CHAPTER: ONE
Eric
Knock.
I jolted upright, heart hammering against my ribs.
Another knock — louder this time.
Stumbling to the door, adrenaline buzzing through my veins, I yanked it open. A group of strangers stood clustered on the porch, their faces smiling.
"Yes?" I croaked; my voice was hoarse.
A woman stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Good day, sir, we’re here to—"
She didn’t finish.
A man shoved past her, his eyes blazing with a rage so raw it made me flinch.
"YOU! You burned down my house!" he bellowed, jabbing a finger into my chest.
My mind fractured.
"W-what? Me? Burn your house?" I stammered; every word heavier than the last. "I don’t even know you!"
"Don’t play innocent!" another man barked, stepping forward, his gaze hostile and suspicious. "We see you every day! You’re the arsonist — and the kidnapper too!" He narrowed his eyes, inspecting me like he could peel the truth from my skin. "Wait... you even look like Mr. Spencer’s girlfriend!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" I gasped, panic clawing at my throat.
Without warning, a woman shoved the men aside. A flash of metal — handcuffs — gleamed in the sunlight before she snapped them tight around my wrists.
"I’m Officer Olivia," she said coolly, flashing a badge. "You are under arrest for arson and kidnapping."
The words smashed into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
The world tilted, spun.
I hadn't burned anything.
I hadn't kidnapped anyone.
I was innocent.
I am innocent.
But no one was listening.
The police car screeched to a halt outside the station. Officer Olivia yanked the door open and dragged me out, the cuffs biting into my wrists.
Inside, the station was a blur of fluorescent lights, clacking keyboards, and murmured conversations. Every pair of eyes pinned me like a bug on display — the criminal, the monster.
Olivia marched me past desks and glares, toward the holding cells. Each step felt heavier, like the ground was trying to swallow me whole.
We turned a corner, and then I saw her.
Sophie.
Tall, blond, familiar.
My sister.
“Sophie!” I cried out, yanking against the officer’s grip.
“Eric?” she blinked, confused, horror blooming across her face.
“Olivia, bring him here,” Sophie commanded.
The officer dragged me over.
“Why are you handcuffed?” Sophie demanded, wide-eyed.
"I don't know! They just showed up — they said I burned down a house, kidnapped kids — but I swear, I didn’t do anything!" I blurted, the words spilling out in a flood.
"Ma’am," Officer Olivia interrupted coolly, "we have evidence. Surveillance footage."
"Show me," Sophie said, her voice sharp.
We followed her to a small, dim room. On the monitor, the footage played.
It was—
Me.
Torching a house.
Dragging terrified kids into a van.
And I dressed up like a woman with Mr. Spencer under a flickering streetlight.
My blood turned to ice.
I gaped at the screen, my body rooted to the floor.
No. No. No.
Sophie’s face twisted into something I had never seen before: betrayal.
"Eric," she said, voice shaking, "you have been sentenced to five years of imprisonment for arson and kidnapping."
The words didn’t feel real.
The ground cracked beneath me, swallowing me whole.
"I didn’t..." I whispered, but even I could hear how empty it sounded.
The officers seized my arms, their grip bruising, mechanical.
No one met my gaze.
To them, I wasn’t a boy anymore.
I was a monster.
They shoved me into a cell — a suffocating box of iron and concrete. The door slammed shut behind me with a cruel finality.
I stumbled back against the cold wall, slid down until I was curled on the rough floor. My breath came in ragged gasps. Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I bit them back, hard enough to taste blood.
Innocent.
Innocent.
Innocent.
The word echoed inside me, a broken prayer.
But no one was listening.
Not even Sophie.
I was alone.
And somehow, deep down, I knew:
I might never be free again.
Days blurred together inside the cell.
Each hour dragged like a chain across my skin, cold and heavy.
I barely moved. I barely spoke.
I just... existed.
Waiting.
For what, I didn’t know.
Until one day, the cell door creaked open.
I looked up, blinking against the harsh fluorescent light.
Standing there, framed by the doorway, was Sophie.
