The only clue to the family's disappearance had been a phone call between Sarah and her mother in Denver. Halfway through the conversation, Sarah had mentioned a commotion upstairs. She had placed the receiver on the kitchen counter, walked away, and never returned.
The bank reclaimed the property two months later but could not unload it. No realtor and no buyer wanted to touch a home so directly connected to the mysterious and likely tragic disappearance of an all-American family.
As Nancy and Heidi explored the main floor and debated the mansion's possibilities as a bed and breakfast, Michelle moved toward the hardwood stairway. She stopped on the bottom step, turned to face Cass, and smiled.
"I've been in this house at least six or seven times, but I've never been upstairs. You think there are any ghosts?"
"If there are, they're all drunker than skunks and passed out on the floor," Cass said. "I've been up there a thousand times and never heard as much as a 'boo,' much less Jacob Marley or Count Dracula. I think it's safe, hon. But let me get you a light."
Cass walked to a small metal box attached to a nearby wall and retrieved an LED flashlight, the kind that smarmy salesmen peddled on late-night infomercials. The kind you had to shake ten minutes to get thirty seconds of light.
Michelle took the flashlight from her friend, placed her purse on a small table at the foot of the stairs, and started up the steps. She silently praised herself for coming to the reunion. She missed real people and down-home experiences and was getting her fill of both on this long weekend trip to Oregon.
When she reached the top of the stairs, Michelle peered down a long hallway and saw the open doorway of a well-lighted room at the other end. Wires hung from a spot on the ceiling that once supported a light fixture. But the rest of the corridor looked immaculate, from the paper-covered walls to the polished hardwood floor to the ornate doors that guarded the way to three rooms. She shook her head. Ghosts or not, this place was amazing.
Michelle entered the open room, walked to the far wall, and peered through a large window. The view from the corner office, or bedroom, or whatever it was, was breathtaking. The woodwork alone was worth thousands. She vowed right then to do whatever it took to save the house, whether that meant donating generously to the preservation fight or buying the place outright.
Looking out another window, which faced the river, she thought again of her life and her choices and the missed opportunities that dated back to her childhood. She could have written a dozen novels in this house and raised a dozen kids. She could have had a happy and fulfilling life without ever leaving the place she was born.
Laughter wafted up the stairs and down the hallway. Cass no doubt had Nancy and Heidi in stitches again. It was probably time to rejoin them and make those big plans for the Cattle Club. Michelle laughed to herself.
Whiskey shots. Good grief! What have I gotten myself into?
As she moved toward the open door and the hall, she saw a closed door in a corner of the spacious room. Shut and no doubt locked, the door appeared to lead directly to an adjacent room. Plain, smooth, and brown, it seemed out of place in a chamber designed for a mover and shaker of the Gilded Age.
Michelle walked to the door and placed a hand on the modern knob. She tried to turn the knob but couldn't. The door, for all practical purposes, was an extension of the wall. But when she pulled on the knob the door flew open, revealing a narrow stairway that appeared to lead down to the first floor and beyond. Seeing no light source in the dark chamber, she shook the flashlight for a minute and pondered the insanity of descending the stairs. She laughed again. What the hell was she afraid of? Mice? Spiders? Was Michelle Richardson, grown woman, no better than Shelly Preston, high school girl? Was the itty-bitty gymnast afraid of the dark?
Michelle reminded herself that her friends, including the big, brave local caretaker of this magnificent mansion, were just a few feet away. They weren't going to the reunion, or anywhere else, without her. Of that she was sure. Michelle shook the flashlight a few more times, smiled, and descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom about twenty steps down, she directed the light to a far wall and saw black shelves and other metalwork, including what appeared to be a partially loaded wine rack. She laughed as she thought about sharing a nineteenth-century Madeira with the crowd at the Little Red Caboose.
Then she had another thought.
What if the Franklins are down here?
Michelle retrieved her stomach from the floor and turned to race up the stairs. She reached the top step when the door shut and her flashlight blinked out.
CHAPTER 4: MICHELLE
The shock and terror, the initial shock and terror, lasted thirty seconds.
Michelle pounded on the door and screamed for help in fifty different languages before the seemingly impregnable barrier gave way and the five-foot-four, 105-pound widow fell forward and landed face first on the parquet floor.
She sat up, caught her breath, and placed her head between her knees. She wanted to collect herself and allow her heart rate to return to double digits before rejoining her friends and continuing what she hoped would be a pleasant evening.
But the moment she stood up and glanced out the river-view window, the fear returned. The sky was brighter and the town, or what she could see of it, looked different. The train station looked more like a depot than a brewpub and the bike path had disappeared.
