DWC Short Story: Twice Upon a Time

Eleanor Dupree loved three things: hot tea, crossword puzzles, and routines.

Her mornings started at precisely 6:37 a.m. with the dull chirp of her ancient alarm clock. No snoozing. Eleanor believed snoozing was for people who didn’t believe in themselves. She brushed her teeth for two full minutes (humming the Jeopardy theme), watered her wilting ficus (Wilfred), and boiled exactly 8 ounces of water for her Darjeeling blend.

Eleanor worked at “Prose & Posies,” a quaint bookstore and floral boutique nestled on the corner of Maple and 3rd. She arranged marigolds with one hand while recommending Agatha Christie with the other. Quiet, reserved, and almost aggressively punctual, Eleanor’s life was stitched together with predictability. She lived alone in a cozy duplex above the corner store, kept her keys in the same ceramic dish shaped like a cat, and never stayed out past 9:00 p.m.

But lately, things had been...off.

One morning, she awoke wearing a glittery purple blazer. Not her style. Another time, her feet were sore, her makeup smudged, and a twenty-dollar bill was tucked into her bra. Eleanor didn’t own glittery anything. Or wear makeup. Or put cash in her undergarments.

She blamed it on sleepwalking. Or maybe she had a vitamin deficiency? But deep down, Eleanor had a feeling that something far weirder was afoot.

It wasn’t until she opened her freezer one Thursday morning and found a half-eaten hot dog next to a flash drive labeled Project Mirage that she really began to worry.

What Eleanor didn’t know was this:

By day, she was Eleanor Dupree, a quiet florist/bookworm with a love of routines.

By night, she was Elle Devereux—a jazz-singing, martini-sipping, bad-decision-making amateur sleuth who frequented smoky bars, wore fake eyelashes, and solved low-level crimes for the city’s underground elite.

Here’s the twist: Eleanor had no idea about Elle. None. Zero.

It all started three months ago when Eleanor signed up for a sleep hypnosis experiment after seeing an ad online:

“Seeking Participants for a Dream Expansion Trial. Cash Compensation. No Risk. Lucid Dreams Guaranteed!”

She went for the free tea and left with something…extra.

The trial was supposedly benign—just a pair of headphones, a “relaxing soundscape,” and some deeply questionable waivers. The facilitator, Dr. Vasquez, had strange eyes and a gold molar that flashed when he smiled.

“Think of it as dream yoga,” he said. “You may not notice anything at first. But in time, your subconscious will come alive.”

Alive wasn’t the word she’d have chosen.

Elle Devereux, meanwhile, was absolutely thriving.

She remembered everything. The velvet piano benches. The smell of whiskey and sweat. The way her stilettos clicked across the linoleum of Moe’s Diner when she met her contact at 2:00 a.m. She was sharp, sultry, and utterly unlike Eleanor.

She knew who she was. She just didn’t know why she existed. Or how long she had.

Most nights, Elle woke up around 9:42 p.m., stretching like a cat as her mind rebooted from wherever Eleanor’s had left off. The wardrobe change came easily. In her closet (the same closet Eleanor kept pastel cardigans in), Elle had slowly built her own stash: leather jackets, slinky dresses, a pair of brass knuckles, and a key to a lockbox hidden beneath floorboard #17.

And of course—lipstick. Fire-engine red.

Elle had no job, not in the traditional sense. But she had clients. Word on the street was that Elle Devereux could find your missing person, your cheating spouse, or your grandmother’s stolen brooch faster than the cops—and with less paperwork.

Last night, she’d been trailing a man known only as “The Umbrella,” a slippery character connected to a ring of art thieves operating out of abandoned funeral homes. She'd gotten as far as tailing him to a speakeasy in the old district when the clock struck 6:30 a.m.

The moment the morning light touched her skin, Elle vanished—and Eleanor returned.

Like Cinderella in reverse.

Friday morning, Eleanor was running late. That never happened. But the discovery of the hot dog and the flash drive had thrown her off-kilter. She sat on her couch, staring at the flash drive like it might explode.

Should she plug it in?

She shouldn’t. Which of course meant she did.

The screen lit up. A single video file.

