PART 6: THIS Is What Happens When a DOGMAN Marks Your Property | Wildlife Tracker Explains the Warning Signs
PART 6: THIS Is What Happens When a DOGMAN Marks Your Property | Wildlife Tracker Explains the Warning Signs
PART 6: THE OTHER ME
I used to think the worst thing that could happen in those woods was finding something I couldn’t explain.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was finding something I could explain perfectly.
Because when the other me stood across that dead forest holding the wooden box, there was nothing supernatural about the way he looked.
He looked like me.
Not similar.
Not close.
Me.
Same face.
Same scar above my eyebrow.
Same old watch.
Same jacket.
Even the little tear near the right pocket was there.
I had put that tear there myself years ago climbing through a fence.
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then he smiled.
And I realized something that made my stomach turn.
He wasn’t surprised to see me.
He had been expecting me.
“Who are you?” I asked.
He tilted his head.
“You know.”
“No.”
“You just don’t remember.”
Walter stepped between us.
“Don’t talk to him.”
The other me laughed.
“Still doing that, Walter?”
Walter’s face went pale.
The other me looked at him.
“You always were afraid of telling him the truth.”
Walter raised his rifle.
“Back away.”
The other me didn’t move.
Instead, he looked at me.
“Ask him about the first night.”
I looked at Walter.
“What first night?”
Walter didn’t answer.
The other me smiled.
“The night you came here.”
Walter finally spoke.
“He’s lying.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
Walter stared at the ground.
The other me took another step forward.
“Tell him what happened to the original owner.”
Walter’s silence answered for him.
I felt something inside me break.
“What happened?”
Walter whispered:
“You killed him.”
THE Original Owner
I almost laughed.
It was too absurd.
“I wasn’t even here.”
“You were,” Walter said.
“Years before you remember.”
The other me shook his head.
“No. Don’t tell him that.”
Walter looked at him.
“You don’t get to decide anymore.”
The other me’s expression changed.
For the first time, he looked angry.
Walter turned to me.
“The property had an owner before you.”
“I know.”
“He disappeared.”
“I know.”
“You were there.”
“I wasn’t.”
Walter looked at me.
“You were.”
He told me the previous owner had been named Harold Vane.
Harold had lived alone on the property for twenty-two years.
He was a hunter.
A tracker.
A man who knew the woods better than anyone.
Then, one autumn morning, Harold vanished.
His truck was still parked outside.
His rifle was inside.
His boots were beside the door.
But Harold was gone.
There were tracks behind the house.
Human tracks.
They led toward the marked trees.
Then they stopped.
Just like the old stories.
But there was one thing nobody knew.
Harold had left a recording.
A tape.
Walter had heard it.
And on that tape, Harold said one sentence.
“If the next owner comes, don’t let him go into the woods.”
I looked at Walter.
“Why?”
He shook his head.
“Because Harold knew who the next owner would be.”
I already knew the answer.
Me.
The Missing Week
The other me held up the wooden box.
“You want the truth?”
I nodded.
He opened it.
Inside was the photograph.
But now the photograph was different.
It showed me standing beside Harold.
I had never seen the man in person.
Yet the photograph showed us shaking hands.
Behind us was the house.
And behind the house were the marked trees.
I looked at the date.
Seven years before I bought the property.
My mind began to ache.
“I wasn’t there.”
The other me looked at Walter.
“Tell him.”
Walter said nothing.
“Tell him what happened.”
Walter finally spoke.
“You were there.”
“How?”
“You were brought there.”
“By who?”
Walter looked at the other me.
“By him.”
I turned.
The other me smiled.
“I needed you.”
“For what?”
“To open the door.”
I felt sick.
“You used me?”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You were already part of it.”
I didn’t understand.
Then the memories started coming.
Not slowly.
All at once.
A forest.
Rain.
A flashlight.
Harold standing beside me.
A stone staircase.
Walter yelling.
Something screaming underground.
Then a door.
A hand reaching through.
And me standing in front of it.
I remembered.
I remembered everything.
The missing week wasn’t missing.
It had been removed.
Seven Days
I remembered the first day.
Harold had taken me into the woods.
He told me the property wasn’t his.
He said it belonged to something older.
