muscles. His truck occasionally had more miles on it than he remembered driving. Once he discovered fresh concrete dust beneath his fingernails. Another time he found receipts from bars he had no memory of visiting. At first he blamed his sleepwalking that hasn’t plagued him since his childhood when occasional suffered from episodes until he was in his late teens. Maybe it’s due to being older but this feels different.

Regardless of the odd circumstances, and strange events Wesley continues trucking along, trying to keep somewhat of a routine going and today is Saturday and every Saturday evening he cleans his truck. Receipts from vendors, customer invoice, and old soda cans lay waste upon the worn cloth seats of his 1975 single-cab pick up truck. On his dash he finds it. A flyer.

GRAND OPENING

WESKER’S WINE CELLAR

COMING SOON

Fine Wines • Great Company

Old Salem Bluff

The flyer featured his home address. His hands trembled. Wine cellar. For years he’d begged Linda to let him convert the basement but she always refused, saying it would be too expensive, too unnecessary, and ridiculous because neither liked wine in the first place. Wesley slowly enters his basement, unsure of what he will see. When he does, he nearly collapses. The room had changed, rebirthed with the breath of fresh construction. Beautiful red brick lines the wall sectioned by half finished Mahogany diamond bottle racks. The ceramic tiles are untarnished with a glare like glass catching the mid-day sun. Wesley had absolutely no memory of building it.

The next morning Wesley woke in the backyard again. Dirt; Sawdust; Scratches; exactly like before. His heart pounded, wasting no time he sprinted past the front door.

“Tommy!”

No answer.

“Sarah!”

Nothing. The children’s beds were empty. Another letter sat on the kitchen table.

Dear Wesley,

I’ve taken the children with me. They deserve a better life too. Don’t come looking for us. We’re finally happy.

Linda

Wesley screamed. The letter fell from his hands. The room spun. He spent the day calling everyone, the police; the schools; neighbors; their friends. Nobody knew anything. The sheriff simply assumed Linda had returned and taken the children. Case closed. By evening Wesley sat alone in his bathroom. A bottle of whiskey rested beside the sink. He stared at his reflection, crusted drooping bloodshot eyes looking back at him. His beard is unshaven, resembling a mountain man still carrying the particles of yesterday’s meal. No wife, no kids, his life is destroyed. He took another drink, then froze. His reflection smiled. Wesley hadn’t smiled. The man in the mirror looked amused. He looked different, confident; arrogant; sharper; crueler.

“About time.”

Wesley nearly dropped the bottle. “What?”

The reflection chuckled. “You’ve been asking questions for weeks.”

“W-who are you?”

The smile widened. “John Wesker.”

The name meant nothing. Yet somehow it sounded familiar.

“Impossible.” Like a memory buried underground. “No.”

Oh yes.” The reflection leaned forward. Though Wesley himself hadn’t moved.

“You call it sleepwalking.” Wesker laughed.

“I call it taking over.”

Wesley’s blood turned cold. “You aren’t real.”

“Really?” The reflection’s expression darkened. “Who built the wine cellar, Wesley?”

Silence.

“Who visited the bars?”

Silence.

“Who invited half the town to a grand opening party?”

Wesley’s hands shook violently.

“No.”

“Me.”

The reflection pointed at itself.

“John Wesker.”

For the next hour the man in the mirror talked. It explained everything. How it emerged years earlier. How at first it only took took control whenever Wesley slept but know it can take control whenever it chose to. How it grew stronger each year. How it hated limitations. Hated responsibilities. Hated family life.

“They bored me.”

Wesley’s breathing became shallow.

“What did you do?”

The reflection grinned.

“To whom?”

“My wife.”

The grin widened.

“My children.”

Something wicked flashed behind its eyes.

“What did you do?!”

The reflection laughed. Then said the words that shattered Wesley’s soul.

“I killed them.”

“No.”

“I did.”

“No!”

“They got in my way.”

Wesley punched the mirror, the glass exploded. Blood streamed down his knuckles. Yet from every broken shard, John Wesker continued smiling. For hours Wesley refused to believe it. Until Wesker began revealing specific locations, conversations, and details only the killer could know. Every clue matched, and every mystery is solved. Every terrible suspicion was confirmed. Finally Wesker led him downstairs. The wine cellar was complete. Beautiful. Elegant. Monstrous. Rows of shelves lined the walls. Hundreds of bottles waited in perfect order. Fresh concrete gleamed beneath the lights.

“Look closely.”

Wesley approached the wall. Hair. A single strand protruded from the concrete. Then another. Then a fragment of cloth. Sarah’s pink jacket. Tommy’s baseball shirt. Linda’s blue dress. The world collapsed around him. He sank to his knees. A terrible scream echoed through the cellar. His wife. His children. Entombed inside the walls. Forever. Wesley sobbed until his throat hurt. Eventually he looked up. Wine bottles reflected his image. Or rather…Their image. Every reflection showed John Wesker. Not Wesley. Wesker stood confidently inside every bottle. Watching. Smiling.

“You ruined everything.”

“I improved everything.”

“I’ll stop you.”

Wesker laughed.

“No.”

The reflections all spoke together. “It’s too late.”

Wesley rose unsteadily. “What do you mean?”

The reflections smiled. “This body belongs to me now.”

Then Wesker reached into his jacket. Inside the reflection only. A knife appeared. Its blade gleamed silver. Wesley stared. The knife didn’t exist in reality. Only in the mirrors. Only in the reflections. Only in Wesker’s hands.

“No.”

Wesker placed the blade against his own throat.

“Goodbye, Wesley.”

The knife sliced. Blood erupted across every reflected surface. At the same instant Wesley felt something tear inside his neck. He grabbed his throat. Unable to breathe. Unable to scream. He collapsed. Convulsions ripped through his body. The cellar lights blurred. Darkness swallowed everything. And Wesley Willy vanished forever.

The next evening Old Salem Bluff gathered for a celebration. Strings of lights hung from trees. Lanterns decorated the yard. Tables overflowed with food and wine. Nearly thirty well-dressed guests arrived. People Wesley barely knew. People invited during mysterious nights he couldn’t remember. They laughed and chatted as they descended into the basement. The new wine cellar was magnificent. Brick walls. Polished shelves. Perfect lighting. Not one guest suspected what lay hidden behind the concrete.

At the front stood Wesley Willy. Or at least the body that had once belonged to him. His posture was different. His smile was different. Even his eyes seemed different. Confident. Arrogant. Predatory. A wine glass rested in his hand. He tapped it lightly. The crowd fell silent.

“Ladies and gentlemen.”

The voice sounded like Wesley’s. Yet somehow it wasn’t.

“Thank you all for coming.”

Applause echoed through the cellar. The man smiled. A broad, self-satisfied smile.

“I’ve worked very hard on this project.”

Several guests nodded approvingly. He slowly surveyed the room. His room. His kingdom. His monument. Behind the walls rested Linda. Tommy. Sarah. The foundation of his success. No guilt touched his face. No sorrow. Only pride.

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourselves tonight.”

More applause.The smile widened. For a brief moment, one of the wine bottles caught the light. Within its reflection stood Wesley Willy. Faint. Trapped. Silent. Watching. His mouth opened in a scream nobody could hear. Nobody except John Wesker. And when Wesker noticed him, he simply raised his glass in a mocking toast. Then turned back to his guests.

“Welcome,” he said.

The crowd cheered. And deep within the walls of the wine cellar, the dead remained silent while Old Salem Bluff celebrated the grand opening of John Wesker’s masterpiece.