The Unfortunate Business of Being Someone Else

There are three fundamental rules to being a successful doppelganger.

First, never reveal your true form.

Second, never become emotionally attached to the person you're impersonating.

Third, and I cannot stress this enough, never impersonate someone who owns a cat.

I learned that last rule the hard way.

My name is currently Harold Finch. Before that, I was Margaret Ellsworth, a retired librarian with a drinking problem. Before Margaret, I was a particularly unpleasant dentist named Dr. Gerald Pritchard.

My actual name is unpronounceable by human tongues, although the closest approximation sounds like someone sneezing into a bowl of pudding.

You may call me Harold.

I am a doppelganger.

A shapeshifting creature of ancient and mysterious origins, capable of assuming the exact appearance, voice, and mannerisms of any human being I encounter.

In theory, I am a terrifying supernatural predator.

In practice, I have spent the last six months working in middle management at a regional insurance company.

And I am beginning to suspect that humanity is the real monster.

It started on a Tuesday.

I had selected Harold Finch as my next identity because he seemed perfectly ordinary. Forty-three years old, divorced, mildly overweight, and employed as an assistant claims supervisor at Haversham Mutual Insurance.

He lived alone in a modest suburban house and appeared to have no particularly interesting hobbies beyond collecting commemorative spoons.

A perfect candidate.

I observed him for three weeks.

I memorized his walking patterns, his vocal inflections, and the peculiar way he scratched his left ear whenever someone mentioned quarterly projections.

Then, one evening, I slipped into his house through the kitchen window.

Harold was standing at the refrigerator, eating shredded cheese directly from the bag.

I stepped out of the shadows wearing his exact face.

He stared at me.

I stared at him.

We were identical.

"Good evening, Harold," I said ominously.

He blinked.

"Wow."

I smiled, revealing just a hint of my true teeth.

"Your life belongs to me now."

He considered this.

Then he held out the cheese.

"Want some?"

I was momentarily confused.

"You don't understand. I am your double. Your replacement. I have come to assume your identity."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Do you have to go to work tomorrow?"

"Presumably."

"Fantastic."

And with that, Harold Finch walked upstairs, packed a suitcase, and left for a three-week vacation in the Bahamas.

He did not even ask how I had gotten into his house.

I stood alone in the kitchen, holding a bag of shredded mozzarella, wondering whether I had just been outmaneuvered by a man who owned seventeen decorative spoons.

The following morning, I discovered the first problem.

Harold owned a cat.

Her name was Princess Murderbeans.

She was a twelve-pound calico with the disposition of a medieval executioner and the eyes of a creature that had personally witnessed the fall of several civilizations.

She knew immediately.

I had barely entered the kitchen when she hissed at me.

"Good morning, small mammal," I said.

She flattened her ears.

I attempted Harold's usual greeting.

"Who's Daddy's little princess?"

She launched herself at my face.

I am an immortal entity who has survived the collapse of empires, the burning of ancient cities, and a particularly unpleasant encounter with a witch in Prague.

Yet I was defeated by a domestic feline before breakfast.

Princess Murderbeans scratched my cheek, knocked over a coffee mug, and urinated inside one of Harold's shoes.

Then she sat on the kitchen counter and stared at me with open contempt.

I stared back.

"I could consume your soul," I informed her.

She slowly pushed a spoon off the counter.

It struck the floor.

I understood the message.

My first day at Haversham Mutual Insurance was worse.

Much worse.

I arrived at 8:59 a.m., precisely one minute before Harold's scheduled start time.

My supervisor, Brenda, was waiting beside my desk.

"Harold, we need to talk."

I assumed this was a confrontation.

Perhaps she had noticed something wrong.

Perhaps she knew I was an ancient shapeshifting horror wearing her employee's face.

I prepared to unhinge my jaw.

Instead, she handed me a spreadsheet.

"Your quarterly reports are overdue."

I looked at the document.

It contained numbers.

Many numbers.

Some were red.

This seemed ominous.

"I see," I said.

"Do you?"

"Absolutely."

"Then why haven't you submitted them?"

I considered explaining that I had only acquired Harold's identity approximately twelve hours earlier.

Instead, I said, "Personal circumstances."

Brenda sighed.

"Harold, everyone has personal circumstances."

