The Curse of the Doppelganger

The man I called my father once told me that no one can survive this life wearing one face alone. Whether it is for friends, colleagues, or even the dead, all people don a mask at least once in their lives, to preserve that which lies beneath. For years I took his words as a challenge, and strived for honesty in all matters– minor or otherwise. Yet, as time has gone on I have begun to see the truth behind his distant smile. For, even in honesty, there are facades, and in truth there are knots. Ones twisted enough such that even a good man may one day become a stranger to himself, whether he wishes to or not. 

But that is not a proper beginning, so I will start again.

Just east of the Cascade Mountains, hidden behind its lush peaks, lies the vast open plains of Washington state. These counties, lying far from Seattle's urban sprawl, are a world in themselves. One with families who have grown and died on the same plot of land, time and time again, unto eternity. It is a strange place to explore, especially for one who has rarely had the privilege of remaining in one place for long. Yet, all the same it is a  realm chosen to delve into in the search of my family, and all the truth I might find there.

I always tell people I am from Ritzville. In part because no one likes to say they were born in Walla Walla (gods forbid) and because my grandmother lives there still. Short of listing the CPS office that handled my case, that decrepit house is the closest thing I have to a home, and the woman inside the only thing that could pass for my family. Perhaps you may think that harsh, but you do not know her as I do. Though, I hope to change that.

Annabelle Von Brag is a stern woman. She is the most crabby, stubborn old thing you could ever meet, truth be told, but kind in her own way. She owns a manor on the eastern edge of Ritzville, where she lingers on as its single resident. She is not known to venture far from its walls, save to go into the market to buy groceries. Those who see her will often say that she is a prickly sort, with her long grey hair tied back in a bun, and a look of puckered disapproval always on her lips. To all who meet her she is an oddity. The elusive matron of a long dissolved family, whose lineage threatens to vanish with the slightest breeze. Perhaps that is why she accepts my company– such that it is. Despite the irregularity of my work, I am always certain to stop by, and share a cup of tea with her. It is during one such meeting that our story begins. 

"You are getting fat," she said to me, one warm summer's day. "That must mean you are being paid more, ya?"

She always talked to me that way, even in my earliest memories, with curt inflections mimicked from her time visiting Germany. Though the Von Brags immigrated away from the old country nearly two centuries ago, she still goes on about our heritage as though she was born in the cellar of some antique castle. It is one of the many oddities of her character that have remained constant, even in her twilight years.

"I wish I could say so." I was between jobs, truth be told. Though I had until this point managed to scrape together a living as a private investigator, neither employment nor housing was ever a certainty for me. Still, there were worse fates. The foster care system in this country being what it is, I have always considered myself lucky to have at least held onto a car to sleep in when the going got tough. Still, that was all a bit much to throw at my last living relative so early into our relationship, and so I instead decided to respond with a shrug and a quick retort. "Food is just getting sweeter these days."

"Hm!" She snorted at that, and took another sip of her tea. It was a thick, bitter petrol, which carried more caffeine in a single drop than all the espresso in Seattle. Some days I wondered whether the concoction was all that kept her alive, frail and groaning as she was. "You should take a loaf with you. I have rye, white–"

"Thank you, Oma, but–"

"Hush! You need good food. Not that shit they serve in a plastic box."

That day was like any other time I had visited her. There were long, drawn out silences, and time spent alone to one's craft; in her corner knitting, and in mine touching up photographs. What little we said to each other was at her suggestion. For, if there was anything the denizens of Ritzville knew about old Annabelle Von Brag, it was that she did not like being interrupted. Yet, that did not mean that there was no talking to the woman. Far from it. Only, it was said to be much more like a dance. An ebb and flow, from which bruises may arise. Even still, she was ever kind to me, and I trusted her on that day as I desperately searched for information. 

"Try this," she piped up again, and forced a loaf of dark rye onto my lap. "One slice for breakfast and you'll be fit as a fiddle."

It is at this point that I feel I must make it clear to you, my gathered readers, what my intentions were for this particular visit. For, though I had grown to enjoy my time with the matron Von Brag, there was more at play in my repeated visits than quiet sentiment. Rather, it was for want of closure, you might say, in the matter of injuries long since left to molder. 

Namely, the matter of my father, the infamous Robert Von Brag. You in the outside world might remember him as the Snake River Butcher. A singularly savage Serial Killer, who targeted the small towns of eastern Washington in the late 90s. If you followed his story closely you may also be vaguely aware of a civil case that ran parallel to my Father's trial. One which sought to determine whether the state should assume custody over my person, or pass it on to my next of kin. What was not made public was the outcome of that case, and why– exactly– my grandmother was not given custody over me. As I have come to understand, the matter came down to a matter of character. Specifically, in her refusal to acknowledge her son as a killer. Even when my mother broke rank and admitted to her part in the murders. Even when witness testimony doomed him. Even when his blood was found on the murder weapon. And even when she was told I would be sent into foster care. Even then she refused to denounce my father for what he was, and so my fate was sealed.

So I ask that you offer me some grace, when I tell you of what followed. For, given our history it did not come naturally to me how one might even begin to broach the topic of our family's past. Such things were never taught to me, and in my desperation I attempted honesty. You could call it my first, trembling step into the unknown regarding that tangle of wanton emotions, which had occupied the sleepless corners of my mind for what was the entirety of my adult life. 

Perhaps that is why my voice cracked a bit when I uttered a brief offering. 

"Oma, forgive me for asking, but when was the last time you spoke to Robert. To my father, I mean."

"I have not spoken to him since you were a boy. You know that."

"That's a lie, Oma." I cut in. And then, knowing my time was brief, I went on. "I know you're lying. I called the prison. You were there last month."

The words hung in the air for a moment. Long enough for me to feel the need to break the silence, in fear it might devour us both. 

"Please, I'm not angry. I won't bring it up again. I just need to know–"

"That was not your father." The words fell from her like gravel tumbling from a hand. With each word I felt the tension in my shoulders release, only to be replaced by something else. Something far more vile, gnawing at my stomach. For, I felt I knew the woman well by then. At least well enough to know when she lied. And on that day I saw no deceit across her face. No malice either.. Only fear. "It may have looked like him, talked like him, but it was not my Robert. I did not lie."

At once I was struck silent. When I was eventually able to speak again, it was only to utter a stuttering, "I don't… how could you… why?" 

She sighed. At that moment I had never seen her so frail. Slow as the grave, she made her way to the fireplace, and motioned for me to follow.

"Sit."

As I had a hundred times before, I obeyed. 

"If you wish to know, I will tell you. But once I start I will not stop. I cannot. I am old now, and I may forget something if I pause. You will stay until I am satisfied, and then I will answer your questions. Do you understand?"

I did not. But out of sheer curiosity– or was it desperation– I nodded all the same.

After another pause, my grandmother went on. 

"In the old country it went by many names. I have come to learn them all. Mimmikr, Hobgob, and Jotun among them. Once, your grandfather called it a demon, but what did he know? Beings like that. They are what they bring about, and all the wickedness that is sure to follow.  It is a fact of our line. A curse upon our name. A Doppelganger."