Until the summer of 1987 Wesley Wiley lived a quiet and comfy life on the outskirts of Old Salem's Bluff, the only place he's called home. This morning was no different than the rest except Wesley awoke face-down in his backyard. His head felt like it had been split apart with an axe. He groaned and pushed himself upright, the dirt and sawdust that covered his shirt fell to the ground as he reached his feet. Fine red brick dust coated his hands.

"What the hell..."

The morning sun ransacked his eyes. He couldn't remember leaving the house, couldn't remember drinking but it sure felt like a hangover. In fact, he couldn't remember anything after dinner the night before. The last thing he remembered was sitting in his recliner while his wife Linda folded laundry and their two children—nine-year-old Tommy and six-year-old Sarah—argued over a television show. Now he looked like he'd spent the entire night landscaping. He must be sleep walking again, but it’s never been like this, he knows he didn’t fall asleep at the dinner table and it’s never caused him to blackout or develop amnesia of events before falling sleep. Wesley stumbled toward the house. The front door stood slightly open. Inside, the home was silent, too silent.

"Linda?"

No answer. The children were asleep upstairs. Tommy snored softly, while Sarah hugged her stuffed rabbit that she calls Horseshoe Honey the Bunny. But Linda wasn't in the bedroom. Instead, a folded note rested on her pillow.

Dear Wesley,

I'm sorry, but I've left you. I found someone else. A man who can provide the life I deserve.

You've worked hard, but hard work isn't enough anymore. We need stability and comfort. He can give me those things.

Please don't look for me. I won't be coming back.

Linda

Wesley's stomach twists in knots like someone about to take to the track of a rollercoaster. He checked the closet. All her clothes are still there, her jewelry sat untouched, her makeup, shoes, and favorite coat were all there except her purse. No woman left her husband and abandoned every possession she owned. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He called the police. Officer Grady arrived two hours later, he read the letter and shrugged. And EMT showed second later to check for injuries and signs of a concussion.

"Happens all the time." He said.

"Not my Linda, she would never just leave me like this."

"It looks like she wanted to get out of here quick."

"Without her clothes, what about my amnesia, and waking up in the yard, couldn't her kidnapper have hit me with something?"

The officer sighed.

The EMT says “you don't have a concussion. You must be sleepwalking again.”

"Wesley, if a grown woman wants to leave, she can leave."

"But—"

"No signs of struggle."

"No signs because someone cleaned them up!"

The officer closed his notebook.

"Sorry, Wesley. There's nothing we can do."

Then he left, leaving Wesley without an answer, alone with more questions. Over the following weeks, life became a nightmare. Dishes piled up, laundry piled up, and a stack of empty liquor bottles piled on his bedroom end table. Because of this the kids were missing more school than ever and have been running around doing as they pleased. Linda never contacted a single person, not her parents, not her friends, not a single person. Wesley questioned everyone in Old Salem Bluff, and the only person who had seen her on the day of her disappearance was a cashier at the local grocery store. Meanwhile, strange things kept happening, like his shoes muddy or waking up exhausted with worn out sore muscles. His truck occasionally had more miles on it than he remembered driving. Once he discovered fresh concrete dust beneath his fingernails. Another time he found receipts from bars he had no memory of visiting. At first he blamed his sleepwalking that hasn’t plagued him since his childhood when occasional suffered from episodes until he was in his late teens. Maybe it’s due to being older but this feels different.

Regardless of the odd circumstances, and strange events Wesley continues trucking along, trying to keep somewhat of a routine going and today is Saturday and every Saturday evening he cleans his truck. Receipts from vendors, customer invoice, and old soda cans lay waste upon the worn cloth seats of his 1975 single-cab pick up truck. On his dash he finds it. A flyer.

GRAND OPENING

WESKER'S WINE CELLAR

COMING SOON

Fine Wines • Great Company

Old Salem Bluff

The flyer featured his home address. His hands trembled. Wine cellar. For years he'd begged Linda to let him convert the basement but she always refused, saying it would be too expensive, too unnecessary, and ridiculous because neither liked wine in the first place. Wesley slowly enters his basement, unsure of what he will see. When he does, he nearly collapses. The room had changed, rebirthed with the breath of fresh construction. Beautiful red brick lines the wall sectioned by half finished Mahogany diamond bottle racks. The ceramic tiles are untarnished with a glare like glass catching the mid-day sun. Wesley had absolutely no memory of building it.

The next morning Wesley woke in the backyard again. Dirt; Sawdust; Scratches; exactly like before. His heart pounded, wasting no time he sprinted past the front door.

"Tommy!"

No answer.

"Sarah!"

Nothing. The children's beds were empty. Another letter sat on the kitchen table.

Dear Wesley,

I've taken the children with me. They deserve a better life too. Don't come looking for us. We're finally happy.

Linda

Wesley screamed. The letter fell from his hands. The room spun. He spent the day calling everyone, the police; the schools; neighbors; their friends. Nobody knew anything. The sheriff simply assumed Linda had returned and taken the children. Case closed. By evening Wesley sat alone in his bathroom. A bottle of whiskey rested beside the sink. He stared at his reflection, crusted drooping bloodshot eyes looking back at him. His beard is unshaven, resembling a mountain man still carrying the particles of yesterday's meal. No wife, no kids, his life is destroyed. He took another drink, then froze. His reflection smiled. Wesley hadn't smiled. The man in the mirror looked amused. He looked different, confident; arrogant; sharper; crueler.