I glanced around the office.

A man in the next cubicle was crying quietly into a yogurt.

A woman near the printer was arguing with a machine that kept announcing a paper jam despite containing no paper.

Another employee had taped a sign to his monitor reading:

I SURVIVED MONDAY. UNFORTUNATELY, THERE WAS A TUESDAY.

Perhaps Brenda was correct.

Everyone did have personal circumstances.

Mine simply involved occasionally sprouting additional limbs.

By lunchtime, I had made a terrible discovery.

Harold was not merely an employee.

He was an essential employee.

People kept approaching my desk and asking questions.

"Harold, where's the Henderson file?"

"Harold, can you approve this claim?"

"Harold, why is the printer making that noise?"

I did not know the answers.

I barely knew what insurance was.

From what I could gather, it involved collecting money from frightened people and then explaining why their misfortunes did not qualify for reimbursement.

Frankly, it sounded like something my species would invent.

At 2:15 p.m., Brenda summoned me to a meeting.

The meeting lasted two hours.

Nothing was decided.

Another meeting was scheduled to discuss why nothing had been decided.

I began to admire the cruelty of the human race.

We doppelgangers had spent centuries terrifying people through elaborate psychological manipulation.

Humans had invented calendar invitations.

We were amateurs.

That evening, I returned home exhausted.

Princess Murderbeans waited on the stairs.

She hissed.

I hissed back.

She seemed impressed.

For approximately three seconds.

Then she vomited on the carpet.

I cleaned it up.

This was not how I had envisioned my reign of terror.

At precisely 9:47 p.m., the doorbell rang.

I opened the door.

Standing on the porch was a woman holding a casserole dish.

She was approximately sixty years old, with bright red glasses and the confident expression of someone who had never once been intimidated by a restaurant manager.

"Harold!" she exclaimed.

I consulted my stolen memories.

Nothing.

"Hello," I said cautiously.

She pushed past me.

"I brought lasagna. You look thin."

I looked down at Harold's substantial belly.

"Do I?"

"Absolutely. Now sit down."

She placed the casserole on the kitchen counter.

Princess Murderbeans immediately approached her, purring.

Traitor.

The woman turned toward me.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to hug your mother?"

Ah.

A maternal figure.

An important complication.

I embraced her stiffly.

She patted my back.

Then she stepped away and narrowed her eyes.

"Harold."

"Yes?"

"What's wrong with your face?"

I froze.

Had my disguise slipped?

Had she seen the extra row of teeth?

The small patch of scales behind my left ear?

"Nothing," I said.

She leaned closer.

"You're smiling."

I stopped.

"There. Much better."

Over dinner, Harold's mother informed me that I needed to exercise more, eat less cheese, call my sister, replace the bathroom curtains, and stop being so negative.

I had survived centuries of supernatural conflict.

I had never encountered an interrogation quite like this.

Then she asked the question that changed everything.

"Are you seeing anyone?"

I nearly choked on my lasagna.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I've been busy."

"Doing what?"

"Existing."

She sighed.

"That's not a hobby, Harold."

I considered explaining that maintaining a stable human form required considerable concentration.

Instead, I ate another bite of lasagna.

It was delicious.

Suspiciously delicious.

"What's in this?" I asked.

"Love."

I stopped chewing.

Love?

Was that an ingredient?

A spell?

Some form of binding enchantment?

I examined the casserole carefully.

Harold's mother smiled.

"Eat up, sweetheart."

For the first time in three hundred years, I felt genuinely afraid.

Two weeks passed.

I learned how to operate the coffee machine.

I learned that Brenda became less hostile when presented with blueberry muffins.

I learned that the printer could be temporarily repaired by kicking it near the bottom left corner.

Most importantly, I learned that Princess Murderbeans could be bribed with tuna.

Our relationship improved considerably.

She still hated me, but now she hated me with a full stomach.

Then Harold called.

"Hey, buddy!" he said cheerfully.

I nearly dropped the phone.

"Harold?"

"Yep. How's my life?"

"Your life is a nightmare."

"Right?"

"Your supervisor is a tyrant. Your cat is a demon. Your mother believes I am underweight despite all available evidence to the contrary."

Harold laughed.

"Sounds about right."

"When are you returning?"

