My Wife Is Trapped With a Killer Who Looks Exactly Like Me!

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Go check it out today by searching crime hub and the search bar on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or Amazon Music. Be sure to click follow to get notified every time a new episode is released. Dr. Nose Leap The detective stare at me, glare at me, watch me so closely that I twitch in my seat, which, of course, makes them stare and glare and watch even closer. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

Can I get a glass of water? I lift my hands to rub my temples, hoping to suave the ache that has been building for hours and is now a raging river of stabbing pain,

but my wrists are handcuffed and the cuffs have been secured to a ring in the table.

I can't even scratch my nose. I'm really thirsty. The detective's glance at each other, then return their gliers and stares back on me. Your thirsty, it's the one on the left.

“Detective Robbins, I think his name is, who asks me the question with cold cold eyes.”

Yes, sir. Does it have to be a glass? Or will a bottle of water do? That's the other one. Green, he's not as cold, but that could be an act. He could all be an act. They're trying to break me. Too bad for them, I'm already broken. After what I saw, yeah, I'm definitely broken. I clear my throat and try to smile like I'm gracious. Not like I'm happy. These two do not want me to be happy.

Bottled is fine. Yes, thank you. You sure? We might be able to send out for that water in the green bottle. What's it called? Peri-A. That's it, peri-A. You a peri-A guy, Morris? I'm fine with whatever you have on hand. That's kind of you. I don't know Robbins. We wouldn't want Mr. Meens here to have to slum it. We should call down to the Bodega and have them deliver some of that fancy peri-A. You're probably right. It'll make Morris

here more comfortable. He'll feel like he's in his element. Right, Mr. Meens? A little expensive bottled water makes you feel at home, doesn't it? A guy with your wealth has to be used to the finer things. It's not my wealth. It's my the due detectives lean in, setting their arms on the table. Their stairs and glares turned up to full wattage. It's your what, Morris? Were you going to say it to your wife's that the money is hers and not yours? I nod. I shouldn't.

I should wait for my lawyer to arrive. Where the hell is he? And with your wife out of the picture,

“all that money is yours now, I suppose. That's how it works in here. I've never killed my wife,”

so I wouldn't know. I didn't kill Bobby. I already told you that. Why won't you believe me? The detectives lean back. They share a look. Detective Green clicks his tongue. He wants to know why we don't believe him. Let's know to believe Mr. Meens here went on vacation with his wife. Yet his wife didn't come back. I told you what happened. The man, the one we found no evidence of. He's real. Is he? Yes. I tried to jump to my feet, but the damn ring in the table stops me dead.

I cry out and fall back into my chair. Calm down, Mr. Meens. Yeah, Morris. You didn't know thing we're on, so there's nothing to be upset about, right? Where's my lawyer? On his way. And you can stop talking at any time, Morris. Just clam right up. But then we can't help you, Mr. Meens. If we don't know what actually happened, then this man you say was there could hurt someone else. You don't want that, do you, Morris? Right, Mr. Meens. You don't want that, do you? I shake my head. No, I don't want

Then you won't have any trouble telling us again. Just in case we missed something in your first

telling. Or you forgot to mention something important. It happens. Sure does. You're stressed. Traumatized, scared, feeling a little guilty. Guilty? I'm not guilty. Great, that's just great. If you're not guilty, then there's no reason not to go over it one more time. Unless you are guilty,

“would happen to your wife. What happened to Roberta? Bobby, she goes by Bobby. What happened to Bobby?”

I already told you. How about you tell us one more time? Then we'll leave you alone. I leaned down to scratch my cheek. The detectives keep straight faces, but I can see the smurks hiding in their eyes. They're enjoying this. Okay. Okay, if they want me to tell it again, then I'll tell it again. But this time I'm not holding back. We'll see how they like that. Bobby and I left on Friday morning and reached the Shalei at around 3 or 4. 3 or 4.

Which is? 3 or 4? Can you be more precise? I'm not. Closer to 4.

Well, this looks amazing, baby. We pull into the circular gravel driveway in front of the Shalei

and I am pleasantly surprised. The place does look amazing. Way better than the picks on VRBO.