She looked different — older somehow. Her posture was stiff, her expression unreadable. She stepped inside; the door clanging shut behind her.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then, quietly, she said, "Eric."
My throat tightened.
"Sophie," I rasped, dragging myself to my feet. "Please — you have to believe me. I swear I didn’t—"
She held up a hand, silencing me.
"I know," she said, her voice low. "That’s why I’ve been watching. Investigating."
Hope flared — wild, dangerous.
"You believe me?" I whispered.
Sophie didn’t answer directly. Her eyes flicked over me, searching, calculating, almost like she was piecing together a puzzle with too many missing pieces.
"I've been observing you carefully these past few days," she said. "Your behaviour, your memories, your reactions to everything."
She hesitated, and for a moment, her mask cracked — a flicker of doubt, of sadness.
"I think," she continued slowly, "I might have figured it out."
She didn’t say what it was. Didn’t explain.
Didn’t tell me.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What is it?" I demanded, desperate. "Sophie, please—"
But she only shook her head, firm and unyielding.
"I can’t tell you yet," she said. "I’m not completely sure. If I’m wrong..." Her voice faltered for a moment before she steeled herself. "If I’m wrong, saying anything now could destroy whatever chance we have left."
I felt like I was dangling over a cliff, fingers slipping, and she had the rope but wouldn’t throw it.
"What are you going to do?" I asked, my voice barely a breath.
"I’m going to take my findings to the head detective," she said. "I'll make them investigate deeper. I'll make sure that whatever’s happening—whatever’s been done to you—comes to light."
"And if they don’t believe you?" I whispered.
She met my eyes, fierce and unwavering. "Then I'll find another way."
She turned, pausing at the door.
Her hand hovered over the handle.
"Sophie..." I croaked.
She didn’t look back.
But her voice, soft and steel-edged, drifted back to me:
"Hang on, Eric. Just a little longer."
Then the door shut, leaving me alone once more — but this time, a tiny flicker of hope burned in the darkness.
CHAPTER: TWO
Sophie
I had been observing Eric.
He wasn’t different growing up.
Not really.
But now... something didn’t feel right.
Something was wrong.
I strode past the rows of desks, my mind spinning with a thousand fragmented thoughts.
I didn’t knock. I didn’t wait.
I needed answers — now.
"Cooper. My office. Now."
Without another word, I pushed through the door. It slammed shut behind me, rattling the glass in its frame.
Detective Carlton Cooper entered a moment later, adjusting his tie, trying — and failing — to mask the tension on his face.
"Yes, ma’am?" he said.
I didn’t waste a second.
"You were the lead detective on the Roberts case, correct?"
"Yes, ma’am, I was," he replied, brow furrowing. "Why?"
I leaned against my desk, the weight of my thoughts dragging me down.
"Do you remember what happened with him?"
"Of course."
His arms crossed, his voice steady. "Roberts had two personalities — a male and a female."
I swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in my mouth.
"What do you mean had?" I pressed, my voice sharp. "Is he cured? I mean — can it be cured?"
I heard the crack in my own voice.
The fear is bleeding through.
Carlton hesitated. Measured me with a long look.
"Ma’am," he said carefully, "is this about Eric?"
My lips parted. A lie perched on my tongue, but I couldn’t force it out. Instead, I raked my hands through my hair and started pacing, the floorboards groaning beneath my frantic steps.
"Yes, Carlton," I finally admitted, voice raw. "This is about Eric."
He watched me for a beat before exhaling slowly.
"I figured," he said. "I’ve been watching him too."
I stopped short, turning toward him. "So, you know what I mean?"
"I do, ma’am."
Good. He understood the storm brewing beneath the surface.
"Take your partner," I instructed, "and visit Mr. Spencer. Ask him everything he knows about Eric. And Carlton..." I fixed him with a look, "You know what I expect. No half-measures."
"Understood, ma’am," he said crisply.
"And you?" he asked.
I arched an eyebrow, but answered anyway, "I’ll stay here. Watch Eric. McNabb will deliver Robert’s file."
