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The drive didn't take long, but as we pulled up to Bobby's, it felt as if time had shifted unnaturally. The moment we stepped out of the Impala, daylight seemed to vanish in an instant, swallowed by the darkness of night. I glanced over at Sam, but he seemed completely unfazed by the sudden shift as if it were expected. I didn't question it. Instead, I simply fell in step beside him as we entered the house.
Though the interior was familiar, it wasn't the same as it was in the real world. Here, everything was coated in a thick layer of dust. Cobwebs stretched between corners, draped over objects. White sheets covered the furniture. Yet, despite the eerie stillness, there was something grounding—a faint scent of whiskey and old spice lingering in the air.
My eyes flickered around the living room as we entered, taking in the glow that bathed the space. Candles. They were everywhere. Some perched in holders, others simply melted onto surfaces, their wax pooling and hardening. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows along the walls.
Sam raised his gun as he moved cautiously through the space, his steps careful, his eyes scanning every corner to ensure nothing lurked, waiting to strike. I stayed close behind him, my breath slow and steady, my senses on high alert.
As we neared the archway leading into the kitchen, we finally spotted him—a man sitting at a desk positioned just in front of the counter. His posture was rigid, unmoving as if he had been sitting there for hours in the shadows. The dim light filtering through the kitchen windows glinting off the knife resting on the table beside him.
"Hey," Sam called out, his voice firm but controlled. The single word carried through the air, but the man remained unresponsive. He didn't lift his head, didn't twitch at the sound of our presence. He just sat there—silent and unmoving. "Hey!" Sam yelled as if to catch his attention with a raised voice.
The man responded by slowly lifting his head, his movements deliberate, almost sluggish. A quiet "Oh" slipped from his lips, barely more than a breath of sound. He remained shrouded in darkness, his features obscured, making it impossible for Sam or me to see him clearly—just the vague outline of his form. But we both knew that it was another version of Sam.
"Hi, Sam." His voice was low, almost indifferent. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Abby." Though I couldn't see his eyes in the darkness, I felt them lock onto mine, heavy and piercing. A shiver ran down my spine.
"So?" The Sam beside me spoke, his tone firm, grip tightening around his gun. "Which one are you?" He questioned.
"Don't you know?" the seated Sam questioned, a hint of curiosity laced in his tone, as if surprised that the real Sam hadn't figured it out yet. Slowly, he began to rise from his chair, the movement deliberate. As he stood, the moonlight streaming through the window finally illuminated his face—and I couldn't stop the sharp gasp that escaped my lips.
His face was cut, and bloodied, like he had been dragged through the worst horrors imaginable. Deep bruises marred his skin, and his eyes held something far darker than pain.
