CHAPTER THREE
Two nights had passed since I promised Chloe we’d find Amber, and so far, we’d uncovered nothing. I sat on my bed, staring out the window, lost in thought. My phone buzzed suddenly, pulling me back to reality. Chloe’s name flashed on the screen.
“Shari,” she gasped, her voice frantic. “Meet me at my house in ten minutes. There’s something you need to see.”
Her tone sent a chill down my spine. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out the door, my mind racing with possibilities—had something happened to Chloe? Did she finally find a clue about Amber?
When I reached Chloe’s house, she was waiting on the steps. Her face was pale, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. She stood as I approached.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Follow me,” she said quietly.
She led me to a crumbling, boarded-up house at the edge of the neighborhood. The faded “FOR SALE” sign on the lawn swayed in the wind. We slipped around back, where she slid open a warped glass door and stepped inside. The house was eerily silent, the air thick with dust and decay. Leftover belongings littered the floor—forgotten remnants of a hurried departure.
I followed Chloe into the garage. The space felt oppressive, as though it held secrets it didn’t want to give up. A dartboard hung on the wall, a single dart embedded dead center. A dusty desk sat against the far wall, cluttered with folders. Chloe pointed at one in particular.
“Look at this,” she said.
I opened the folder. A photo of a man in a lab coat stared back at me. Scrawled across the back of the photo were the words:
ABYSMAL ENTERPRISES
FOUNDER: YISRAEL SLATTERY, 1970
“What is this?” Chloe asked, her voice trembling.
“I... don’t know,” I admitted, flipping through the rest of the folder. Its title sent a shiver down my spine:
ABYSMAL ENTERPRISES: MESSING WITH TIME BEFORE SOCIETY DID.
Before I could process what it meant, Chloe opened a cabinet and pulled out a television. She plugged it in, revealing a live feed of surveillance footage from around the house. My stomach twisted.
“This is getting weird,” I muttered.
Chloe found the control panel and began rewinding the footage. As she did, I noticed a box perched precariously on top of an old washer. I stretched to grab it but froze when Chloe let out a bloodcurdling scream.
I turned to see her staring at the monitor, trembling. “What?” I demanded, rushing to her side.
She pointed at the screen. The timestamp on the footage showed late at night. A girl walked across the frame, her figure unmistakable—Amber Rose. Chloe’s hand flew to her mouth as the footage continued. Amber backed toward the door, her movements frantic. A dark figure loomed closer, a glint of steel in their hand.
Amber tried to speak, her hands raised in a plea, but the figure lunged, stabbing her repeatedly. Blood pooled beneath her as she crumpled to the floor. Chloe let out a strangled sob.
But the horror didn’t end there. The attacker stood, their face finally visible. My breath caught in my throat—it was Amber. Or... someone who looked exactly like her. The doppelgänger stared down at the lifeless body, then turned to speak to someone just out of the camera’s view before vanishing into thin air.
The recording stopped.
“What... just happened?” Chloe whispered, her voice barely audible.
I couldn’t answer. My mind raced as I rewound the footage, pausing at the final frames. A shadowy figure stood in the background, barely visible—a silhouette facing the camera.
