems to settle in it, as if he’s more than happy to stand here in silence for an eternity. When I can’t stand it anymore, I break it. “Well? Who are you? What is this place? I know it’s not my room.”

He shakes his head and sighs. His disappointment hits me harder than I’d expect. Why do I care what this weird man thinks? “I thought you got it, but I guess my hope was premature.” He reaches up and takes his sunglasses off. My jaw drops. His eyes are molten silver, deadly mercury roiling in their sockets. They’re disconcerting and compelling all at once. “You almost had it earlier. Think. What were you about to say when I got here?”

Gaze fixed on his marvelous, otherworldly face, I force myself to say it. “I’m…dead.”

He nods, satisfied, and reaches a hand toward me. “And I’m Death.”