I’m humming.

A jaunty little tune I can't remember the origin of.

Stood in my kitchen mixing up a bowl of batter. I add half a spoon of cinnamon and maple syrup, whisking the mix once more before transferring it to the baking tin lined with waiting pineapple rings. Not-Cameron has a bit of a sweet tooth.

It's been seven months since Not-Cameron arrived.

Seven calm and strangely lovely months.

Even if the occurrences have been getting more frequent. I've grown to almost expect them, and so they have become less frightening. Not to mention that the more affection you've accepted from Not-Cameron, the more distance and space the occurrences have given you.

I suspect the occurrences were all Not-Cameron checking on me when he "wasn't home" to see if I was trying to leave or secretly call the police or something ... classic doppelgänger horror stuff.

But I never did. Never gave in to the urge to run. I never ran to a neighbour for help running away or called the police. I acted perfectly normal and unassuming.

Not-Cameron has been steadily relaxing around me. A little slower to stop their purrs when I move. Their dopey love-struck grins are a little toothier than normal. Hugs feel a little squishier than they should. But honestly, I've found their quirks...cute. It’s endearing how

I kissed them last week.

I've been kissed by them before obviously; accepting just a few kisses and cuddles from them so they don't realise I know they're not the real Cameron was part of my plan to stay alive after all. But it has always been Not-Cameron asking and initiating the affection.

Last week that changed.

I kissed them first. It was just a kiss on the cheek and the admission that I missed them all day. Which was the truth, I had missed Not-Cameron and the way they smile so happily when they see me. I swear they had literal hearts in their eyes when I followed up with a chaste peck on the lips before going back to finish my work.

I may have followed up with a few more chaste kisses and a hug or two in the following week. And who could blame me if I needed cuddles after a tiring day. Not-Cameron has soaked up any and all affection I’m willing to give, and I may have found myself chasing that little loving glint in their eye.

For three months now, I've felt different, lighter, almost on cloud nine.

It took me a while to realise what the feeling was - confidence.

I can't say that the look of awe and love Not-Cameron gave me when I wore the vibrant outfit the real Cameron had said "made you look tacky" didn't feel cathartic.

My colleagues have repeatedly told me they’ve noticed something is different about me. There have been a few compliments for my work and comments on my bright mood. I've even been to a few of the company social nights and gone out to the movies with friends, some things I never had time for when Cameron was in charge of my social calendar.

It's been tranquil.

Not-Cameron has even started warning me in advance of which evenings they will disappear on. They always do the grocery shopping and bring home takeout on those nights. Only leaving once I’ve eaten and am going to bed.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Except that tonight, rather than go to bed, I’ve decided to see if I can make something for Not-Cameron.

The batter sluggishly folds over and over as I pour it into a tin, rolls forming before smoothing out with the pull of gravity. The scraping sound as the tin slides into the hot oven and the beep of the timer are the only sounds that break the quiet of the night.

Until it isn’t.

There's a pounding on the door. Insistent and demanding.

I grab a knife from the stand and creep out into the hallway, eyeing the silhouette through the frosted glass of the front door with caution.

On instinct, I reach for my pocket but it’s empty. I left my phone on charge in my room upstairs. I don’t want to turn my back on the door. I inch towards the landline on the little table in the hallway. My eyes never leave the swaying shadow through the porch window.

I pick up the phone, it clicks as it comes of the stand and the beeping sounds too cheery as I dial 911. But then the shadow suddenly ducks down out of sight. It lurches back up and there's the sound of the key in the lock. Whoever it is, they’re going to get in.

I back away quickly, ducking around the corner of the door to the kitchen. The phone vibrates as the call rings.

The door swings open hard, knocking over the umbrella stand. The clatter cracks in my ears. I risk a quick glance, only to feel a jolt hit me like a rock just dropped in my gut.

My boyfriend stumbles inside. His clothes are torn and he has multiple scratches on the sides of his face, neck, and arms. Crusted dark stains down his sides and shoulders, crimson flakes flutter of him as he almost falls into the wall.

Out of instinct, I drop the knife and phone on the table as I rush forward. My hands find their arm as I try to to support them.

