The Doppelgänger

Journal Entry — Paranormal Research Society of North Carolina (PRSN)
Location: Abandoned Linton Mill, near the outskirts of Ashwick, NC.
Date: October 13th, 2024

It was supposed to be just another investigation, the kind where we’d bust out the EMF meters, snap a few photos of cold spots, and maybe catch some grainy “ghost orbs” to spice up our YouTube channel. Nothing big. Nothing dangerous. Just a crumbling, long-forgotten mill that local legends said was cursed by those who died in machinery accidents back in the 1800s.

But Linton Mill wasn't like the other places. It didn’t feel haunted — it felt alive. And we were not welcome.

The building loomed in the mist like a predator waiting to pounce, its broken windows staring back at us like dead, milky eyes. The walls were covered in ivy and claw marks from storms that had tried — and failed — to tear it down. We parked the van outside the rusted gates, gear rattling as we hopped out, pretending not to feel the dread clawing at our chests.

“Y’all getting that vibe?” Ash, our sound tech, asked nervously as we unloaded the cameras.

“Just the usual spooky old building stuff,” I lied, forcing a grin. But deep down, I felt it too — a heavy pressure settling over my ribs, like something unseen was pushing down on me.

Inside, the air was damp and thick, reeking of mildew and something metallic, like blood left too long in the sun. Shadows flickered across the warped beams, but no light source explained them. We set up base near the shattered remains of what used to be the foreman’s office, where local lore claimed the first "accident" happened — a worker who fell into the gears and was shredded beyond recognition.

At first, everything was quiet. Too quiet. Even the crickets outside had gone silent.

“Rolling,” Ash said, pointing the camera at me.

“October 13th, 2024,” I began, my voice steady despite the knot in my throat. “We’re here at Linton Mill, investigating reports of shadow figures and dopplegänger sightings. Locals claim that people who enter see twisted versions of themselves wandering the halls—”

That’s when we heard it: the shuffle of footsteps echoing down the main corridor.

“Did you hear that?” Riley, our thermal imaging tech, whispered.

We all froze. The sound wasn’t just footsteps — it was us. The exact cadence and rhythm of our boots on concrete. The shuffle, the scuff, even the nervous tapping Ash did when he was freaked out.

Riley spun around, pointing the thermal cam toward the source. The screen flickered, then showed something impossible.

There we were. Or rather, things that looked like us. Four figures standing in the hallway, mimicking our exact positions. Same height. Same builds. But their faces were wrong — blurry, shifting shadows where eyes and mouths should be.

“Jesus Christ,” Ash gasped, backing into me.

“They’re just reflections,” I tried to rationalize, though my voice cracked. But there were no mirrors, no glass. And then they moved — not mirroring us anymore but stepping forward on their own, twitching like puppets controlled by a drunken hand.

“We need to get out of here,” Riley hissed, already packing up the thermal cam.

We turned to leave, but the doorway we came through was gone, swallowed by darkness thicker than pitch. Panic gripped my chest. I clicked on my flashlight, the beam slicing through the gloom, only to reveal more shifting shadows — twisting figures multiplying like ink spreading in water.

“That’s me,” Ash whimpered, pointing. One of the shadows had morphed into a perfect replica of him, right down to the ripped sleeve on his jacket. It grinned, teeth too sharp, eyes glinting like shards of obsidian.

“Run,” I commanded, though none of us needed convincing.

We bolted down a side corridor, our footsteps echoing louder and louder until they weren’t just ours anymore. The shadow-shifters followed, their footfalls pounding like a drumbeat of madness.

“Stairs!” Riley shouted, leading us up a narrow, rotting staircase that groaned under our weight. The shadows didn’t climb — they rose, floating upward like smoke given form.

At the top of the stairs, we burst into a room filled with rusted machinery and shattered gears. The walls were covered in claw marks — deep, jagged grooves as though something had been trapped here, desperate to get out.

“We’re screwed,” Ash muttered, voice trembling.

“No,” I growled, forcing myself to think. “This place feeds on fear. Don’t look at them. Don’t acknowledge them. They can’t hold form if you don’t believe in them.”

It was a wild theory, but what choice did we have?

We stood back to back, eyes squeezed shut, ignoring the grotesque whispers and twisted laughter that filled the room. Slowly, the air grew lighter. The pressure lifted. The shadows faded, melting back into the darkness.

When we finally opened our eyes, the room was empty. The exit door stood ajar, moonlight spilling through like a beacon of salvation.

We didn’t waste a second. We sprinted toward the van, hearts pounding, lungs burning.

As we peeled out of there, gravel spitting under the tires, none of us spoke. The mill shrank in the rearview mirror, a black wound against the night sky.

I don’t know what we encountered that night, but I do know this: Linton Mill is no ordinary haunted place. It’s alive, feeding on fear and pulling shadows from the darkest corners of your mind.

And if you ever hear footsteps that sound a little too much like your own — run.