Carlton nodded and left. I watched him and Juliet move out — a small knot of hope tightening in my chest. Minutes later, McNabb arrived, a thick, battered file in his hands. I barely muttered a thank you before snapping it open.
At the same time, my gaze flicked to the CCTV feed of the holding cells. There he was — Eric. Or sometimes not. One moment, he was Eric — broken, terrified, pacing like a trapped animal. The next, he was someone else — a smirk curling his lips, movements sharp and violent. And then, inexplicably, he transformed — delicate gestures, head tilted, a preening vanity in every step.
A woman.
My heart pounded. The file in my lap felt heavier with each passing second. As I read through Roberts' case, the certainty building inside me grew — fifty percent had become seventy, and climbing.
But there were two pieces of the puzzle still missing.
And to find them, I had to go back to where it all began.
Eric’s house.
The house was exactly as I remembered — plain, neat, ordinary.
But the truth was rarely ever on the surface. I slipped inside, glancing over my shoulder. The rooms were quiet, untouched. I moved quickly, careful not to leave a trace. It was the basement door that caught my eye — a small, barely noticeable notch in the hallway wall.
I opened it and descended, the air growing colder, heavier with each step. At the bottom, the world changed. The basement was not Eric's.
It was hers. Romilda.
Photos of a blonde woman—Eric in heavy makeup, glamorous dresses, and striking poses—plastered every wall like a shrine. Gowns hung in corners, and stilettos littered the floor. A four-poster bed draped with a silky, netted canopy dominated the centre of the room. A vanity, laden with high-end products and glittering jewellery, stood by the far wall.
I walked through it all slowly, swallowing the sickening twist in my stomach. This was Romilda’s domain. Eric’s basement was a shrine to his alter ego — a queen in her castle.
But Romilda wasn’t the one who burned houses.
Romilda wasn’t the kidnapper. No, there was a third.
The one I had seen on the security feed — violent, erratic, filled with a burning, uncontrollable rage. I had found Romilda.
Now I had to find him.
And I knew — the answers weren’t just here. They were hidden deeper, behind locked doors of Eric’s fractured mind.
CHAPTER: THREE
Carlton
We pulled up outside Spencer’s house just after sunset.
It was a clean, modest place — two floors, pale walls, flowers neatly trimmed along the porch rail. Too perfect, I thought grimly. Places like this had a habit of hiding their worst secrets behind the prettiest walls.
Juliet cut the engine. We exchanged a glance — no words needed — and climbed out of the car. I rapped sharply on the door.
A few seconds later, it swung open to reveal Spencer. Mid-thirties, thin, well-dressed, and pale — too pale. His eyes darted between us. "Good evening, Mr. Spencer," I said, flashing my badge. "Detective Carlton Cooper. This is Detective Juliet Hawthorne. We’d like to ask you a few questions." He hesitated — just for a second — then stepped aside. "Of course," he said. His voice was soft, almost trembling. "Come in."
The house smelled faintly of coffee and old wood. Family photos lined the walls. A golden retriever barked half-heartedly from a room down the hall. We followed Spencer into the living room.
He perched nervously on the edge of an armchair, hands wringing each other until the knuckles turned white. "Mr. Spencer," I started, flipping open my notepad, "we’re here regarding Eric." Instantly, something shifted in him. He stiffened, but not out of guilt — more like... confusion.
"Eric?" he repeated, blinking. "Yes," Juliet said, leaning forward slightly. "Your boyfriend." The word seemed to hit Spencer like a slap.
He let out a brittle laugh. "Boyfriend? No, no — I’m dating Romilda." Juliet and I shared a glance. "Romilda?" I prompted carefully.
"Yes," Spencer said, smiling a little, his fingers loosening their death-grip. "Romilda. She’s... beautiful. Dramatic, a bit vain — but sweet. We met about eight months ago. She used to sneak out at night to see me."
