She almost missed the door.

It peeked out from the back of the stairway landing, blending with the walls, a pinched afterthought barely wide enough for a child.

She imagined the builders cursing their errant plans and wedging it in anyway.

Somewhere in the empty farmhouse in eastern Centre County, her husband and the real estate agent were walking. She could hear their footsteps growing fainter.

They had driven miles, past fields of corn stubble poking through snow, to see if this was the one, the country home of their dreams.

So far, she wasn’t sure.

The house sat against woods at the end of a muddy lane, its paint peeling, the porch roof sagging into a lopsided smile.

The overcast day didn’t help, the land washed out, like a faded photo.

Nothing had caught her eye – until the door.

She peered at it, tipping her head.

Was it a closet? A pantry?

It looked like she could step through if she turned her shoulders.

The real estate agent had told them about the family who had lived there for generations.

Friendly, polite, but kept to themselves, he said.

Now, the last brother was selling.

Neither he nor anyone else had mentioned the door.

Wisps of her breath rose. The hall had fallen silent, the only sound from the wind slapping a branch against a windowpane.

She turned the knob and opened the door.

A cramped hallway appeared before her, an oval window a few yards away.

Funny, she thought, she hadn’t seen it from the outside. She hesitated, wondering if her husband was waiting downstairs, then stepped forward.

Dust clouds flew from her feet. She sneezed. The rooms to either side, small and bare, could have been servants’ quarters once, but nobody had slept in them for a while.

Her eyes widened at the window.

A curtain of snow was falling, not on trees and fields, but buildings and a city street.

Cars inched by, their headlights casting pale beams. She rubbed her face and looked again. She knew this place. She had grown up here.

She was back in Johnstown.

Chapter 1

BY ALAINA SYMANOVICH

She could see the Johnstown scene before her, close enough to touch but somehow out of reach, like a mirage ghosting on the horizon.

With trepidation, she extended her clammy fingers to touch the windowpane.

The thick, warped glass was shockingly and excitingly cold. 

This is real, she kept thinking, the thought looping through her brain again and again.

 The winter scene played out  before her, as if it was just another moment of another day.

She could see drivers in their cars, staring nonplussed at the road in front of them, unenthusiastically finishing the day.

A teenage boy jogged half-heartedly past, repeatedly checking his watch.

In a duplex across the street, a curly-haired woman stood washing dishes at the kitchen sink. 

The digital sign at the First Bank flashed Feb. 20, 1975, in glowing red lights.

Life was happening before her, just as it always had, just the way she remembered it from her childhood.

Unthinkingly, as if by some involuntary reflex, her hands flew to the windowsill and fumbled with the rusted metal handle.

Angry splinters buried themselves into her fingers as she boosted the window open, but she ignored the stabs of pain. 

As she flung her leg over the ledge, she chided herself. She was being childish and impulsive, she knew, and she’d probably open her eyes in a minute and find herself alone in the dusty room, but somehow that wasn’t important.

Somehow, that nagging voice in her head – the one that demanded she act her age, the one she always obeyed – was silent.

With the unabashed grin of a little child, she swung herself over the sill and into the past and landed squarely.  

Strangely, nobody gave her even a passing glance.

The few people who happened to be looking her way seemed to stare through her without registering her presence.

Disconcerted, she waved to a man driving past. He continued to drive, his eyes skidding over her as they would a blank wall.

“They can’t see you, you know,” said a high-pitched voice.

“Give it up, Melissa.”

Melissa whipped her head around to see a young girl, just 7 or 8 years old, staring up at her with knowing eyes.

The girl’s face was surprisingly bold and she stood with the confidence of an adult.

Something about the girl’s wide, defiant eyes and firm stance intimidated Melissa. She wondered how the little girl knew her name.

“Excuse me?” Melissa said in her steadiest voice.

“They can’t see you,” the girl repeated.

“This isn’t real. These people, this place, they’re all from the past.”