Something that had been there before the trees.
Before the road.
Before people.
He showed me the first marked tree.
The same four parallel lines.
Then he showed me something I’d never seen.
A second set of marks.
Five lines.
He told me:
“The four belong to the Keepers.”
“What about five?”
He said:
“Five means it has noticed you.”
I asked what “it” was.
Harold wouldn’t answer.
That night, I heard knocking.
Three times.
The second night, four.
The third night, five.
On the fourth day, Harold disappeared.
I found him beneath the house.
Or what I thought was beneath the house.
He was standing in front of the circular door.
And he wasn’t alone.
Something stood behind him.
Something wearing his face.
Harold turned toward me.
He said:
“Don’t believe me.”
Then the thing behind him spoke.
It used Harold’s voice.
“Believe me.”
I ran.
I made it to the surface.
Then I forgot.
Everything.
Until now.
The Thing Called the Witness
The other me told me the thing behind the door had a name.
The Witness.
Not because it watched.
Because it remembered.
Everything that happened near the door became part of it.
Every person.
Every voice.
Every face.
Every fear.
Every decision.
The Witness didn’t need to leave the underground chamber.
It could send pieces of itself out.
Copies.
Memories.
Imitations.
That was what the Hollow One had been.
That was what Daniel had been.
And the other me?
He wasn’t a copy.
Not exactly.
He was something worse.
He was the version of me that had stayed behind.
The part of me that had entered the door seven years ago and never came back.
I stared at him.
“You were inside.”
He nodded.
“You left me.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“You left me.”
The sentence hit harder than anything else.
He stepped closer.
“You chose to go back.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s because Walter made you forget.”
I looked at Walter.
He didn’t deny it.
“Why?”
Walter lowered his rifle.
“Because you couldn’t survive knowing.”
“Knowing what?”
Walter looked toward the dead forest.
“You didn’t escape the door.”
“You made a deal with it.”
The Deal
I remembered the room.
The stone.
The chains.
The circular door.
And the sound behind it.
The Witness had spoken to me.
It had used my voice.
It told me something.
Something I had completely forgotten.
It said:
“You can leave.”
I had asked what it wanted.
It said:
“A way back.”
I didn’t understand.
Then it showed me something.
My house.
My future.
My life.
Everything that would happen.
The house.
The property.
The silence.
The marks.
The cameras.
The dog.
Walter.
All of it.
I saw it before it happened.
And I agreed to something.
I just couldn’t remember what.
I looked at the other me.
“What did I promise?”
He smiled.
“Me.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
“You promised to send someone back.”
“Who?”
He stepped closer.
“Yourself.”
The First Lie
Walter finally raised his voice.
“Don’t listen to him.”
The other me turned.
“You’ve lied to him for years.”
“I protected him.”
“You erased him.”
“You saved his life.”
“You stole his life.”
Walter’s rifle shook.
The other me laughed.
Then he looked at me.
“You want to know the first lie?”
I said nothing.
“You weren’t chosen by the property.”
He pointed toward me.
“You chose it.”
The memory hit.
The day I first saw the house.
I remembered the previous owner.
Harold.
He had stood on the porch.
He had looked at me.
Then he said:
“You’re finally back.”
I thought he meant back in the area.
But he hadn’t.
He meant back to the property.
Back to the door.
Back to the agreement.
I had asked him why he was selling.
He had said:
“Because it’s your turn.”
I remembered laughing.
I thought it was a joke.
It wasn’t.
The Keepers Arrive
A deep sound rolled across the dead forest.
Walter looked behind us.
The Keepers were coming.
Dozens of them.
They moved between the dead trees.
But something was different.
They weren’t coming for us.
They were coming for the other me.
The other me looked over his shoulder.
For the first time, fear appeared in his face.
“That’s not supposed to happen.”
Walter smiled faintly.
“They know.”
The other me turned.
“Know what?”
“That you’re not him.”
Silence.
I looked at the other me.
“What did he mean?”
The creature stared at me.
Then it slowly changed.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Its face shifted.
For a moment, it looked like Daniel.
Then Harold.
Then Walter.
Then someone I had never seen.
Then me again.
But the eyes remained black.
