Internet Down

I turned on the flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty studio. It was quiet. Too quiet.

"Elena?" I whispered.

The eye blinked.

"Help me," the voice said again. It was muffled. Coming from inside the wall.

I stepped closer to the corner. The acoustic foam was thick, black, and sound-absorbent. But there was a seam. A gap.

I pushed my fingers into it. The foam gave way.

There was a panel behind it. Plywood. Painted black to blend in.

"Are you in there?" I asked.

"Yes," the voice said. "He put me here."

He put her here?

Wait.

If Elena was in the wall... then who was in the storage unit?

Who was the woman I had just rescued?

My mind spun. The Replacement. Elena. The woman in the crawl space.

There were too many of us.

"Hold on," I said.

I looked around the room for a tool. A crowbar. A hammer. Anything.

But Graham had cleared the room.

I grabbed the heavy metal leg of the table. I unscrewed it.

I jammed the leg into the seam of the plywood. I pried.

*CRACK.*

The wood splintered.

"Push!" I said. "Push from your side!"

"I can't," Elena whispered. "My hands... they're tied."

My heart hammered against my ribs. Tied?

I pulled harder. The plywood groaned.

*SNAP.*

A piece broke off.

I shined the light into the hole.

A face looked back at me.

It wasn't Elena.

It was... me.

Another Replacement?

No.

It was a mannequin.

A hyper-realistic, silicone mannequin head. With my hair. My eyes.

And a speaker taped to its mouth.

"Help me," the speaker whispered.

I stared at it.

It was a trap.

Another layer of the gaslight.

Graham had planted it. He knew I would find the key. He knew I would come down here.

He wanted me to find the "body" in the wall.

He wanted me to break down. To scream. To prove, once and for all, that I was seeing things.

I dropped the table leg.

"Nice try, Graham," I said to the mannequin.

But then...

The mannequin blinked.

My breath caught.

Mannequins don't blink.

I leaned closer.

It wasn't a mannequin.

It was a woman.

But she was... frozen. Her skin was waxy. Her eyes were glassy.

She was drugged. Heavily.

And she looked exactly like me.

Not just similar. Identical.

The surgery scars behind her ears. The slight asymmetry of her nose.

This wasn't just a lookalike. This was a clone. Or a twin.

"Who are you?" I whispered.

The woman’s lips moved. Barely.

"I'm... Merritt," she breathed.

I stepped back.

This was impossible.

Unless...

Unless I wasn't Merritt.

The thought hit me like a physical blow.

What if *I* was the Replacement?

What if the memories of the home invasion... the foley artist career... the marriage...

What if they were implanted? Or scripted?

What if I was the one who had been hired to play a role, and I had just gotten too into character?

I looked at my hands. They were shaking.

I looked at the woman in the wall.

She looked at me with pity.

"He's coming," she whispered.

"Who?"

" The Director."

The Director?

Graham?

Or someone else?

I heard a sound from the stairs.

The door was unlocking.

I spun around.

The door opened.

Graham stood there. Silhouette.

But he wasn't alone.

There was a man with him. A man I didn't recognize.

He was wearing a suit. He held a clipboard.

"See?" Graham said, gesturing to me. "She's broken into the wall. She thinks there are people inside."

The man stepped into the light.

He looked at me. He looked at the hole in the wall.

He looked at the woman inside.

And he didn't react.

He didn't gasp. He didn't call the police.

He just nodded.

"Subject 4 is compromised," he said. "Initiate the wipe."

Subject 4?

Graham sighed. "I told you she was resistant."

"It's a shame," the man said. "She had the best emotional range."

They were talking about me like I was a product.

"What is this?" I demanded. "Who are you?"

The man looked at me. He smiled. A cold, professional smile.

"I'm the Producer, Merritt. And you've been a very bad actress."

Producer?

"This isn't a movie," I said.

"Isn't it?" Graham asked. "Look around you, Merritt. The soundproof room. The props. The scripts."

He gestured to the studio.

"This whole house is a set."

My mind reeled.

A set?

"But... the neighbors. Lorna. The Davises."

"Extras," the Producer said. "Paid actors."

"And the oil spill? The crisis management firm?"

"Backstory," Graham said. "To give you a motivation. A reason to be stressed."