Melissa nodded casually, as if they were conversing about the weather or something equally unimpressive.

Fiercely, she tried to quell her nervousness. Any display of fear would be dangerous, she told herself; the girl’s probing eyes would surely detect it.

“So we’re in my memory?” Melissa asked, surveying the street again. “Where am I, then?”

The girl shook her head impatiently. 

“Not your memory,” she corrected. 

“It’s like, you know, the memory.  The past.”

Melissa blinked, considering. 

Overwhelmed, she felt her careful composure unraveling around her.

The girl just stared at her with those calculating, unblinking eyes.

An uncomfortable silence smothered them and left Melissa defenseless, with no buffer of conversation, naked in front of those unrelenting eyes.

Finally, the girl spoke. 

“So are you ready?”  She asked, extending her arm.

Melissa stared at the girl’s bony white hand, to dumbfounded to respond.

 She could not, would not, bring herself to touch the eerie girl’s skin.

It was porcelain-smooth and unnaturally white, like the dolls Melissa’s grandmother used to collect. 

“Ready for what?” Melissa asked suspiciously.

The girl’s features darkened menacingly.

“There’s something you need to see,” she said in an icy tone, “before you even think about buying that house.”

For a second, Melissa stared at the girl in utter incomprehension.

Finally, she remembered the quaint country house and the pushy Realtor, figments of another universe.

Melissa shook her head firmly and began to turn back, certain of what she needed to do. 

“Thanks, but I’m going back –”

She gasped. The window had disappeared.

Chapter 2

BY SHANE MCGREGOR

Melissa wheeled back around, fearing the worst from her creepy new acquaintance. 

She was surprised, however, to find those wide, icy eyes blankly looking back at her.

“Come on,” she beckoned. “I’ve got something to show you.”

They walked side by side in silence, the little girl one step ahead of Melissa so as to guide the way, across the grey landscape of the Flood City.

The occasional passersby offered not even a wink in their direction.

The dirty soup of melting snow and laying gravel crackled on the sidewalks beneath their feet.

The silence became too much for Melissa.

“Where are you taking me?”

The little girl paused before answering.

“Oh … not too far away,” she replied.

“Just right … up … there.”

Her thin, icy finger stretched out in front of her, pointing toward the upcoming intersection a half block away.

“Cedar and Sparrow. The last place I ever saw in Johnstown.”

The words barely entered Melissa’s head before she froze at the sight in front of her. 

A mirror image of the little girl strolled up to the intersection, pausing diligently to look both ways before crossing the street.

But the closer the little girl came, the more Melissa noticed something different about her.

Her floral-printed blouse and jumper were brighter, more lively, than the gloomy aura of Melissa’s temporary tour guide.

The cheery little girl was half-skipping down the sidewalk, smiling and humming a sing-song tune under her breath, when the van pulled up.

Dark gray, rusted, and creaking, the large van with no windows glanced at the curb as it pulled up right next to the little girl and rolled down the window. 

A scruffy voice, barely loud enough for Melissa to hear, called out to the little girl on the sidewalk.

“Sweetheart, I think I’m lost, could you help me with some directions?”

The little girl paused, carefully surveying the situation, before telling the man she could.

“Oh, why thank you, sweetheart. I’m looking for Franklin Street …”

“That’s easy, mister – just keep going over the bridge,” the little girl piped up in response.

“What’s that you say?”

“Just keep going over the bridge, mister, it’s right over the –”

“I’m sorry, honey, my hearing is bad in my right ear – I’m an old man, you see. Would you mind stepping a bit closer?”

But the two little black shoes didn’t even make it to the curb before the passenger door swung open and a large, powerful hand grabbed the little girl by her tiny arm and yanked her into the van.

Melissa yelped in surprise just as a blood-curling scream unfurled from the little girl’s throat. The passenger door shut just as quickly as it opened, and the grey van sped off through the intersection.

Mortified, Melissa turned to the gloomy little girl still standing on her left.

“Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! What did they do –”

But the little girl beside her did not jump, did not scream, and did not panic at the sight – a moviegoer who has already seen the film.

“Take my hand,” the girl replied, calmly.

She led Melissa over to the closest house on the street, an old brown box of a thing that had been abandoned for years. 

Her pulse couldn’t help but quicken as the little girl cracked open the creaky door and with one twist of the doorknob.

“Don’t be afraid,” said the little girl, expressionless.

“Just come in.”

Melissa closed her eyes as the little hand pulled her into the musty darkness. 

Still shaken from the sight she just witnessed, she wasn’t sure she could handle what might be waiting inside this house. 

But the creaky, splintered floor that she expected to step onto never appeared. 

“Is this grass?” Melissa opened her eyes at once, and the brightness of the scene surprised her.

This wasn’t a creaky old house in Johnstown.

Fifty yards ahead of her, a ramshackled farmhouse stood in the fading light of the sunset.

The house looked rundown and rustic – but familiar. Melissa turned to the little girl, hand still locked with hers, and was just about to speak when she recognized the house in front of her.

And just as she and her husband had done a few hours ago, an old, grey van rolled down the gravel driveway and parked next to the old farmhouse. 

Chapter 3

By Troy Howarth

Melissa didn’t know what to do. She felt uneasy, but a morbid sense of curiosity compelled her to turn to her tiny companion.

“What happened here?”  The little girl looked up at her blankly. She did not blink.

Melissa spoke again. 

“What are you trying to tell me?” 

The little girl looked straight ahead and raised her arm – extending a short, thin index finger toward the farmhouse.

Melissa looked to see what the girl was pointing to.

“I’m afraid,” she mouthed – but she couldn’t be sure if she had actually spoken aloud. 

She looked to the little girl for a sign of recognition, but the girl was gone.

The sun started to dip below the skyline; the light grew dim, giving an orange glow to the scene that began to unfold.

Suddenly, the van door flung open.

Melissa watched as a young man removed a bag of laundry and placed it gingerly on the ground.

The young man was slender but appeared fit. He was wearing a faded black T-shirt, torn jeans and Timberland boots. 

He seemed to be having difficulty with the sack, and he was soon joined by an older man who had been driving the van.

The older man was dressed conservatively, and wore black, horn-rimmed glasses.

The driver began berating the young man.

“I thought you were so tough,” he mocked.

The young man flung his arms up in the air.

“You think you can do any better? Be my guest!”

The two men continued to bicker back and forth, and Melissa observed it all with a mounting sense of dread.

Suddenly, her heart sank to her stomach.

She heard muffled cries coming from the sack and noticed it beginning to move about on the grass.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, as if the words were stuck in her throat, struggling to come forth.

Melissa tried to move forward, but she couldn’t. It was like her feet were planted into the ground.

Melissa felt frantic, desperate.

What was she to do? 

She tried shouting out. “Hey!”

The two men continued to bicker.

She shouted again. Still no response.

Suddenly the two men stopped arguing and went their separate ways – the old man headed toward the house, rustling through his pockets in search of a key for the front door, while the younger man began to drag the sack across the grass, muttering profanity all the way.

It was dusk, and it was chilly enough for their breath to be visible.

Melissa tried shouting again, but to no avail.

She noticed something peculiar – although it was cold, and she could see the breath of the two men quite clearly, she could not see her own.

Melissa watched in horror as the young man dragged the sack into the house.

The door closed with a resounding thud, and she could hear the sound of the lock turning and clicking into place.

She closed her eyes. She kept telling herself, “This isn’t real. This isn’t happening.” 

A few moments passed. She felt warm, secure.

“Honey.” 

Melissa opened her eyes. 

Her husband stood in front of her, looking puzzled. He smiled faintly.

“Are you OK?” 

Melissa looked around. She was back in the farmhouse, with her husband and the Realtor.

Her head started to throb.

