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Johnny Remember Me


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We're standing in a central London location, possibly The Strand. Its night-time and we are thinking about attending a gig.

My gigging companion, someone who I have never met before but seem to know well, is eager to view the gig listing that's posted up on the venue's doors across the road.

She nimbly runs across the wide, rain-splattered thoroughfare towards the lit-up theatre. I follow her at a more sluggish pace, dodging the yellow headlights of the buses and white vans that appear to come from all directions.

Instead of reaching the other side of wet road, I find myself in a large, bright room filled with many identical beds. The beds are occupied by sleeping people. I am lying in one of these beds.

Even though the room is fully occupied, it's very quiet; no snoring or murmuring can be heard.

I become aware that beside my bed there is a small side table; on it sits a 1950s suitcase-style record player. The turntable is spinning; it hauntingly plays 'Johnny Remember Me' by John Leyton.

Suddenly the lights go out and the music stops. It's quiet again. I can see only faint outlines and murky shadows.

A door is flung wide open; someone stands motionless in the doorway. It's difficult to make out details, as they are silhouetted by soft, yellow hallway light.

The figure enters the room and patiently moves along the rows of beds; its shape softens, then flattens a little, then stops being a shape at all. It has a strange resemblance to the tide going out.

The figure appears next to my bed; it stands rigid, silently peering down at me.

Without warning, the figure is no longer beside me; it's now hovering a few inches above me. It precisely mirrors my prone self. I can see its face, and with horror, I recognise it — it's me.

My body floats directly above me, a solid reflection. I find myself staring into my own eyes.

My doppelgänger abruptly loses its ability to float, and then I feel the weight of my own body crash down on top of me.

I wake.


Written by Leeroy Lugg © 2026

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