“Only the finest for my lady love. Bobby rolls her eyes as they park the Porsche Cayenne and stretch”

before shoving up in the driver's side door. Oh man, smell that air. I take a deep breath through my nose. Hints of pine and fur, snow and earth fill my nostrils. My lungs sting from the frigid air, but I don't mind. It's invigorating. Delightful. Bobby gives me that look of hers and I immediately search my phone for the keycode to the front door lock. I have it and the door opens in seconds. Bobby and I don't even take the time to look around. I grab her in my arms and carry her upstairs

to the king bed in the loft bedroom overlooking the rest of the Shalei. The sun has almost set before we climb out of the tangled sheets. Bobby hunts for her underwear and sweater. Well, I grab my t-shirt in jeans. I am starving. She stretches and I almost pull her back for another go. She can sense it and swats at me, even though I haven't moved a muscle. Can you bring in the bags while I make dinner? No problem, but you might need the groceries first. Bobby laughs. Yeah,

those help. We get dressed, kiss hard and deep, then play grab ass as we laugh our way down stairs. I throw on my jacket and pull on my shoes while Bobby heads into the kitchen and starts taking inventory of what tools and seasonings she has to make us a fine meal. Outside, the air has dropped a good 10 degrees already. It's going to be a cold night. But the Shalei boasts plenty of firewood, as well as central heat, so we'll be fine. My first task is to grab the

groceries out of the trunk. It's a cold outside that even in the trunk, the groceries are still cool. I snag what I can carry and head inside. First load in. I set the bags on the kitchen counter. Bobby waves at me or head in the fridge. Second load coming up. Thanks, baby. Her voice is muffled, but I can hear the pure joy in her town. It's good for her to get away from work. It's good for us to reconnect. Things haven't been easy. Not since the home invasion.

Let me stomp you there. This home invasion. They never caught the guy, right? I shake my head.

No. He beat you in your wife pretty bad, didn't he? I nod. I lump in my throat forming quickly, just at the thought of that night. No sexual assault according to the report. I shake my head

“in once. He threatened it. A lot. The two detectives share a look that I do not like. What? What?”

Something on your mind. I sigh. Can I get that water? It's on its way. How about you continue Mr. Means? Keep telling us your story. It's pointless to keep talking. They don't believe me. And my lawyer is going to shit 10 tons of bricks when he finds out. But a huge part of me wants this out. And wants it out now. With my hands occupied, with the cooler handles, I kick the front door with the toe of my boot. Bobby, a little help. I can hear faint music inside. Bobby must have figured

out how to connect her phone to the sound system. That's good. Because I am useless without stuff.

Bobby, come on. It's cold to shit out here. No answer. Did the music just get louder?

“No. I swear to God if she's messing with me, I'm going to get her back big time. My arms”

start to shake from holding the cooler. Add in the ever increasing cold, and I'm about to shiver myself into an epileptic fit. Bobby! This time, I know the music gets louder. It's some old jazz tune, some bebop song by Charlie Parker, one of those guys. Okay, you asked for it. I said the cooler down and grabbed the door handle. It's locked. Seriously? I pound on the door. Real funny. Open the door, Bobby. The jazz only gets louder.

Cute. Real cute. Punching in the keycode, I wait for the were of the lock to automatically open.

There's no were. Just an angry red light staring back at me. I try again. Same results.

Slaving my pockets I hunt for my phone, which is sitting next to the bed upstairs. Shit. Bobby! It's freezing out here. Come on. Open the damn door.

“The song ends, and I sigh as I listen for my wife's footsteps. Then the next song starts,”

and I hear nothing except for my own breathing. My chest hitches with a hard shiver. Screw this. Going back to the car, I opened the huge devil bag on the back seat, pulling out my ski jacket. I quickly pull it on, grateful for the sudden shield against the encroaching temperature drop. I returned to the front door one more time, give it a hard kick, rattle the door handle, then pound with both fists.

Bobby! Nothing. A step away from the front door, walking back a few steps to look up. Maybe she's in the upstairs bathroom. Then I thought it hits me. Oh, man. She started a bath and can't hear me down here. She should be making dinner, but knowing my wife and how snow and cold weather get her all revved up, I bet she changed her mind. Not that I'm complaining.

“As I think this, the light upstairs turns on.”

Bingo. My little horny toad is making its super romantic up there I bet. The shadow comes to the window and pushes the drape aside just to crack. I frown. That's a big shadow. Bigger than Bobby. Then I laugh at myself. It's all distortion. The light behind is making the shadow look bigger than it is. That's all. Except if she's out the window

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What the hell? Okay, I'll go around back. Maybe the doors on the deck are unlocked. Stuffing my hands into my coat pockets, I stomped through the snow and headed to the stairs on the side of the house. There's a low gate at the base of the stairs and I tried to open it with a latch as jammed so I have to swing a leg over. My foot slips when I set it down on the

first step and I almost lose my balance, which would suck because I'd land crotch first on

the top of the gate. Oh, Bobby is in for it now. I am going to tickle torture her until she almost piece herself. I swear to God I'll do it. tickle torture. You sure that's all you ended up doing? There was an awful lot of blood for just a playful tickle sash Morris. I moan at the pain in my head. Then take a deep breath. I didn't get the tickle her or even touch her again. I told you, the doors were locked. Then they were locked. Then they were unlocked when the deputy arrived though.

that you swore were locked. Doesn't add up. No, it doesn't add up. I lick my lips and continue.

