Doppelgänger

"...It sometimes happens, however, that a person reporting a ghost later learns that it wasn't actually a ghost, but a person still alive. This encounter, however, has certain paranormal characteristics that defy rational explanation." Peter Palmer paused for a moment and looked around the room warily. The audience didn't disappoint him; the vast majority of faces wore condescending smiles. It was always like this; crowds came to his lectures, but no one took what he said seriously. Everyone considered him a harmless lunatic. He sighed quietly and continued. "These phenomena are known collectively as 'ghosts of the living.' This term is used to describe a wide range of similar phenomena involving the sight of a ghost who isn't a ghost at all." A few chuckles rose from the crowd. Peter allowed himself a faint smile. "We divide them into the following groups: doubles, bi-locations, vardrogers, and doppelgängers." The scientist glanced at the clock hanging in front of the entrance. It was ten to five. Time to go. He still had to get to work today. "Today we'll focus on that last one. A doppelgänger is a peculiar "split" of a person. A "clone" usually appears near the "original" and performs the same actions as it.

The hand of the black-haired man, sitting almost in front of the cathedral, shot up. Peter couldn't hide his surprise.

"Yes?" He smiled encouragingly.

"Is it true that the appearance of a doppelgänger is a harbinger of death?" the student asked seriously. A roar of laughter echoed through the entire hall. Even the lecturer joined in the general hilarity. He always found such superstitions amusing.

"No. It's just one of those superstitions. There's not the slightest evidence for it."

The questioner didn't look convinced. He was opening his mouth to say something when a mocking voice drowned him out.

"And do they even believe ghosts exist?" someone sneered.

"Yes, and the result is my lecture today," he replied coldly. "The lecture you've just listened to." He tapped his notes on the lectern, signaling the end of the meeting. He sank into a chair, watching the wave of people slowly pouring out. He couldn't spot the man who had asked him the question in the crowd.

"What a shame. It's rare to meet a man who doesn't make fun of these things," he thought ruefully. "

Home at last..." he grumbled, slipping into the hallway. He was exhausted; his boss, that nasty, insensitive bastard, had made him stay after hours. By the time he finally crossed the threshold, it was almost 11:00 PM. Peter tossed his briefcase into the corner and casually kicked off his shoes. As an old bachelor, he had plenty of bad habits, and one of them was undoubtedly being messy.

"Oh well, I'll clean up tomorrow."

He stood in front of a tall mirror and ran his hand through his gray hair.

"God, I look like I just crawled out of a coffin."

He'd been working way too hard. He was overtired. He should have toned it down a bit. He wasn't twenty, after all...

The moment he decided to go to bed tonight without a bath, he felt a terrible pain in his chest. He let out a short, surprised, pained cry and clutched his heart. A ripping wave of agony enveloped his entire left arm.

"Heart attack?!" He exchanged a terrified look with his fading reflection and collapsed to the floor. "

Just superstition, eh?" The black-haired man smiled crookedly, taking a notebook from his uniform pocket. In the bright morning light, the light played on his polished police badge.

"Peter Palmer," he muttered to himself, tracing his pencil across the paper, "age 58, found dead in his apartment on September 23rd. The body lay against the doorframe from which the door had been removed. Cause of Death: heart attack - the black-haired man thought for a moment and put a big question mark next to the cause of death.