He smiled again, this time almost fondly, lost in some private memory. "And you’re saying you’ve never met... Eric?" Juliet asked. Spencer frowned, genuinely puzzled. "Eric? No. I’ve never met anyone named Eric." I scribbled a note, feeling a chill crawl up my spine.
"And when you say Romilda," I said, keeping my voice even, "what does she look like?"
"Blonde," he said instantly. "Tall. Always wore glamorous dresses. Makeup perfectly done. She had this...this fierce confidence about her. Like she owned every room she walked into."
I could see him getting lost in the image — the fantasy.
"Did you ever meet her family?" Juliet asked, pulling him back. Spencer shook his head. "No. She said her family didn’t approve of her lifestyle. She told me she was living alone, that she had... trouble at home."
Trouble. That word echoed in my mind.
"Did she ever tell you her real name?" I asked. He hesitated, brow furrowing. "I just assumed Romilda was her real name," he said after a moment. I leaned back slightly, letting that sink in. Romilda — the name of Eric’s alter ego. And Spencer was none the wiser.
"Did you ever notice... anything strange about her behaviour?" Juliet asked. "Mood swings? Memory gaps? Violence?" Spencer flushed, looking uncomfortable.
"Well," he said slowly, "sometimes she'd act... different. Cold. Angry. Sometimes she’d lash out — verbally, mostly. Yelling about things that didn’t make sense. And sometimes, she wouldn’t remember conversations we’d had the night before. I'd ask her about something important, and she’d stare at me like she’d never heard of it."
He swallowed hard. "But she always came back. Sweet again. Loving."
Classic signs. My gut twisted. The puzzle pieces were clicking into place.
"Thank you, Mr. Spencer," I said, standing up. "You’ve been very helpful." Spencer rose too, looking lost. "Is she... is Romilda in trouble?" he asked, voice small.
Juliet offered a soft, neutral smile. "We’re just trying to get a clearer picture."
We didn’t tell him the truth.
Not yet.
Not that Romilda didn’t exist the way he thought she did. Not that Eric — the broken boy — and Romilda — the glamorous woman — and someone darker still, were all tangled inside the same person. Not that the man/woman he loved might be a stranger even to himself/herself.
As we stepped back out into the night, Juliet pulled the car keys from her pocket. "You think he’s telling the truth?" she asked quietly.
I didn’t hesitate. "One hundred percent," I said. “And it just confirms what Sophie feared." Juliet nodded grimly.
I stared out at the street, at the rows of perfect houses glowing under the streetlights. Places that hid broken things so well.
"We have Romilda," I murmured. "Now we just have to find the monster hiding underneath."
And fast. Before someone else gets hurt.
CHAPTER: FOUR
Sophie
I stormed back into the station, my footsteps echoing off the tiled floor. Through the glass window of my office, I saw Carlton and Juliet hunched over the surveillance monitors, their faces grim.
They looked up sharply as I barged in, the air between us charged.
"Anything?" I barked. Carlton straightened. "Yes, ma’am. First of all — Eric’s female persona, her name is Romilda," Juliet said.
I nodded tightly. "I’m well aware. I found her room at his house — the dresses, the makeup... everything."
Carlton exchanged a glance with Juliet. "But ma’am," he said carefully, "we still have no idea about the monster. The third one."
I exhaled sharply, pacing. "Neither do I," I admitted through gritted teeth. "What exactly did Spencer tell you about Romilda?" I demanded, turning back to them.
Carlton was the first to answer. "He said she was forgetful." "Just like Roberts was," Juliet cut in, her eyes suddenly widening as a realization struck her like lightning.
Before either of us could react, she pulled her gun from her holster.
"Chief — Carlton — I think I know how to pull the third one out," she said urgently. Without waiting for approval, she turned on her heel and strode toward the holding cells. Carlton and I scrambled after her, adrenaline spiking in my veins.
We stopped in front of Eric’s cell. Inside, perched casually on the cot, was Romilda.
"Hello, Eric," Juliet said smoothly. The figure inside blinked at her, tilting its head with a playful smile. "Eric? Who is Eric?" The voice was unmistakably female. Romilda was front and centre.