"Cameron what..." I pause.

Something’s different.

His eyes are brown. This is the real Cameron. He's come back.

Another rock drops into my gut, but this one burns.

For the real Cameron to be here, it stands to reason something terrible happened to Not-Cameron.

Making another split-second decision, just like the one I made all those months ago, I decide to pretend like I never noticed the switch and just deal with Cameron's injuries before wrestling with the moral guilt of realising I’m disappointed to see my old boyfriend instead of his more-loving replacement.

"What happened? Cameron? I’ll get you to a hospital." I turn to grab my car keys, but the sudden collapse of Cameron scuppers the motion as I quickly turn back to try and catch him. His legs shake and buckle, swaying but he manages to just barely stay on his feet. I grit my teeth and support him all the way to the living room.

Cameron’s skin is clammy and hot, too hot, feverish. He's muttering under his breath, raving with no meaning; spouting over and over the words, "no change", "my face", "that thing" and "have to escape."

He groans as he falls onto the sofa. I extricate myself from his trembling grip and fetch a glass of water from the kitchen. It takes two prompts before he realises what I’m trying to give him. He drinks like a man who's been lost in a desert, uncaring of the rivulets spilling out of the cup and down his face and chest as he greedily gulps the precious liquid.

A tingling runs up my spine and I fight the urge to back away from the splashing drops and growing wet patch of water and blood stains sticking to my sofa. Finally, he lets the cup drop and leans back.

"Cameron. What happened? Should I get you to a hospital?" I keep my voice soft, gently probing for information.

He seems to calm down slightly after the drink.

“Eloise!” A voice calls my name from the hallway; (Not-)Cameron's voice.

"It's here," Cameron whispers, voice cracking into a squeak at the end as he scrambles to his feet with startling lucidity. He grabs my wrist and pulls me towards the doorway to the kitchen.

Just as we duck into the kitchen, my ears pick up the soft pat-pat of footfalls entering the living room behind us.

Keeping up the charade of ignorance, I whisper. "What is..." A sharp pain lances through my cheek, and the words die on my lips and fall silent.

Cameron slapped me. A quick whipping motion with his hand, not enough to bruise or damage, but enough to set my cheek stinging. For just a moment, I can’t do anything through the sudden rush of familiar fear and shame except mutely stumble along behind him as he drags me along.

His pace quickens to a run when a horrifying nails-on-chalkboard demented shriek suddenly comes from the living room. Primal fear floods my being, my heartbeat races and I scramble behind Cameron through the other door into the hallway, up the stairs and into the bathroom.

The lock clicks into place and I retreat back to kneel in the gap between the sink and the shower door. My heart pounds in my chest, the fear that shriek instilled temporarily narrows my vision to a pinprick; everything seems to stretch and warp, pointing towards the door. I focus on my breath, clasping my hands and squeezing them together hard.

"Where are you?" The muffled voice of Not-Cameron calls from downstairs, followed by the sound of footsteps. Their voice sounds normal, albeit panicked.

Cameron tucks himself down to kneel beside me and hisses. "Stay fucking quiet."

I don't answer, only risking a small glance at him. Preferring instead to focus on calming myself quickly so I can figure out how I’m going to survive this confusing situation.

"Love, please! Come out!" There's a note of panic in Not-Cameron's voice, a rising shrill sound that sets off an uncomfortable vibration in my teeth and yet also a deep base vibration I can feel in my chest. "Where are you? I'm sorry. I can explain." Their voice grows more distorted as a shadow creeps past the door.

It could be a trap. Just like in a horror movie, the monster uses the voice of a loved one to lure their victims to their doom. But a small voice in the back of my head argues against that thought.

Even through my fear, the sound of their panic tugs at my heartstrings. My happiest memories from the past few months suddenly flash in my mind's eye.

I come to a decision.

The calls of Not-Cameron fade, then come back, then fade again. From the distance of the calls, they've probably checked my bedroom and the office, they'll either check the guest room or the bathroom next.

Slowly under the pretext of getting more comfortable, I shift to a crouch and brace one foot back ready to run.