“Not for the detectives benefit, but for mine. I have to say all of this out loud, even the crazy”

stuff, even if I know they won't believe me. Stumbling my way up the slippery stairs like I'm

in some old silent black and white slapstick fell. I finally get to the back deck. There's another

gate at the top, which is an even bigger bitch to climb over. I tumble onto the deck, roll onto my back, then see that the gate has no latch, just a long spring that keeps it in place. I could have just pushed it open. Bobby will get a kick out of this. After I kick her sweet little ass into next week, with love, of course. Picking myself up, I brush off the snow from my jeans and coat, then hurry over to the French doors that are glowing brightly now that the sun is fully set.

I almost feel the warmth from inside, wafting out in waves. I try the French doors, but both handles are locked. I knock on the glass and peer inside.

Bobby, come on! You've played your joke! Now let me him before my nuts freeze off!

“I wonder how close the nearest neighbors are. Can they hear me shouting?”

I hope not. We have a great guest rating on Verbo, and I don't need some annoyed neighbor ruining that score. I knock again, but just a little softer this time. Bobby, narrowing my eyes, I study the scene inside. I can see a pot on the stove, steam, billowing out of it, probably pasta water. But Bobby must not have dropped the pasta. Otherwise, she'd be standing over that pot like a mama bird protecting our hatchlings. Bobby only eats

al dente pasta, so she watches her water like a hawk. Aliens could land in the kitchen, and she wouldn't turn away from the pot. But there's no Bobby in the kitchen. Then I see a shadow on the stairs and smile, tapping at the glass. Bobby! The shadow materializes into a person. A person who is not my wife. It's a man wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

“His back to me. He moves to the stove, looks at the pot, then moves onto the fridge.”

I don't know what to do. I'm so stunned that I take a few steps away from the door as I stare at the man's back. There's something familiar about it, but I can't quite place it. He opens the fridge and bends over. I lose sight of him. My view blocked by the kitchen island. A faint voice echoes from upstairs, and the man straightens in turns. He's drinking straight from a can of beer. Where the beer come from. I haven't even brought the cooler inside yet. Then I blink

a few times, because the cooler is sitting on the kitchen floor next to the island. But that's impossible. I rush the French doors and grab the handles, juggling them with all of my strength. Still locked. The flat of my hand smacks against the glass. Hey! Hey! Get the hell out of there asshole! The man pauses. Then he lowers his beer can and turns to face me. A gas, stumble, and fall on my ass.

The seat of my jeans is soaked by the snow, but I barely notice. My attention is on the man and the man only. Shaking my head back and forth, I try to make sense of it as the man smiles and walks to the French doors. He gives me a wave, a wave with my own hand. Because the god damn man is me, I am staring right at my own face. This part I hadn't told the detectives earlier. I said a man. I didn't say the man was me,

or looked exactly like me at least, even down to the scar on his left shoulder and the birthmark above his right nipple. My scar, my birthmark, needless to say, the looks on the detectives faces at this revelation or more than skeptical. Robbins leans back and scratches his chin while green only frowns at me. When I brown raised like he thinks I'm crazy. I don't blame him.

I could easily be crazy because none of this can be true. Get it is. Robbins finally clears his

throat and tries to put a friendly smile in his face. It just makes him look like he has gas. "You saw yourself through that window?" I nod. "Are you sure it wasn't just your reflection?" I laughed and it comes out bitter and scared. "If it were my reflection, I'd have been staring at a me that was wearing a coat and jeans, not just a bathroom towel around my waist. Maybe you were, maybe you only had a towel on and were suffering from hypothermia, severe hypothermia

can cause acute hallucinations, you know. Why would I be wearing only a towel outside?

It wasn't a doppelganger. It was me. I know it was. Robbins nods.

“"So you did get inside?" I slammed my palms against the table. To their credit,”

the detectives barely react except for a tightening around their mouths. "I didn't get inside!

I never got inside!" Green holds up his hands trying to play gate me. "God it, you never went

inside. You only witnessed what happened from outside on that deck, right?" I'd take a few deep breaths and nod. "Right. I had to watch it all from out there. They must have been horrible. Watching it all happened and you couldn't do anything about it. It was awful." I see the look they give each other, but I continue my story anyway. I smile at myself. Well, no, I don't smile at him. He smiles at me.