"Why?" I whispered. "Why do this?"

"Because reality TV is dead," the Producer said. "People want *immersion*. They want *authenticity*."

He pulled out a phone. He showed me the screen.

It was a live stream.

*THE WIFE: SEASON 4. FINALE.*

*Viewers: 12.4 Million.*

Comments were scrolling by so fast I couldn't read them.

*OMG she found the clone!*
*Plot twist!*
*Is she going to kill him?*
*Team Merritt!*

I stared at the screen.

My life... my trauma... my fear...

It was all entertainment.

"The trust fund?" I asked.

"The prize money," Graham said. "If you survived the season without breaking character. But you broke, Merritt. You looked behind the curtain."

"And Elena?" I asked. "The first wife?"

"Season 3," Graham said. "She didn't make it to the finale. We had to... write her out."

*Write her out.*

"She's dead?"

"She's in contract negotiations for the spin-off," the Producer said. "But you... you're in breach."

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a syringe.

"It's time for the season finale, Merritt."

I backed away. I hit the wall.

I looked at the woman in the hole. My double.

She was looking at me.

And she winked.

Just like the Replacement in the kitchen.

She wasn't drugged.

She was acting.

And in her hand... hidden behind her back...

She was holding a boom mic.

A heavy, metal boom mic.

She wasn't a victim. She was a plant. A fail-safe.

If I didn't play along... she would take over.

I looked at Graham. I looked at the Producer.

They thought I was trapped. They thought I was broken.

But they forgot one thing.

I was a Foley artist.

I knew how to make things sound real.

And I knew how to make things *hurt*.

I reached into my pocket.

I grabbed the bag of marbles I had saved from the "haunted house" rig.

"You want a finale?" I said.

I threw the marbles.

Hard.

At the floor.

*CLICK-CLACK-SCATTER.*

They exploded across the concrete like shrapnel.

Graham stepped forward.

His foot landed on a marble.

He slipped.

Ideally, cinematically.

His arms pinwheeled. His legs went out from under him.

*THUD.*

He hit the floor hard. His head cracked against the concrete.

The Producer lunged for me.

I grabbed the table leg I had used to pry the wall.

I swung.

*CRACK.*

I hit him in the knee.

He screamed. He went down.

The syringe skittered across the floor.

I ran.

I ran for the door.

"Cut!" the Producer screamed. "Cut the feed!"

I didn't stop.

I ran up the stairs. I burst into the hallway.

Lorna was there. Standing in the foyer.

She was holding a camera. A professional cinema camera.

"Lorna?"

She lowered the camera. She looked annoyed.

"You're out of frame, Merritt. Go back to your mark."

"Go to hell," I said.

I ran past her. I ran out the front door.

Into the night.

The street was lined with production trucks. Lighting rigs. Craft services tables.

The "neighbors" were standing around, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee.

They looked at me as I ran by in my white dress.

"Is that a wrap?" someone asked.

I kept running.

I ran past the security gate. The guard waved. "Good show tonight, Mrs. Coe."

I ran into the woods.

But this time, I didn't stop.

I ran until the lights of the set faded. Until the hum of the generators died away.

I ran until I hit the county road.

A car was coming.

I waved my arms.

It slowed down. It stopped.

It was a beat-up Honda Civic.

The window rolled down.

A woman looked out.

She had dark hair. Tired eyes.

She looked like me.

Not a clone. Not an actor.

Just... a woman.

"Need a ride?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "Please."

I got in.

She started driving.

"Rough night?" she asked.

"You have no idea," I said.

She glanced at my white dress. At the dirt on my face.

"You look like you just escaped a cult," she said.

"Something like that."

I looked out the window. The trees blurred by.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Wherever you want," she said. "I'm heading to the coast."

"The coast sounds good," I said.

I leaned back in the seat.

I closed my eyes.

And then I heard it.

A faint... clicking sound.

Coming from the dashboard.

*Click. Click. Click.*

Like a shutter.

Or a Geiger counter.

I opened my eyes.

I looked at the dashboard.

There was a small, black lens. Mounted on the dash. Pointing at me.

And a red light.

*REC.*

I looked at the woman.

She smiled.

"Welcome to Season 5, Merritt," she said.

And then she locked the doors.