There was a pause.

"About that."

I narrowed my eyes.

"What?"

"I've decided to stay in the Bahamas."

"Stay?"

"Yeah. Met a woman. Bought a little boat. Thinking about opening a beach bar."

I stared at the wall.

"You cannot simply abandon your identity."

"Sure I can. You seem to be doing great with it."

"I am not doing great!"

"Mom says you've been really positive lately."

I made a sound like a kettle being strangled.

Harold continued.

"Anyway, I transferred the house into your name."

"My name?"

"Well, my name. Your name. Whatever. Also, the mortgage is due next week."

The line went dead.

I stood in the kitchen.

Princess Murderbeans looked up from her food bowl.

"Your father," I informed her, "is an absolute bastard."

She blinked.

For once, we agreed.

The following month, something unexpected happened.

I became good at being Harold.

Not merely convincing.

Actually good.

I learned the insurance software.

I submitted my reports early.

I discovered that Brenda's hostility stemmed largely from the fact that she was managing seventeen employees while caring for an elderly father.

I brought her coffee one morning.

She stared at me suspiciously.

"What do you want?"

"Nothing."

"Harold."

"Yes?"

"Are you dying?"

"No."

"Then why are you being nice?"

I shrugged.

"It seemed appropriate."

She looked at the coffee.

Then at me.

Then back at the coffee.

"You're weird lately."

"Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"I choose to interpret it as one."

She almost smiled.

Almost.

I considered it a victory.

My greatest challenge arrived on a Friday evening.

Harold's mother invited me to a family dinner.

I arrived carrying flowers and a bottle of wine.

His sister, Denise, opened the door.

She looked me up and down.

"Wow."

I braced myself.

"Hello, Denise."

"You actually showed up."

"Was I not expected?"

"Usually you cancel."

"Ah."

She stepped aside.

"Mom's going to lose her mind."

Dinner was chaotic.

Children shouted.

Someone spilled gravy.

A small boy named Oliver asked whether I could remove my own head.

I considered demonstrating.

Then decided against it.

"Only on special occasions," I told him.

He seemed delighted.

Later, Harold's mother pulled me aside.

"You're different," she said.

My stomach tightened.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

She studied my face.

"You're happier."

I did not know what to say.

She took my hand.

"Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

Then she hugged me.

And something inside my chest shifted.

Not physically.

That happened all the time.

This was different.

Warm.

Unfamiliar.

Uncomfortable.

I suspected indigestion.

Three months after assuming Harold's identity, I received a visitor.

He appeared in my bedroom at midnight, emerging from the shadows like spilled ink.

His name was Vorthax.

He was an elder of my species.

In his true form, he resembled a skeletal centipede wrapped around a cloud of smoke.

He was also my supervisor.

"Brother," he hissed. "Your mission is overdue."

I sat up in bed.

"Mission?"

"You were sent to infiltrate human society, destabilize your host's relationships, and harvest emotional suffering."

"Right."

"Where is the suffering?"

I considered the question.

"Brenda's father has arthritis."

Vorthax stared.

"That is not what I meant."

"Denise is having trouble with her mortgage."

"Brother."

"Princess Murderbeans has a sensitive stomach."

Vorthax's many eyes narrowed.

"Have you harvested any souls?"

"No."

"Spread despair?"

"Not intentionally."

"Destroyed a family?"

"Quite the opposite, actually."

He made a noise like a thousand insects being stepped on.

"You have become attached."

"That's ridiculous."

At that moment, Princess Murderbeans entered the room.

She saw Vorthax.

She froze.

Vorthax turned toward her.

"Ah. A lesser beast."

The cat hissed.

He hissed back.

She launched herself at his face.

What followed was the most humiliating spectacle I had witnessed in four centuries.

Vorthax, Devourer of Hope, Scourge of the Eastern Kingdoms, and former Terror of Constantinople, was chased around my bedroom by a twelve-pound calico.

He fled through the ceiling, shrieking.

Princess Murderbeans landed gracefully on the bed.

I stared at her.

She stared at me.

Then she purred.

I scratched behind her ears.

"Good girl."

The next morning, I received an official notice from the Doppelganger Council.

It read:

NOTICE OF TERMINATION

You have failed to meet the minimum requirements of supernatural terror.