"Who are you? Get out of there! Stay away from my wife!" The doppelganger only shrugs. Then he puts a hand to his ear and his smile widenes.

“Stepping to the side, he gives me a view of Bobby walking into the kitchen with only a towel on.”

I leap to my feet and race to the French doors, pulling the handles and shaking the doors in their frames with all of my strength. "Bobby! Bobby! It's not me! That's not me!" She doesn't even turn around. It's as if I don't even exist. I hear her say something, but it's not to me. It's to him. The doppelganger laughs. Then walks away from the window, heading for the kitchen. I slap the glass over and over and over again. It doesn't matter.

Bobby can't seem to hear me. Looking around, I spot some deck furniture. I hurry to a metal chair and pick it up, turning around so fast that I slip in the snow and almost fall onto my side, but I keep my balance and stomp over to the French doors. The chair held over my head. The doppelganger must sense something, because he looks over his shoulder

“just as I slam the chair into the glass. The chair bounces off without even leaving a mark.”

The doppelganger smiles wide, too wide, like his mouth can go on forever and ever. I throw the chair at the French doors, then go back for another. I throw that, and the next one, and the next one. Bobby doesn't even glance at me. The doppelganger shakes a finger, then heads toward the kitchen once again. Pressing my face to the glass, I watch in horror as the fake me reaches my wife. He wraps an arm around her waist,

and I can hear her faint giggle as she swats at him. She drops pasta into the boiling pot, and the fake me tries again. This time sticking his whole arm up her under her towel. She squeals and spins about, wrapping her arms around his neck. I can see her face. I can see her looking right at me. My hands bang and bang on the window. I put so much force into it that I should be coated in shattered glass, but if a patio set can't break through,

then I almost numb from the cold hands aren't going to either. The doppelganger must say something

funny, because Bobby laughs and pushes back from him. She looks up with a smile that always fills

my heart with joy. Then the smile starts to slip. She pushes harder, but the fake me isn't letting go. Bobby's smile turns to a frown, and now she's actively shoving at him. He throws his head back in laughs. She starts beating at his chest, shouting words I can barely hear. He laughs again, spins around, grabs her by the back of the neck, and shoves her entire head into the pot of boiling water. No! No, Bobby! The doppelganger doesn't look my way, but he flaps a hand in my direction

dismissing me with a casual wave. I throw my shoulder into the glass. Paying shoots down my arm in my hand tingles from the impact. I don't care. I try again and again. Each time crying out to some nerve in my shoulder gets pinched over and over. Bobby is thrashing against the fake me's grip. Her arms are swinging backwards. Her fingers like claws trying to stop him. The nurse thrashing slows, and she goes limp. The doppelganger catches her around the waist before she can fall.

He heaves her body up onto the island, sending bottles of olive oil and red wine vinegar, salt and pepper shakers, and a napkin holder flying in all directions. The doppelganger smiles at

me as he slowly reaches behind him for something. But I don't see what it is, not at first. My eyes

are on Bobby. Her chest is moving, so she must still be alive. But her face, her hair is matted to her head. And her skin is almost sloughing off from the boiling water. Those rosy cheeks I love so much or nothing but dripping skin. I can see the muscle peeking out from underneath. She rolls her head back and forth, and I can tell she's crying now. Even though her tears are lost in the damage the pasta water did do her. No, the pasta water didn't do it. He did. I'll kill you. I will kill you!

A long one pulled from the chalice wood block that sits next to the stove.

“The guy makes a point of showing off the blade, turning it this way and that.”

He runs a finger along the blade and pretends it cuts him to prove how sharp it is. He laughs and rolls his eyes. And he plunges the knife into Bobby's chest. Blood spurts from the wound is my wife screams and screams. The man yanks the blade out. And with one flick of the wrist, Bobby's neck opens. Blood pours from the wound. She tries to clamp her hands over the gash, but the doppelganger swats her arms away. I can see her gasping struggling to breathe.

Then, at the last second, her head tilts my way. And she sees me. She sees me. I know she does.

Bobby, I'm coming! But I don't move. I can't. Her hand reaches for me. Her arm stretching and stretching until it's no longer there. The doppelganger has switched to a meat cleaver. And with one swing, he's taken her arm off at the shoulder. Bobby's eyes go wide. Then they go dead. All life, having left them as her shoulder spurts blood everywhere.

