Future-Viewers

Nancy Coleman had never liked cocktail parties.

They were always the same superficial ordeals, but she was a master of what-ifs: What if it was different this time? What if she made new friends? Having just moved to San Francisco with the help of her younger sister Marsha, she couldn’t deny that the prospect was appealing.

While Marsha had snagged a well-paying modeling gig in the city, Nancy had pursued her passion for art and fallen behind both financially and socially. Nancy lived largely in her own head, often consumed with doubts about her own abilities and nostalgia for her past, but tonight she would have to put on a happy face—a fact she dreaded as she drove to a gathering Marsha was hosting to ring in the new year of 1968.

At 9:37 p.m., Nancy parked down the block from Marsha’s apartment and stepped out into the late December fog. With her, she carried a gift for her sister; a hand-painted portrait of the forest that neighbored their childhood farm in Washington State.

Long before Marsha had shed her past in favor of the sweet smell of success, there was a time when she would’ve been friend enough for Nancy. Not too long ago, the pair of sisters would have the time of their lives playing make-believe in the dense woods that surrounded the family property. They would camp out during the summer and scare each other by a campfire, spinning wild stories about doppelgängers of themselves hiding out in the trees, always one step ahead of them.

The memory faded as Nancy walked up the hill past the guests’ expensive cars that hinted at what the scene inside would be like. After entering the building and climbing the stairs to her sister’s floor, she knocked twice on the door and it flew open.

“Nan!” cooed Marsha in the latest designer fashions as she ushered Nancy into the living room. Nancy felt as though she were on parade—the unemployed older sister—as she weaved through the maze of Marsha’s wealthy friends. Beaming faces and raised glasses greeted her, and she already felt tired. Marsha took the artwork from her, half-glancing at it. “Oh, this is absolutely darling!”

“Paint-by-numbers?” A woman with a gaudy smile inquired as she craned her neck to look. Nancy was about to speak up, but Marsha beat her to it.

“Not a chance! This is an original Nancy Coleman, and I know just the place for it...” As Marsha hastily made an empty space for the painting on her wall, oblivious to the fact that it depicted their cherished woods, Nancy surveyed the partygoers.

There was Marsha’s best friend Shelly, a model-turned-housewife, currently engaged in an animated exchange of “who’s-married-who” with a group of other women. In the conversation pit sat a group of sharply-dressed husbands discussing the stock market. In the kitchen, secretaries from Marsha’s agency swarmed the punch bowl like discount socialites.

Nancy should’ve known better; these were not her people, but she ached for company in a new city. Her eyes wandered to Marsha’s bay windows and across the road to the neighboring apartment, which appeared to share the same interior layout of Marsha’s home. Inside, she could see that its occupants were having a party of their own. What kinds of brilliant minds could be on that side? Nancy mused in envy.

Suddenly, Marsha’s voice cut across the room and into Nancy’s thoughts.

“Nan, look!” She pointed out the window. “The neighbors have a painting just like yours!” Sure enough, Nancy could make out a distinct portrait of dense pine trees hanging on the wall of the opposite apartment. A murmur of interest flooded the room.

“I suppose I’m not that original,” Nancy muttered with a nervous smile. There was some polite laughter, and the festivities resumed.

By 10:58 p.m., the party was well underway. Nancy had found a quiet spot to sit at the windowsill, hoping she blended in.

“Hey, everybody!” a man suddenly slurred with a half-finished drink in hand. “It’s me!” He was gesturing out the window toward the neighbors’ party, the look on his face one of genuine confusion.

“Okay, Joe, let’s call you a cab,” another man urged, taking him by the shoulders and guiding him toward the front door.

“But—it’s me!” he protested. As the two men exited the party, Marsha’s guests scoffed at his antics.

“Alright everyone, gather ‘round!” Shelly the housewife announced in a giddy attempt to refocus attention. “Marsha promised us dancing, so let’s put on a record!”

After Nancy watched the crowd accumulate, her gaze returned to the window. She detected movement in the neighboring apartment now, and realized that they too had been dancing. Oddly, their living room appeared to be prematurely littered with streamers and confetti though the new year was still an hour away.

Her interest was peaked. Not only were they dancing, but they appeared to be doing the exact same steps. And upon closer examination...

No, it couldn’t be.

They were the exact same steps—right down to the people who were dancing them.

A electric jolt of panic caused Nancy to spring to her feet in shock, unsure of what to do before fleeing into Marsha’s powder room to collect herself. She shut the door. Was she crazy? Was she dreaming? It was now clear that the apartment across the street was a kind of predicted mirror image—a quake in the system. Just like the tales of the doppelgängers in the woods they would tell years ago. I need to warn Marsha, she decided.

Sprinting back into the living room, Nancy was within arm’s reach of her sister when to her horror, she saw that the opposite apartment was now completely dark. Before a chill could even make it up Nancy’s spine, the sound of parading footsteps thundered up Marsha’s staircase followed by an intense rapping on the door.

“What on earth?” Marsha giggled, heading to open it.

“Marsha,” Nancy spoke with a knot in her throat, “don’t open that door...”

But nobody heard.