I stepped forward. "Is your name Romilda?" I asked evenly.
She giggled, tossing her hair back. "Well, yes. How did you know? And could you three sweet people please get me out of here? I’m innocent! I swear it!" she pouted.
Carlton folded his arms. "Well, Romilda," he said with a slight edge, "you and Eric might be innocent. But that third monster hiding inside you? Not so much."
Romilda's face twisted into a confused frown. "What are you talking about?" she huffed. "I'm in here alone. No Eric. No monster. Just little ol' me."
Juliet smiled sweetly. "Hey, Romilda. Could you do me a favour and hold this for a second?" She extended her unloaded gun through the bars.
"Juliet, are you insane?" Carlton hissed under his breath. "Relax," I murmured back. "It’s not loaded. She’s trying to provoke him."
Romilda smirked and took the weapon daintily in both hands.
The second her fingers closed around it, something changed. The posture. The expression. The transformation was instant.
Romilda’s soft smile withered into a malicious grin. She chuckled low and raspy — a sound that scraped against my spine like nails on glass.
The chuckle grew and grew, warping into full-blown, ugly laughter.
"Hello, detectives," a deep, unfamiliar voice rasped from Eric’s throat. My heart clenched.
We had him. He levelled the gun at me, his eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Sophie," he sneered. "You were supposed to be the last one I killed. Looks like you’ll be the first instead."
"Bye-bye."
He pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing. He pulled again. Click. Again. Desperation now. Click.
I stood frozen, every instinct screaming at me to move — but I held my ground, staring into the face of pure evil. Carlton stepped forward, voice steady. "What’s your name?" he asked.
The figure licked his lips slowly, almost savouring the moment.
"Kitt," he said with a wicked grin, baring his teeth like a wolf. Juliet and Carlton exchanged a grim look. "Kitt," I repeated slowly, burning the name into my mind. "The monster."
I took a risk — a dangerous one. Stepping closer to the bars, I shouted with everything I had: "ERIC! ERIC! WAKE UP! ERIC!"
The effect was immediate. The body flinched violently, the gun clattering to the ground. Confusion flooded his face, the malice draining away. Eric’s real eyes — his terrified, broken eyes — stared back at me. He looked at the gun on the floor, then at his own trembling hands, horror dawning across his features. "I... I — I didn’t mean to..." he stammered, his voice breaking. Tears welled up in his eyes. I crouched to his level, speaking softly now. "I'm sorry, Eric," I said, my voice cracking with the weight of it. "But my worst fear has come true."
He shook his head in panic. "I-I don't understand! What’s happening to me?" I swallowed hard. "You have Dissociative Identity Disorder, Eric," I said gently. "It means your mind created other identities to protect you. To survive things, you couldn't handle." He stared at me, hollow and shaking. "You’re not just Eric anymore," I whispered. "You’re Romilda. You’re Kitt. And none of this... none of this is your fault."
Eric let out a broken sob, curling into himself on the cot. I stayed kneeling there, just outside the bars, heart breaking for the boy inside the monster's body — and terrified of the storm that was still to come.
Because now, we knew the truth. But truth doesn’t heal wounds the way we hope; it only rends them wider, leaving nothing but jagged edges where there used to be peace.
Eric’s voice, hoarse and fragile, broke the oppressive silence. “Does that mean I’ll have to spend the rest of my life in a cell, just to keep from hurting others?”
Juliet’s gaze softened, her breath drawn in like the weight of a thousand unsaid things. “Not a cell,” she replied quietly, “but a mental hospital.”
Eric didn’t respond immediately. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the gravity of what was being said, what was being chosen for him. He glanced down at his hands, hands that had once known only the warmth of the life he was trying to salvage. Now, they were just instruments of his own undoing.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips, a resignation that felt like surrender. “I understand.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t fight it. He simply nodded, and in that simple gesture, there was an acceptance—a surrender to the truth that was his life now. The truth that would follow him wherever he went. The truth that would stay with him, even in the quiet hallways of the place that would be his refuge and his punishment all at once.
