Feeling slightly disoriented, he sat up and looked around with a frown. He was in a hotel room. But not the kind of room he would normally stay in. The place had a seedy, run-down look to it. The wall paper was peeling in some places and missing in others. It might have once been yellow, but now it was a burnt orange color. The carpet was a muddy green that looked like infected mold. On the rickety, battle-scarred night stand, there was a battered bible and a dented metal ashtray. His frown deepened. What was going on here?
Paul's sense of disorientation grew when he stood up. Was it just his imagination or was he taller? Then he looked down and his eyes widened. Where was the middle aged paunch he'd grown used to since he hit fourty? And were those boxer shorts? He never wore boxers. What the hell?
His flat stomach didn't hold his attention for long. When he lifted his hand to touch his stomach, he froze in mid-movement. On his forearm was a tattoo of a snake. The snake's body curled up around his arm all the way to his shoulder. He didn't remember getting any tattoo. Strangely, the tattoo didn't look all that new. A panic rat began running around in his mind.
Paul hurried to the bathroom. When he flipped on the light, he saw a stranger waiting. He screamed and jumped back. The stranger also screamed and jumped back. He realized that he was standing in front of a full length mirror. Was that his reflection? He stared in horrified fascination. That couldn't be him! The claws of the panic rat were digging and scratching now as his terror grew.
The man in the mirror stood over six feet tall, with a deep, muscular chest, a stomach that looked as hard as stone and legs roughly the size of tree trunks. He appeared to be in his mid thirties, with shoulder length black hair and cold green eyes. There was a small zig-zag scar near the right eye. Paul was five foot six, with short brown hair that was streaked with grey, showing his age. His body type was typical of a man in his late fourties who worked an executive job and his eyes were blue, not green. The stranger in the mirror looked like he benched pressed 500 pounds a day and ate whole cows raw. The heaviest thing Paul lifted these days was his briefcase and he rarely ate red meat.
Being and advertising director wasn't a dangerous job. He worked mostly with Sales and Advertising, but there were also times when he had to work with other company divisions that were partially related. On a daily basis he made hundreds of decisions that could affect the welfare of the company. It was a complex and demanding job, but it was safer then the kind of jobs this mirror man might be involved in. The kind of jobs he might work at would not all be strictly legal and involve lots of violence. This guy probably thrived on danger. The panic rat had grown bigger and was now screaming frantically. What was happening?
Then he noticed a disturbing smell. He turned around in the bathroom, looking for the source of the smell. The faint metallic odor smelled like -
Paul's thoughts broke off as cleanly as a twig snapping when saw the dead woman in the bathtub. He screamed and backed up, slamming his lower back against the sink. He didn't feel it. His attention was captured by the gaping wound where her throat had been cut. The body lay in a pool of blood. Her dead eyes stared up at him blankly. She looked a little like his wife Dedre.
Ten years ago he met Dedre at an advertising convention. For the first time in his life, advertising held no interest for him. He had eyes only for her. They had gotten married a year later and he didn't regret it for a moment. Though she was highly intelligent, she didn't look down her nose at others, or act superior. Instead, she was thoughtful, friendly and outgoing. She made his life brighter just by being in it.
They had two beautiful children. Lucy was the oldest. She was 8 going on 20. She had inherited her mother's high intelligence and displayed a subtle sense of humor that often caught Paul by surprise. He knew that with her quick wit and intelligence, she would always be able to handle the challenges that life threw at her. Amy was the younger child. She was 6 and full of energy. When she started going to school she fell in love with it. The refrigerator was papered with the drawings she brought home. He thought maybe she would be an artist when she grew up.
Now, here was this woman who's promising potential had been snuffed out as easily as blowing out a candle. What kind of monster would do this?
"Mmm, how do you like my handiwork?" A voice asked in rugged baritone. The question was followed by a low chuckle.
Paul hadn't believed that anything could take his attention away from the dead woman. Now he straightened up as adrenalin shot through him. He turned in a circle, fists up, looking for the source of the voice. "Who is it? Who's there?" He demanded.
Another low chuckle answered his question. "Are you really that stupid?" The voice was laced with amusement.
The bathroom was deserted. Slowly he faced the mirror with apprehension. This time he saw an awareness in those green eyes. Something that was not him.
"No." He whispered hoarsely, shaking his head in denial.
Deep throated laughter greeted his response. "I should really be asking the questions here. Who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my body?"
Suddenly, Paul could feel the man's presence. It was like being stuck in a crowded elevator with too many people. Violence emanated from the man's every thought. He felt sickened by the intimate contact. Alarm raced through him as he realized that if he could hear this man's thoughts, then the man could also hear his. Dedre. The kids. Oh my god!
As if on cue, memories began shuffling through his mind while the stranger looked for information. It was as if he were a mental file cabinet and this complete stranger was pawing through everything with complete disregard. Paul felt a surge of anger. The man had no right. Quickly, he created a mental image of a lock in his mind. He put the lock on the mental file cabinet.
"That's personal. Stay out."
"What the fuck?" The stranger cried. Paul could feel the man's surprise and frustration. He felt equally surprised. He had done it without thinking. What else could he do? There had to be a way to do the same thing to this guy.
He pictured a dark closet. Inside the closet were the man's memories. He opened the closet door and was assaulted with scenes of violence so extreme that his soul withered just a bit. He wanted to find a corner and cry for all those poor women. Instead, steeling himself, he stepped further into the closet. He had to find out more. His family's safety could depend on it.
Before he could find out more than the man's name, he was pushed from the closet by an invisible force.
"Get the fuck out of my head!"
Paul smiled bitterly at the irony of that statement. "As you can tell, Henry. I'm sort of stuck in your head at the moment. You think I want to be here?"
The man uttered a string of obscenities while Paul turned his attention to his new body. He had to find a way back to his family, but first he had to deal with Henry. There was no way he could go anywhere near them while he was stuck inside this psycho. He just hoped he would be back in his own body soon. Spending Valentine's Day with a serial killer was not romantic. He glanced once more at the dead woman feeling a pang of pity, then he left the bathroom.
On February 13th, Paul West went to sleep next to his wife. The next morning he woke up alone in a place that was unfamiliar.