The Keepers stopped.
One stepped forward.
It raised its hand.
And pointed at the other me.
Then it pointed at me.
Then it made a gesture I had seen before.
Four fingers.
Then one.
Four.
Then one.
Walter whispered:
“Five.”
I understood.
The five marks didn’t mean the Witness had noticed me.
They meant the Witness had created a fifth boundary.
A boundary between two versions of the same person.
The Fifth Mark
The ground split.
A line appeared between me and the other me.
The same black crack that had appeared behind my house.
But this time it was wider.
And something moved beneath it.
The other me backed away.
“No.”
Walter grabbed my arm.
“Stay behind the line.”
“Why?”
“Because whoever crosses first loses.”
“To what?”
“To the other.”
I looked at the creature.
“What happens if I cross?”
Walter said:
“You become the memory.”
“And him?”
“He becomes the real one.”
The other me smiled.
“You see?”
He stepped toward the line.
“You need me.”
“No.”
“You do.”
He pointed toward the dead forest.
“You don’t belong here.”
“Neither do you.”
He laughed.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Then he stepped over the line.
Nothing happened.
He looked at me.
“See?”
I didn’t move.
Then he stepped back.
Still nothing.
Walter whispered:
“He’s testing you.”
The other me smiled.
“Exactly.”
He raised the wooden box.
“Because I know what happens when you cross.”
He opened it.
Inside was the photograph.
The photograph of me and him.
But the image had changed.
There was now a third person standing between us.
A woman.
I didn’t recognize her.
She was holding a baby.
And beneath the photograph was a date.
Tomorrow.
I stared.
“What is this?”
The other me smiled.
“That’s what happens next.”
The Woman in the Photograph
I looked at Walter.
He had gone pale.
“You know her.”
He didn’t answer.
“Who is she?”
Walter looked toward the forest.
“Your wife.”
I froze.
“I don’t have a wife.”
“Not yet.”
The other me laughed.
“She hasn’t met you.”
I stared at the photograph.
The woman looked terrified.
The baby was asleep in her arms.
Behind her stood the marked trees.
And behind those trees stood the Keepers.
But there was something else.
Something standing beside the house.
A tall figure.
Watching.
The Witness.
I turned the photograph over.
There was writing.
SHE OPENS THE SECOND DOOR.
Then another sentence appeared beneath it.
The ink seemed fresh.
AND SHE REMEMBERS EVERYTHING.
I dropped the photograph.
The dead forest went silent.
The other me stopped smiling.
Walter whispered:
“We need to leave.”
“Where?”
He looked toward the Keepers.
“They’re opening a path.”
A gap appeared between the creatures.
Beyond it was a road.
A normal road.
My road.
The one leading away from the property.
Morning sunlight shone through.
For the first time, I saw an escape.
But Walter shook his head.
“Don’t trust it.”
“Why?”
“Because that road isn’t for us.”
The other me stared at it.
Then he whispered:
“It’s for her.”
The Woman Was Coming
We heard footsteps.
Far away.
Human footsteps.
Someone was walking through the dead forest.
The Keepers turned.
Walter raised his rifle.
The other me backed away.
Then a woman appeared between the trees.
She looked exactly like the woman in the photograph.
Same clothes.
Same face.
Same terrified expression.
But she wasn’t carrying a baby.
She was carrying something else.
A wooden box.
Another one.
She looked at me.
And immediately started crying.
“You finally came back.”
I couldn’t speak.
She stepped closer.
Walter lowered his rifle.
The other me stared at her.
Then she looked at him.
Her expression changed.
She became terrified.
“No.”
The other me whispered:
“Hello.”
She backed away.
“You shouldn’t exist.”
He smiled.
“You remember me.”
She nodded.
“I remember everything.”
I looked at her.
“Who are you?”
She turned toward me.
And said my name.
Not the name everyone knew me by.
My full name.
The name my mother used when I was a child.
A name I had never told Walter.
A name I hadn’t heard in decades.
She stepped closer.
“I was there when you made the deal.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What deal?”
She looked at the other me.
Then back at me.
“You promised the Witness that if it let you leave…”
She stopped.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
“…you would bring it a family.”
The other me smiled.
Walter closed his eyes.
