Identical

I live in one of those developments where every house is identical – the layout of the house, the colors, even the landscape. It was a cheap build, but the location was perfect, and I couldn’t beat the price.

Between work, the gym, and whatever other odd errands I have to run, I’m typically out of the house, and therefore the neighborhood, all day. My house is really just a place to keep my stuff, sleep, and occasionally eat. The HOA deals with the lawn upkeep, so I don’t even have to do that. I just walk into my garage, get in the car, pull out, and drive away. I guess that’s why I didn’t think it was odd that I never saw my next-door neighbor.

Well, that’s not true. I did see them, or I saw someone. It seemed like every time I looked through the window at the house next door, there was someone standing there, looking at me. Even if it was just a glance, I would see them. It was always behind a sheer curtain, so I never got a good look at them.

I admit I was a little creeped out at first. But I knew that this neighborhood was full of retirees and older folks. I just assumed that this was some lonely old lady bored out of her mind, and people-watching kept her entertained. I shrugged it off and went about my life.

I had lived in that house for almost two months before I actually had the opportunity to stay home all day. Well, was forced to, anyway. My washing machine was on the fritz, and I’m useless when it comes to home repairs, so there I was, waiting for the tech, who could show up any time between 10 and 4. I kept myself busy with little chores here and there. I even tried to sit down and read a book, but that didn’t last long.

Before long, I got so impatient that I actually started pacing through the house from one end to the other – kitchen to living room and back again. On the fourth or fifth lap, something out the dining room window caught my eye, but I walked past before I got a good look at it. On the way back, I saw it again, and this time I stopped in front of the window. Once again, through a sheer curtain, I saw someone watching me.

Maybe it was the impatience eating away at me; maybe my neighbor had just done it one too many times. Whatever the reason, I got annoyed. I pulled back my sheer curtain to get a better look and display my own irritated expression.

As I pulled the curtain back, they did the same. I squinted at my neighbor. Our houses were far enough apart that I couldn’t see details, but the woman looked much younger than I expected.

That piece of information sent me from annoyed to angry. A lonely old woman people-watching was one thing, but this person was no old woman, and she seemed intent on watching me.

I had had enough. I strode out of my house, down the sidewalk, and up to my neighbor’s door. I raised my hand to knock, but something out of the corner of my eye stopped me. In the flower bed next to the door sat a little stone frog. That frog was not on the HOA’s approved lawn ornamentation list. How did I know? Because I had the exact same frog in my flower bed next to my front door. I brought it from my old house and had to fight the HOA to keep it. I had seen it in my flower bed when I walked out the door, so I know my neighbor didn’t steal mine.

Was my neighbor copying me? Did they have some weird obsession with me? Were our houses not identical enough?

Truly pissed off now, I banged on the door with my fist. Each knock echoed slightly as if someone was knocking a millisecond after me, but there was no response. I banged once more, yelling, “Hello?” My voice echoed off the house's brick wall, but there was still no response.

“I know you’re in there!” I shouted. “I saw you looking at me through the window!”

I waited another second or two, but no one answered. Finally, my rage took over, and I reached for the handle. To my surprise, the door was unlocked, and without thinking, I pushed it open.

On the other side of the door was . . . my house. It was a perfect copy – my furniture, my curtains, my area rugs, my pictures, my décor.

And standing in front of me was a perfect copy . . . of me.