"About time."

Wesley nearly dropped the bottle. "What?"

The reflection chuckled. "You've been asking questions for weeks."

"W-who are you?"

The smile widened. "John Wesker."

The name meant nothing. Yet somehow it sounded familiar.

“Impossible.” Like a memory buried underground. "No."

"Oh yes." The reflection leaned forward. Though Wesley himself hadn't moved.

"You call it sleepwalking." Wesker laughed.

"I call it taking over."

Wesley's blood turned cold. "You aren't real."

"Really?" The reflection's expression darkened. "Who built the wine cellar, Wesley?"

Silence.

"Who visited the bars?"

Silence.

"Who invited half the town to a grand opening party?"

Wesley's hands shook violently."No."

"Me!" The reflection pointed at itself. "John Wesker."

For the next hour the man in the mirror talked. It explained everything. How it emerged years earlier. How at first it only took took control whenever Wesley slept but know it can take control whenever it chose to. How it grew stronger each year. How it hated limitations. Hated responsibilities. Hated family life.

"They bored me."

Wesley's breathing became shallow.

"What did you do?"

The reflection grinned.

"To who?"

"My wife."

The grin widened.

"My children."

Something wicked flashed behind its eyes.

"What did you do?!"

The reflection laughed. Then said the words that shattered Wesley's soul.

"I killed them."

"Couldn't have."

"I did."

"Why?"

"They got in my way."

Wesley punched the mirror, the glass exploded. Blood streamed down his knuckles. Yet from every broken shard, John Wesker continued smiling. For hours Wesley refused to believe it. Until Wesker began revealing specific locations, conversations, and details only the killer could know. Every clue matched, and every mystery is solved. Every terrible suspicion was confirmed. Finally Wesker led him downstairs. The wine cellar was complete. Beautiful. Elegant. Monstrous. Rows of shelves lined the walls. Hundreds of bottles waited in perfect order. Fresh concrete gleamed beneath the lights.

"Look closely."

Wesley approached the wall. Hair. A single strand protruded from the concrete. Then another. Then a fragment of cloth. Sarah's pink jacket. Tommy's baseball shirt. Linda's blue dress. The world collapsed around him. He sank to his knees. A terrible scream echoed through the cellar. His wife. His children. Entombed inside the walls. Forever. Wesley sobbed until his throat hurt. Eventually he looked up. Wine bottles reflected his image. Or rather...Their image. Every reflection showed John Wesker. Not Wesley. Wesker stood confidently inside every bottle. Watching. Smiling.

"You ruined everything."

"No, I improved everything."

"I'll stop you."

Wesker laughed.

"No." The reflection Wesker the man in the mirror and Wesley all spoke together. "It's too late."

The reflections smiled. "This body belongs to me now."

Then Wesker reached into his jacket. Inside the reflection only. A knife appeared. Its blade gleamed silver. Wesley stared. The knife didn't exist in reality. Only in the mirrors. Only in the reflections. Only in Wesker's hands.

"No."

Wesker placed the blade against his own throat, that was only seen in the mirror.

"Goodbye, Wesley."

The knife sliced. Blood erupted across every reflected surface. At the same instant Wesley felt something tear inside his neck. He grabbed his throat. Unable to breathe. Unable to scream. He collapsed. Convulsions ripped through his body. The cellar lights blurred. Darkness swallowed everything. And Wesley Willy vanished forever.

The next evening Old Salem Bluff gathered for a celebration. Strings of lights hung from trees. Lanterns decorated the yard. Tables overflowed with food and wine. Nearly thirty well-dressed guests arrived. People Wesley barely knew. People invited during mysterious nights he couldn't remember. They laughed and chatted as they descended into the basement. The new wine cellar was magnificent. Brick walls. Polished shelves. Perfect lighting. Not one guest suspected what lay hidden behind the concrete.

At the front stood Wesley Willy. Or at least the body that had once belonged to him. His posture was different. His smile was different. Even his eyes seemed different. Confident. Arrogant. Predatory. A wine glass rested in his hand. He tapped it lightly. The crowd fell silent.

"Ladies and gentlemen."

The voice sounded like Wesley's. Yet somehow it wasn't.

"Thank you all for coming."

Applause echoed through the cellar. The man smiled. A broad, self-satisfied smile.

"I've worked very hard on this project."

Several guests nodded approvingly. He slowly surveyed the room. His room. His kingdom. His monument. Behind the walls rested Linda. Tommy. Sarah. The foundation of his success. No guilt touched his face. No sorrow. Only pride.

"I hope you'll enjoy yourselves tonight."

More applause.The smile widened. For a brief moment, one of the wine bottles caught the light. Within its reflection stood Wesley Willy. Faint. Trapped. Silent. Watching. His mouth opened in a scream nobody could hear. Nobody except John Wesker. And when Wesker noticed him, he simply raised his glass in a mocking toast. Then turned back to his guests.

"Welcome," he said.

The crowd cheered. And deep within the walls of the wine cellar, the dead remained silent while Old Salem Bluff celebrated the grand opening of John Wesker's masterpiece.