Familiar Yet Unfamiliar

The first thing Sam Ihle noticed was the smell. It was faint, lingering in the air like smoke after a distant fire. There was nothing distinct about it, yet it pulled at the edges of his memory, unsettling him. 

The small, idyllic town of Seabrook sprawled out before him, framed by rolling hills and dotted with picket fences. He stood at the top of a familiar hill, the same one he’d stood on countless times before as a kid, staring down at a place that was both home and… not. 

The houses were mostly the same—mostly. But the O’Rourke house didn’t have the blue shutters he remembered painting with his friend Michael in high school. It had green ones, and there was no oak tree in its front yard. Instead, a spindly maple tree stretched toward the sky.

It wasn’t just the O’Rourkes. Sam’s own childhood home at the end of Cypress Street felt wrong. There were more windows on the second floor than there should have been, and the garage door had peeling red paint rather than the off-white he’d grown up with. What’s more, raptors screeched and soared overhead with pilots doing practice runs. Since when did Seabrook have a military base? Seabrook never had a military base!

This can’t be right. 

He took out his phone, scrolling through it, looking for anything that might anchor him back to normalcy. The apps were there, the screen saver the same—his favorite Shakespearean quote—but as he opened his text history, a lump caught in his throat. Jodie Williams, his co-reporter at Seabrook Viking News and his newlywed wife, had no messages in the last two weeks. They texted each other constantly. 

Instead, there was a conversation with someone named “Katherine,” which didn’t make sense. He hadn’t spoken to Katherine Evangelista since the office Halloween party in October. 

Sam’s palms were damp. He shoved his phone back in his pocket and started down the hill. He would go to Nino’s, his sanctuary. If there was anyplace to confirm his footing, it would be the pizza and pasta joint he’d spent half his adolescence in, arguing with his friends over which Led Zeppelin album reigned supreme. 

But Nino’s was dark. The building was still there, yet the hand-painted “Open” sign that had been on its door since forever was gone, replaced by an empty windowpane covered in dust. Beside Nino’s was The Golden Griddle in place of The Silver Spatula.

“You looking for something, bud?” 

Sam jumped. An older man on the sidewalk watched him with curious eyes. He was holding a brown bag of groceries that gave off the scent of warm bread. 

“Nino’s,” Sam said hesitantly. “Did it move?” 

The man scratched his chin. “Nino’s? That closed five years ago. After Nino passed away, no one took up the business.” 

Sam froze. “Passed away? No, that—that’s not possible. I saw him last week. He called me ‘Clark Kent’ like always and joked that I’d been eating too much fettuccine Alfredo and carbonara.” 

The man shook his head. “Friend, you must be mistaken. Maybe you’re thinking of Tony’s on Main Street.” 

“Maybe,” Sam said, though he knew there was no mistaking Nino or the hole this revelation had left in his chest. 

He staggered backward and turned down another street. The sunlight seemed harsher now, the shadows of trees stretched long and thin. The suffocating quiet made his footsteps sound unnaturally loud. 

Sam’s stomach clenched as he passed the library. The banner across the front read: Annual Seabrook Jazz Festival. It wasn’t the library that caught his attention but the face on the poster beneath the words: Matt Harwick. Sam had idolized him in high school when Harwick fronted Rising Dawn, a rock band that shaped much of Sam’s youth. But now, here Harwick wore a white chef’s coat, a dark apron, and a smile. Below the image, it read: 

Join Michelin-Star Chef Matt Harwick for a night of culinary artistry. Special guest appearance at Café Luna, June 12th. 

The same Jesus hair. The same Jesus beard. Sam rubbed his temples, hoping that pressure alone could reverse whatever rift had dropped him into this bizarro world. In what universe did Matt Harwick, rocker and revolutionary, trade his guitar for a whisk?

There was another sign that startled and confused him. It was a campaign poster bearing the familiar gray-haired face of a balding old man. It read:

“Think of the future! Vote Dave Pearce for mayor of Seabrook!”

That can’t be right! Uncle Dave was his father’s foster brother and he was a humble janitor and city worker—pouring asphalt for new roads, cutting overgrown branches, cutting the grass in the park… He also ran a gardening service. Sure, he’d wax political, especially during election year, but he swore he’d never run for office. He preferred it down here where the people were, with his steel toed boots on solid ground.

What the Hell was going on?

Parallel universe. 

The thought hit him like cold water to the face. “No,” he said to himself aloud, voice rising to a crescendo of panic. “That’s impossible. Impossible.” 

And yet. 

Everything fit, or didn’t fit. This wasn’t Seabrook—at least not his Seabrook. 

He had to test it. He had to confirm it beyond a doubt. 

Jogging past the bank and the ice cream parlor, both marginally different than he remembered, Sam made his way to Starlight Music Emporium. This store was his temple back in high school, the place where bands and artists shaped dreams and reality for wide-eyed teenagers like him. 

The neon sign was different—blue instead of pink—but the place still stood. Stepping inside, he felt a sense of anticipation paired with dread. If this place could be so different yet the same, surely his memories were just a few words and chords away from invalidation. 

He scanned the vinyl shelves until his hand landed on a record with bold text: Quintus’s Rage – Hades & Styx. His heart soared briefly. 

But it was fleeting. 

The track list didn’t have songs like "Festina Lente" or "Domina Solis," masterpieces that had imprinted on him like a favorite quote from Shakespeare. Instead, the titles read like standard, uninspired pop-rock.  

“What the Hell happened here?” 

“Something wrong?” The question came from the counter, where the store’s clerk was adjusting rows of keychains shaped like guitars. 

“Yeah,” Sam said. “These songs. I mean, where’s ‘Chronos Reigns?’ Or anything from SPQR? These albums should be here!” 

The clerk’s brows furrowed. “That’s not even an album. I’ve never heard of those songs. And trust me, I’ve been into Hades & Styx since day one.” 

Sam was almost too afraid to ask. “What do you mean ‘since day one’?” 

“They’ve only been around about two years. Great sound, though. Kind of… generic, but fun at parties. Definitely not heavy like you seem to think they are.” 

Sam’s pulse throbbed in his temples. Everything about this place—it fit just well enough to trick him and just wrong enough to break him. 

Sam bolted out of the store, breathing hard. He dialed Jodie’s number. As it rang, he stared at the oaks lining the streets, transformed into a city of maples. He ran past German Family Church of Seabrook, or what was supposed to be German Family Church of Seabrook. In its place was a pristine, pure white LDS ward.

“Hello?” 

Her voice was the same, though colder. 

“Jodie,” Sam gasped, his hands trembling. “It’s me, Sam.” 

A pause. “Okay. Sam who?” 

“It’s me. Your husband.” 

Silence. 

“I don’t know who you are,” she said after a moment. “This is kind of weird. Maybe you meant to call someone else.” 

Sam tried to interject, but she’d already hung up. 

His hands dropped to his sides as his breath came in short gasps. He wasn’t just in a different Seabrook; he was no one here. Everything he knew was warped, reshaped into something he didn’t recognize. 

And worse, he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever find his way back.