Cameron looks at me with a stern glare his black eye fails to hide. Covering for my motion, I fawn, twisting to grab the long-handled brush from the shower and making a show of bracing to fight.

He nods and turns to grab the toilet plunger from behind him. Once he turns, quite stiff and slow due to his injuries, I move. Springing forward and sliding the lock before he can turn back and slipping through the door just as he lurches to his feet.

The hallway is dark and empty, swallowing my call of "I'm here!" like the void of space.

I falter at the unnatural silence and suddenly pain blooms behind my eyes as my head snaps back against something hard. Bruising pain jumps from my arms to my chest to my head.

I can’t speak.

Cameron is here. His hands are on my throat.

"You." Speckles of saliva splatter my face as he hisses. "Fucking shh."

It's getting harder to breathe. His hands are too tight. I can’t breathe.

I lash out with the long-handled brush, it almost collides with his head, but he blocks it ripping it from my grasp and throwing it away before turning back to me with a blank hateful look. But the distraction helped to lower the pressure on my throat.

It takes all my strength to utter the word: "help."

Cameron is ripped from my vision in a blur of grey and red. As the pressure around my neck disappears, I gasp for air. The wall scrapes against my back as I collapse.

It's dark, but in the light coming through the window at the end of the hall from the streetlamps outside, I can make out the details of the thrashing figures only four feet away from you.

Cameron is on the ground, swears and hoarse angry screams stream from his mouth as his hands scratch and swing at the creature pinning him to the ground. He attempts to pry off the huge clawed hands holding him down by his shoulders and tries to punch the creature in its ribs, but he can't get enough force behind his fists.

The creature doesn't flinch, just releases a low growl as it hunches over Cameron.

It is humanoid, but its arms and legs are just too long, and the bones of its spine jut out along its back. It is wearing clothes; I recognise the flannel cardigan and jeans combo Not-Cameron was wearing when they left the house earlier. From what I can see of its neck and the ends of the limbs poking out from its sleeves and trousers, its skin is silvery-grey, but it's thin and almost looks like clingfilm, the shining red of its muscles are visible as they stretch and contract beneath the translucent skin. It's hair is pitch black, standing on end and shifting, reminiscent of a wind ruffling a field of corn.

Suddenly, in a motion so quick it appears to be a blur, the creature's head snaps down towards my former boyfriend.

Cameron's screams are cut off by a squelch followed by a wet gurgling that slowly goes quiet with a crunch.

Just as quickly as it started, it's over. The creature draws its head back up before flicking it, flinging something heavy down the hall. I can just see the edges of the bloody mess that is all that remains of Cameron's neck past its claws.

All falls still.

Deafening silence consumes my fear.

The creature begins to shake.

I can only watch in horror as it appears to distort and melt and crack and shrink.

Protruding bones retract back into its back, claws shrink, and limbs recede into its sleeves. A pearlescent liquid seems to ooze out from the muscles beneath the skin, swirling and filling the space beneath, hiding the muscles from view before changing colour. The sound of cracking bones and wet squishing sets off an uncomfortable feeling in my teeth.

Before it finishes transforming, it turns to look back at me.

I gasp.

Glowing silvery-blue irises in blacked-out eyes stare at me from above a stretched-out grin full of sharp teeth. A string of bloody drool hangs from their chin.

Half of its face appears almost mannequin-like, but from the other half the recognisable face of Not-Cameron stares.

Their skin swirls and distorts, the cloudy ooze beneath their skin floods the right side of their face first, before curling over to the left and solidifying. A ripple runs through their skin as it twists and distorts, growing to mirror the features on the other side to form the recognisable face of Cameron. With a series of spine-tingling cracks, their sharp teeth begin to snap into their gums and out of sight, leaving a set of pearly rounded normal teeth behind.

All goes still and, if not for the gash on their forehead leaking red and the blood drenching their clothes, Not-Cameron looks exactly as they did when they left earlier today.

Except for their eyes. Glowing silver and devouring black, staring at me with an unreadable emotion.

I can’t move. While my brain tries to process what I’m seeing, fear and a tinge of confusion keep me rooted to the spot.

Not-Cameron stares.