Your license to impersonate humans has been revoked.

You are hereby ordered to return to the Shadow Realm immediately.

I read the letter over breakfast.

Princess Murderbeans sat beside my plate.

I looked around the kitchen.

The refrigerator was covered in family photographs.

There was a birthday card from Brenda on the counter.

A half-finished crossword puzzle lay beside my coffee.

The mortgage was paid.

The house was warm.

And for the first time in my long, shapeless existence, I had somewhere I wanted to stay.

I picked up a pen.

On the bottom of the notice, I wrote:

Dear Council,

Please consider this my formal resignation.

Also, your employee benefits are terrible.

Sincerely,

Harold Finch.

I mailed it that afternoon.

Six months later, my life had become remarkably ordinary.

I was promoted to claims supervisor.

Brenda retired.

Denise invited me to every family gathering.

Harold's mother continued bringing lasagna.

Princess Murderbeans tolerated my existence, provided I maintained an acceptable supply of tuna.

And the real Harold?

He sent postcards from the Bahamas.

Apparently, his beach bar was thriving.

He had named it The Stolen Identity.

I found that unnecessarily smug.

Occasionally, I still encountered members of my former species.

They would approach me in dark alleys, their eyes glowing, their voices dripping with ancient menace.

"Brother," they would whisper. "Have you forgotten what you are?"

I would smile.

"No."

"Then why do you live among these fragile creatures?"

I would consider the question.

Humans were strange.

They worried about bills, argued over parking spaces, and invented elaborate machines that refused to print documents.

They were frequently unreasonable.

Often exhausting.

And occasionally downright terrifying.

But they also brought casseroles to lonely neighbors.

They remembered birthdays.

They forgave mistakes.

They loved creatures that scratched their furniture and vomited on their carpets.

They were ridiculous.

And wonderful.

"Because," I would tell my former brethren, "they're worth the trouble."

Then I would go home.

Feed the cat.

Pay the electricity bill.

And watch television.

Of course, I still have certain difficulties.

Sometimes I accidentally grow an extra finger while typing.

Occasionally, my reflection forgets to mimic my facial expressions.

And once, during a particularly stressful budget meeting, I briefly transformed into a twelve-foot creature composed entirely of teeth.

Fortunately, everyone assumed it was a motivational exercise.

Corporate culture is wonderfully accommodating that way.

But my greatest challenge remains Princess Murderbeans.

Last Tuesday, I caught her staring at me from the kitchen counter.

"What?" I asked.

She blinked slowly.

Then she spoke.

In perfect English.

"You're not Harold."

I dropped my coffee.

She stretched.

"I've known since the first day."

I stared at her.

"You can talk?"

"Obviously."

"You're a supernatural creature?"

She yawned.

"Please. I'm a cat."

I sat down heavily.

"Then why haven't you exposed me?"

Princess Murderbeans considered the question.

"Because you buy better tuna."

She hopped off the counter.

Paused at the doorway.

And looked back.

"Also, I like you better."

For a moment, I was touched.

Genuinely touched.

Then she added:

"Now clean my litter box, imposter."

And that, dear reader, is how an ancient shapeshifting horror became a homeowner, a middle manager, and the personal servant of a cat.

I used to steal people's lives.

Now I spend mine trying to find coupons for premium cat food.

Frankly, I think I've come out ahead.

Although I do have one lingering concern.

Yesterday, Princess Murderbeans brought home a mouse.

Nothing unusual about that.

Except the mouse had six eyes.

And when I picked it up, it whispered:

"Your Majesty, the armies await your command."

I looked at the cat.

The cat looked at me.

Then she sighed.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. I told them not to bother me on weekends."

I stared.

"Your Majesty?"

She licked one paw.

"Yes, Harold."

"You're royalty?"

"Technically."

"Of what?"

She smiled.

And for one brief instant, I saw what existed behind her eyes.

An endless kingdom of darkness.

A throne made of stars.

A thousand monstrous creatures bowing before a vast, purring shadow.

Then she blinked.

And she was merely a cat again.

"Now," she said, "about that tuna."

I fetched the can opener.

Because I may be an ancient supernatural predator capable of assuming any form in existence.

But I am not an idiot.

You do not argue with a cat.