And somewhere behind us, beneath the dead forest, the enormous bell rang again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a fourth.
The fifth never came.
Instead, the circular door appeared between the trees.
Standing upright.
Alone.
Open.
And on the other side was my house.
But it wasn’t the house I knew.
It was older.
Broken.
Abandoned.
And standing in the upstairs window was someone watching us.
I lifted the rifle.
The woman whispered:
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
She looked at me.
“Because that’s you.”
I stared at the window.
The figure moved closer to the glass.
It raised one hand.
And waved.
The other me suddenly stepped backward.
For the first time, he looked genuinely terrified.
“What is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer.
Walter did.
His voice was barely audible.
“That’s the original.”
I looked at him.
“The original what?”
Walter swallowed.
“The first version of you.”
The figure in the window smiled.
Then the door behind us slammed shut.
The Keepers disappeared.
The woman screamed.
Walter raised his rifle.
The other me ran.
I stood frozen.
The figure in the window pressed its hand against the glass.
And then I saw the impossible.
A second hand appeared beside it.
Then a third.
Then dozens.
Hands pressed against every window of the house.
People were inside.
Hundreds of them.
All watching.
All waiting.
And every face belonged to someone I had seen before.
Daniel.
Harold.
Walter.
The woman.
The Keepers.
And me.
Every version of me.
Every version except the one standing beside me.
The other me stopped running.
He slowly turned around.
His face had changed.
He no longer looked like me.
He looked like something older.
Something tired.
Something that had been waiting for a very long time.
He looked directly at me.
And said:
“Now you understand.”
Then he pointed behind me.
I turned.
The woman was gone.
Walter was gone.
The road was gone.
The dead forest was gone.
I was standing alone in my own backyard.
Morning sunlight filled the sky.
My house stood exactly where it had always stood.
The birds were singing.
The wind was moving through the trees.
Everything was normal.
Almost.
Because the wooden box was sitting on my porch.
I approached it slowly.
There was no lock.
No note.
Only one photograph.
I picked it up.
It showed my house.
The back yard.
The marked trees.
And me standing on the porch.
But the photograph had been taken from inside the house.
From behind me.
I turned toward the front door.
It was open.
I had locked it before leaving.
I looked back at the photograph.
There was writing on the bottom.
Not in my handwriting this time.
Not Walter’s.
Not Daniel’s.
A different hand.
Three words.
WELCOME HOME, ORIGINAL.
I heard something move inside.
Then my own voice called from the hallway.
“Are you coming?”
I didn’t answer.
The voice laughed.
Then came three knocks.
From inside the house.
I stepped backward.
Another three knocks.
Then five.
And finally, one last sound.
A baby crying.
I stared at the open doorway.
I didn’t have a wife.
I didn’t have a child.
I had never seen that woman before.
At least, that’s what I had believed.
Until a photograph slid slowly across the floor from inside the house.
It stopped at my feet.
I looked down.
It showed me holding a baby.
The woman stood beside me.
And behind us was the house.
But the date printed in the corner was tomorrow.
I looked at the doorway again.
Something was standing there now.
I couldn’t see its face.
But I knew the posture.
I knew the shoulders.
I knew the way it tilted its head.
It was me.
And it was smiling.
Then it whispered:
“Come inside.”
I didn’t move.
The thing took one step forward.
And behind it, somewhere deep beneath the house, something began knocking.
Three times.
Four times.
Then five.
The final knock shook the windows.
The birds outside disappeared.
The woods went silent.
And the front door slowly began closing.
I had spent my entire life believing the woods were where the danger lived.
I finally understood the truth.
The woods had never been trying to keep me out.
They had been trying to keep it in.
And now the door was closing from the wrong side.
The last thing I saw before it shut was my own face looking back at me.
Then the darkness swallowed the house.
And from somewhere inside came a voice I had not heard since I was a child.
My mother’s voice.
Soft.
Calm.
Calling my name.
“Come home.”
I stood alone in the yard.
The door was closed.
The woods were silent.
And beneath my feet, something knocked once.
Then stopped.
I waited.
Nothing.
I waited longer.
Still nothing.
Then, very slowly, the ground beneath the house began to breathe.