“What happened?” she asked.

Her husband put his arm around her shoulder.

“You’re asking me?” he said.

“I looked behind me and you weren’t there. I found you standing here by the staircase.”

“What about the secret room?”  Melissa asked.

“Secret room?” he said.

“I think you need a nap.” 

Melissa tried to laugh it off, but doubt was nagging at her mind. 

Had she simply been daydreaming?

She couldn’t believe that.

It all felt too real.

As she started to walk with her husband, she noticed a picture on the wall.

She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

“Must be a family portrait,” her husband said.

The Realtor joined them.

“That was the family who used to live here,” the Realtor said.

Melissa felt sick to her stomach. 

The picture depicted an apparently happy and normal middle-class family, but two faces stood out – an older, grandfatherly figure wearing black, horn-rimmed glasses, and a slender young man beaming from ear to ear.

Chapter 4

By LORI MEYER

Melissa turned to the Realtor and asked, “Why did the family decide to move?

“Do you know where they went?”

Not quite able to shake the creepy feeling from her supposed dream, Melissa was curious about the family who inhabited this house previously.

 “They said they felt like it was time for a change,” the Realtor said.

“With the kids grown up and gone, the husband and wife didn’t want to live here with the memories. They moved somewhere in New York.

“Why do you ask?”

Pondering over his words, “Didn’t want to live here with the memories,” Melissa shuddered.

Most families want to hold on to things like that.

“Just curious,” Melissa said.

Wondering if she had seen too many episodes of “Cold Case” and “Medium,” Melissa wanted to find out if there was any truth to what she had seen earlier, so she excused herself.

“I need to get a few things done from work, see you back at the house,” Melissa said.

She leaned up to give Jack a quick kiss on the lips, scurrying away before he could ask her any questions.

Thoughts swirling like a disturbed hornets’ nest made her head start spinning.

Amazed she found her way home, she assumed she was operating on auto pilot. 

Dashing inside, Melissa figured she didn’t have long before her husband would be home.          

 While clicking away on her laptop, Melissa’s queasiness grew.

Strings of abductions spanning from February 1975 to at least June 1978; maybe more, but she couldn’t bring herself to click one more time.

No suspects, no leads and no bodies found.

Melissa wondered if she knew some answers.

Her thoughts drifted to her daydream and the farmhouse.

Piece by piece, it began to come together.

Racing down the cellar stairs, Melissa retrieved the sledgehammer from the workbench in the basement.

She knew what she had to do.

Without hesitation, she rushed to her car, throwing the sledgehammer in the seat beside her before taking off.

Not 20 minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the farmhouse.

Relief temporarily flooded her, Jack’s and the Realtor’s cars were gone.

Knowing she may soon lose her nerve, she headed straight for the house.

Once she reached the steps, she realized she didn’t have keys to the house.

But a nagging voice told her there was a reason she was here, so she tried the knob.

It was unlocked.

Making her way to the stairwell, she glanced at the family picture hanging on the wall.

“Let’s see if I can wipe that smile from your face.”

Just as she raised the sledgehammer, the phone in her pocket vibrated.

Pulling it out, she noticed it was Jack.

“Hello.”

“Where are you?” he asked.

Realizing he would find out sooner or later, she decided to confess where she was.

“I’m at the farmhouse,” Melissa said.

“I need to see something. I’ll prove I am right or I’ll prove I am crazy. Either way, it ends right now.”

 Grasping the notion that his wife was acting erratic, he tried pleading with her.

“Melissa, don’t do anything until I get there,” Jack said. “I’m leaving right now.”

Taking a few calming breaths, she agreed.

While waiting for Jack to arrive, Melissa kept playing the lines from the newspaper articles in her head.

Growing angrier and more anxious by the minute, she raised the sledgehammer, ready to strike.

Just as she connected with the wall, merely inches from where the picture hung, Jack came busting through the door.

“What are you doing, Melissa?”