“ElleDevereux_CaseLog_042.mp4”

She hit play.

The camera was shaky, clearly taken with a phone. A woman appeared—*her*—but not. Same face. But the eyeliner. The confidence. The smirk. It was like watching a very stylish twin.

“Elle Devereux, case log 42. Subject: The Umbrella. Location: The Neon Cat. Suspect identified. Surveillance successful. Retrieval attempt…failed. Got slugged. Broke a heel. Worth it.”

Eleanor gasped.

The woman on screen leaned closer.

“And if you’re watching this, Eleanor, congrats. You’re finally catching up.”

Eleanor was so startled she dropped her mug. Tea splashed on the rug. She scrambled to pause the video, her heart hammering.

“I’m dreaming,” she muttered. “This is a stress hallucination. Maybe it’s mold. I knew I should’ve cleaned behind the fridge.”

But the video was still there. The face was still hers.

The implications began to bloom, slowly at first, then all at once.

She was living a double life.
Someone—or something—was controlling it.
And she wasn’t in charge of the fun one.

Over the next week, Eleanor did what any reasonable person would do: she began leaving notes for her nighttime self.

It started with Post-its.

“Dear Elle, what are you wearing my cashmere scarf for?”  
“Please stop drinking all the oat milk.”  
“Did you actually flirt with a man named Umbrella???”

To her surprise, Elle wrote back.

“It’s not flirting. It’s strategy.”  
“Oat milk is disgusting. I used it as bait for a raccoon spy.”  
“Get better scarves.”

By now, Eleanor was skipping crossword puzzles in favor of decoding her own nocturnal activities. She installed a hidden camera. Woke up in strange poses. Found glitter in her toothbrush.

But things turned dark when she found a note scrawled on her bathroom mirror in lipstick:

“He knows you know.”

Eleanor decided she needed answers. Real ones.

She called the number from the hypnosis clinic. Disconnected. She visited the address. Boarded up. A “For Lease” sign dangled from the awning, flapping like a ghost’s hand.

And then, she got a call. Blocked number.

“Miss Dupree?” a voice rasped. “The Umbrella would like to meet.”

Her heart stopped. “I’m—I think you have the wrong—”

“Tonight. Midnight. The Neon Cat. Come alone. Wear red.”

Click.

She stared at the phone. Midnight? That would mean...

She wouldn't be Eleanor then.

She'd be Elle.

But what if—for once—she didn’t fall asleep?

Eleanor drank four cups of coffee that night. She chewed gum. Took cold showers. Did jumping jacks. Anything to stay awake. She needed to meet this mysterious Umbrella man. Maybe he had the answers.

Midnight struck.

She stood outside The Neon Cat, heart thudding, eyes bloodshot. It was a velvet-draped jazz club with a flickering neon sign shaped like a cat’s tail.

She stepped inside.

And saw herself—already seated at the bar. Already smirking. Already sipping a martini.

It was Elle.

Alive. Awake. While she was still conscious.

“What the…” Eleanor breathed.

Elle turned. Their eyes locked. The world tilted.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Elle said, blinking. “This isn’t...how it works.”

“It is now,” Eleanor said.

The Umbrella appeared moments later. He wasn’t wearing one. Instead, he was a lean man with a slow smile and an accent from nowhere.

“I see we’ve had...a convergence,” he said. “Fascinating. The mind always splits before it heals.”

Eleanor and Elle turned in unison.

“Heal?” they echoed.

“It was all a test,” he said, sipping wine. “Project Mirage was designed to awaken dormant personality constructs. Yours, Miss Dupree, was particularly ripe. A dual mind. One conscious. One subconscious. We merely...let her out.”

“You made her,” Eleanor snapped.

“Wrong again,” he said. “You made each other.”

They didn’t go back to normal. Not exactly.

But they learned to share.

Eleanor kept her job. Her tea. Her crossword puzzles.

Elle kept her heels. Her mysteries. Her fire.

But now, they were one.

Most days, Eleanor solved puzzles with tulips. Most nights, Elle solved crimes with charm.

And sometimes—just sometimes—they’d both smile at the same time.

Because now, they knew:

They were never just one person.

They were the perfect pair.