CHAPTER: FIVE
Sophie
The day had arrived—today, we would move Eric to the mental hospital. The weight in my chest was suffocating. I didn’t know if there was hope for him or if this was the end of the road. But there were no other options. It felt like the final chapter to a story I wasn’t ready to close.
"Bye, Sophie," he said, his voice soft, filled with a strange mixture of nostalgia and acceptance.
I couldn’t find the strength to respond. My throat felt tight, the words tangled, stuck inside. But then, a fleeting thought entered my mind—one from our childhood. A smirk tugged at the corner of my lips, almost involuntarily. Before I realized what I was doing, I whispered, "Remember when we were little, and I teased you that Mom and Dad got you from a mental hospital?"
I didn’t dare look at him, but from the corner of my eye, I saw his smile falter, then stretch into something wistful.
"Well, I guess," he chuckled, a lightness in his voice, "I’m finally being sent back to my birthplace."
The words hung between us, light in tone but heavy in truth. He tried to laugh, but I could hear the sadness beneath it. For a moment, it felt like the world had tilted, just slightly, and I wished I could turn back time—to a time when teasing him about silly things was all we had to worry about.
But now? Reality was far too sharp, far too real.
“Goodbye, Eric,” I whispered as they loaded him into the ambulance.
“This isn’t goodbye,” he said, his voice warm with a fragile smile. “Promise you’ll visit me, and Romilda, and maybe even Kitt?”
I managed a faint smile. “You and Romilda, sure. Kitt? Not so much.” We shared a laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach our eyes, and I pulled him into one last embrace.
His arms circled me, and I held him tighter, cherishing the peace of that moment. But then something shifted. His posture changed, his embrace faltered, and before I could react, a sharp pain lanced through my back.
I looked down. Blood soaked through my shirt, warm and sticky. I didn’t scream. I didn’t have the energy. Instead, I thought of Eric—what would he think when he woke up? He wouldn’t remember any of this.
“Kitt…” I whispered, my breath shallow, struggling to focus on the face in front of me.
The next sound I heard was Eric’s voice—louder now, desperate.
“Sophie!” he cried, falling to his knees beside me. His hands shook as he reached for me, his face a mask of panic. “No, no, no!” he cried, voice cracking with raw fear. “I’m so sorry, Sophie! It was me—”
I forced a smile, even as darkness crept in. “No, Eric. It wasn’t you who drove the knife.”
His face twisted in confusion, panic deepening. “No! Sophie, no!” he wailed, his voice breaking. “I— I didn’t mean to—”
But it was too late. The blood was pooling, my breath slowing. And with my last breath, I held him tighter, knowing I would never let go.
Eric's trembling hands clutched me tighter, his breath ragged as he fought to hold back the tears. "Sophie... Please don’t leave me," he whispered, his voice breaking with every word. The world around us felt like it was fading—everything growing darker, quieter.
I tried to speak, to reassure him, but my voice was barely a breath. It didn’t matter anymore. I could see the fear in his eyes, the desperation that would haunt him forever. I could feel his grip on me loosen, not because he wanted to let go, but because he didn’t know how to hold on.
“I’ll always be here,” I whispered, as softly as the wind.
I felt his body shake with a silent sob, and for a brief moment, the pain in my back seemed distant, unimportant. In my final moments, all I wanted was for him to be okay, to know he was loved, even if I couldn’t say it anymore.
The coldness crept in faster now. But as my vision blurred, I focused on Eric’s face, on the sound of his name, on the warmth of his touch. The last thing I knew, before the darkness took me completely, was that he would never forget. He couldn’t. I wouldn’t let him.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Hello!
I’m Aadhya, a 13-year-old who has been passionate about writing for as long as I can remember. Writing allows me to explore new worlds and connect with others through stories. I’d love for you to check out my work on my website, Page Turner Publisher. It’s completely free to access, and I’m always excited to share my stories with you.
Feel free to visit the site and explore: https://aadhya29911.wixsite.com/pageturner-publisher
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