I scream and cry and throw myself against the French doors. And the fake me only smiles, watching me freak out, amused with it all. Then he gets to work. Peace by peace. He dismembers Bobby. He takes the other arm, holding it up to show me. He takes her right leg, her left leg. He slices pieces of her off that I can't even talk about. And he packs her up from the cooler and goes upstairs.

Robbins looks like he wants to hit me. Green is hiding it better, but a vein pulses in his neck.

What did you do with the second cooler, Mr. Means?

There wasn't a second cooler. See, that's hard to believe. We found all that blood inside. We even found a pattern of blood on the floor, saying shape is the cooler's bottom. Yet when the deputy arrived, there was a cooler still on the front porch. No blood on that one. Which means there was a second cooler.

“It must have been a doppelganger like he was. You like that word now, don't you?”

Doppelganger. Helps explain all this crazy shit. Makes you feel like it's not your fault. It's the doppelganger's fault. There's no second cooler, just a doppelganger cooler. Convenient. Not for me. Green laughs at that. Okay, so you watched the doppelganger review. Pack your wife's body into a doppelganger of the cooler you brought. Then why? Robbins looks at his partner like he's lost his mind. Green just shrugs.

Robbins shakes his head and leans back in his chair. Yes, Mr. Means. Then what? Fake me, goes upstairs. I look around for something else to break the glass with. But other than an umbrella stand, which is way too heavy for me to lift. There's nothing. The doppelganger reappears in the kitchen. Fully dressed now. That was fast, too fast.

Giving me a quick wave. He bends down and picks the cooler up. Ben turns and walks toward the front door. I race away from the French doors and slips slide my way down the side stairs, nearly tumbling over the bottom gate. I jump it, manage to keep my footing and sprint around to the front door. Decorative rocks peek up out of the snow, and I snatch one as I take the steps.

Ready to smash the electronic lock where the doppelganger's face, whichever I get to first.

But there's no one on the porch. Only the cooler I left behind. And the front door is wide open. Bobby! I scream her name over and over as I run inside. Blood trails from the door to the kitchen, and I pause when I see the mess on the island. My stomach lurches, and I turn and throw up. When I stand back up, wiping my mouth,

I almost expect to see the mess gone in Bobby standing at the stove, hovering over her pasta. But there's no Bobby. Only blood. So much blood. Whirling around, I go back outside and scream for my wife. No answer. Nothing. Then I look down at the cooler. I don't want to open it, but I have, too. Using the toe of my boot, I kick the lid up.

Groceries, only groceries, ham, cheese, and veggies, salsa, and hummus, condiments, salad dressing, two bottles of white wine, no pieces of Bobby. Bobby! Bobby! I scream her name until my voice gives out.

“So then you called the police, and that's what you did next?”

A nod. Green is about to say something, but there's a knock at the door. A police officer looks in and beckons for green to join him in the hall. Be right back!

silence is broken by green shouting. "What do you mean if you don't want that?"

“Robbins frowns and looks back over his shoulder, just as green bursts into the interrogation room.”

What is it? He's free to go! What? Why? Green fixes his eyes on me. His wife is here to pick him up. I barely hear the words before I'm being unshackled,

and led out of the room by Robbins and Green. They walk me through the station's halls

and into the front lobby, where Bobby is standing, smiling at me. But that's not my wife's smile.

“No, no, I know that smile. It's his smile. The doppelgangers! I am so sorry, officers. He went off”

his men's last week without telling me. I have a call into his doctor. Green hands me over to my fake wife. No, stop. It's him. This isn't my Bobby! I keep protesting, but the detectives only shake their heads as paperwork is processed, and I'm set free. When fake Bobby takes my arm to lead me out, I try to yank away, but her grip is like iron.

“Thank you, officers. Again, I'm so sorry for this trouble.”

Then we're outside, and it's dragging me to our car. A car that I left at the Shalei when I rode back into town in the back of a police cruiser. Fake Bobby opens the passenger side door, then leans in close to my ear. Don't worry, it'll all be over soon. We'll get you back to your house and prep the web nice. Your wife is already dressed and ready to go in the oven.

You will make the perfect appetizer, first course. It shows me into the car, and I sit there,

two stunned, two afraid, to even twitch. When it gets into the driver's seat, it turns, and gives me that awful smile. Even though it's all for me, I call meals like this, dinner for two, cute huh? I look out the window, and see green and robins standing in front of the station, watching us. I slam my hands against the window and scream for help, but they can't hear me. They must not even see me really, because they both shake their heads, shrug, and walk back inside,

leaving me to be driven off by something that isn't my wife that isn't me, but is very, very hungry. The doppelganger chuckles. It's face, shifting constantly as we drive. I start to cry. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe, and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.