What was wrong with the twins? Really, the weirdest thing was that they weren't two separate people at all. Surely they couldn't be, not at age 35 and still dressing exactly the same.

Walking into the room with matched, heavy steps, and matched, heavy satchels, they sat at the same time, read from the same book, and never referred to themselves as I. It was always we.

When we were a child, we used to watch our grandmother fish snakes out from her flooded basement. She would loop them in and out of her fingers like knitting yarn, and watch them writhe and spit. They never bit her.

I spied them on campus once, following in exciting closeness. They had a beard then, perfectly groomed and combed like freshly mown grass. They didn't speak while they walked, and their duplicate height confused me more than usual- somehow there being two of them made it even easier to lose them in the crowd. In front of the chapel, they disappeared entirely. To me, it was as if they had never existed at all.

Now I see them twice a week, and I cannot look at only one of them specifically- as if they are Alice's magic moving storeshelves themselves in her looking glass. Their faces smudge into a single head, contorted by its double features, and their annoyingly hushed mumbles during conversation prick at my skin like a wool sweater rubbing your arms the wrong way. I don't believe in ghosts or the otherworldly, I say, but there is something wrong about all of this.