Stunned by his wife’s behavior, Jack couldn’t muster the strength to move to stop her.

All the while, Melissa continued swinging the sledgehammer again and again until the false wall under the stairwell had a gaping hole in it, revealing a secret door.

Trembling from the energy exerted in the demolition of the wall and her discovery, Melissa no longer had the strength to hold the sledgehammer and it dropped to the floor.

Hands still shaking, Melissa turned the knob and slowly opened the door.

Peering inside, her eyes grew wide as she fought the urge to faint.

Chapter 5

BY DANA MCFEELY

As the door beneath the stairs gave way, Melissa pulled a chain for the overhead light and was immediately accosted with images of little girls.

Girls with long silky hair caught in pigtails and braids. The walls were plastered with their photos. The photos of missing children that she had seen only a few hours before.

Melissa could barely catch her breath. It was impossible to take everything in at once. 

Slowly stepping into the small room, Melissa scanned every article that hung with each picture, her eyes gravitating to one in particular.

The face was fuller and she wasn’t as pale, but Melissa was certain it was her. It was the girl from her daydream.

“Melissa?”

The sound of her husband’s concerned voice penetrated the stupor Melissa was in. She glanced back, placed her hand on his arm, and gently tugged him into the room.

“Emma,” Melissa said softly. “Her name was Emma.”

“Melissa, you’re scaring me,” Jack said.

“What is going on?

“What ...,” Jack’s voice dropped off as he began to take in his surroundings.

The air seeped out of him, deflating him like a balloon.

He turned to her, his gaze resting on her face.

“How ... how did you know about this?”

Melissa’s hand hesitantly touched a wall.

She trailed a finger down its length and stopped at the photo of Emma.

“I know this sounds crazy, Jack, but she led me here.

“This brave little girl led me here.”

Melissa explained about the strange daydream she had earlier. How Emma had come to her and let Melissa see her abduction, eventually leading her back to this place.

Running a hand through his hair as he shook his head back and forth, Jack said, “Melissa ... honey.”

Anger getting the best of her, Melissa held up a hand, “Hold it right there, Jack. You think I don’t know how this sounds?”

Seeing the concern reflected in his eyes, Melissa sighed, her eyes softening as she looked at him.

“Hell, I’m not even certain myself whether I’m just a tiny bit crazy.”

Melissa looked at Emma’s picture again.

“But ... does it really matter how I got here?”

She shook her head.

“No. It only matters that I’m here now.”

“Honey, look!” Jack pointed to a small trunk in one corner of the room. 

He shook off some stray cobwebs and slid it out to the center.

“Do you still have that sledgehammer handy?”

Melissa quickly grabbed it, gave it to Jack, and stepped back as he took a small swing and knocked the trunk’s lock off.

Each grabbing a side of the lid, they eased it up and peered inside.

“What’s this?” Melissa asked as she dipped her hand inside and found a pair of scuffed Mary-janes, a well-loved Raggedy Ann doll, and a yellowed photograph of a little girl.

The name on the back said Sara.

Taking the photograph with her, she stepped out of the room and looked at the family picture again.

She was there in the photo.

Sara, probably around 8 years old, held the same doll and stood with a shy smile on her face.

“Melissa!”

Melissa stumbled back into the room.

“What? What did you find?”

Jack held up a leather-bound book.

“I think it’s a journal.”

As he opened it, a newspaper clipping drifted to the floor.

On it, Sara’s face stared back at them.

The article said that Sara, the youngest member and only girl of the Johnson family, had been abducted on the morning of Jan. 14, 1974. Police had no leads as to her whereabouts.

Melissa looked at Jack as he turned to the first page of the journal.

He read aloud, “My dear Sara, no one will ever replace you, even though we try.

“The first girl, Emma, had your color of hair.” 

Glancing over at his wife, Jack saw the incredible sorrow there. He reached over and wiped a tear off her cheek.

Pulling out her cell phone, Melissa took a deep breath and dialed the police.