Michelle closed her eyes, said a quick prayer, and started for the exit. The hallway was much as she remembered it. The wallpaper was as vibrant as ever and the light fixture was still AWOL. But even before she descended the steps she knew something was wrong. There were no sounds from below. No familiar voices. No familiar anything.
"Cass, are you down there? Nancy? Heidi?"
Michelle rushed into the living room and turned in every direction but did not see her friends. Nor did she see a flashlight box on the wall or her purse on the table. What she did see were two opened cans of Billy Beer and a half-dozen cigarette butts scattered on the floor.
She peered through windows front and back but saw no one on the lawn or the driveway. She ran upstairs and checked each of the rooms but found all of them empty. The kitchen, laundry area, and guest room on the main floor were similarly unoccupied. When she opened a coat closet near the front door, she saw a flimsy twin mattress, dropped her flashlight, and screamed.
With nowhere else to go, Michelle Richardson bolted out the front door. She again called out to her friends but again got no answer. No Cass, Nancy, or Heidi could be seen walking down the street or standing on the banks of the river. If the three had decided to play hide-and-go-seek, Michelle did not want to join them.
She considered the possibility that this was all a practical joke. It was Friday the 13th, after all, and Cass Stevens was a practiced practical joker. But something about the scene didn't look right. It didn't feel right. For the second time in ten minutes, Michelle felt her stomach sink and a sickening feeling return. Something was seriously wrong.
She put a hand in her skirt pocket and pulled out nine one-dollar bills, her change from dinner and a drink at the Little Red Caboose. Nothing else appeared to be missing. She purposely excluded her friends and her sanity.
Michelle proceeded down Riverside Drive as if it were her remaining link to a sound mind. The road had not visibly changed. But as she approached the intersection with Main Street, she again saw things she hadn't seen in many years: a Chevy Vega, an AMC Pacer, a Ford Pinto, and a service station that sold leaded gasoline to motorists for eighty-six cents a gallon. A restaurant that had closed in 1981 was again open for business. Michelle knew instinctively that her Twilight Zone experience would probably get worse before it got better.
As she crossed the Main Street Bridge, turned east onto Broadway, and began a four-block stretch to the train depot, she finally saw something familiar. A boutique across the street advertised fall attire with a banner much like the one she had seen driving to the reunion. Nearby busines
ses appeared unchanged, as did other office buildings and residences that presumably led to a brewpub, a parking lot, and her 2009 BMW 750Li. Her spirits soared.
They soared again as she approached the end of the third block and heard a distinctive rock riff, one that had assaulted her ears at least four times in two hours. If nothing else, Michelle would have a serious discussion with her "love muffin."
She expected the music to get louder, and it did. She expected the song to end soon, and it did. She did not expect a DJ to hail "My Sharona" as the new top-rated hit on Billboard's Hot 100 – or expect the announcement to emanate from an apartment stereo. Michelle passed the source of the sound and picked up her step.
When she crossed the street and reached the train station, she saw travelers, not classmates. No friends or Little Red Cabooses or black BMWs greeted her arrival. The brewpub, its trappings, and its dozens of merry patrons had simply disappeared.
Feeling nauseous, Michelle rushed past arriving passengers into the women's room and splashed cold water on her face. She grabbed a paper towel from the nearest dispenser and dried her cheeks but could no longer contain the moisture inside and started to weep.
This isn't possible.
"Are you all right, dear?"
Michelle turned to her left and saw a well-dressed woman, who appeared to be on the short side of sixty, stare at her with sympathetic eyes. The woman offered a tissue.
"Here. Take this. I have plenty."
"Thank you," Michelle said as she accepted the offering.
"Are you OK?"
"I'm OK," Michelle said.
"Are you sure? You don't look OK."
"Actually, I think I'm losing my mind," Michelle said, bursting again into tears.
"What's going on?"
Michelle pulled herself together and considered the question. How did someone, anyone, explain something like the last thirty minutes? She chose her words carefully. She did not know this woman or the nature or the seriousness of her bizarre predicament.
"I don't know. One minute I was checking out the house on the hill, surrounded by friends. The next I was alone walking through a town that had changed. Nothing makes sense to me. I'm scared. I'm really scared."
"Do you have a place to go?"
"I think I have a room at the motor inn, but I'm not sure. I'm not sure of anything anymore. I know this is Unionville, but it's not the Unionville I was in just an hour ago."
The older woman took a closer look at Michelle, put a hand to her chin, and then tucked her tissues back in her purse. She offered a hand.
"My name is Dorothy Purcell. I run a women's shelter four blocks away. Can I at least get you something to eat and a place to rest and help you figure this out?"
"OK," Michelle said, wiping her eyes. "I'd like that."
A few minutes later the two women walked out of the depot and headed south along Fourth Street and a secondary commercial strip that included a post office, two banks, and a bookstore that Shelly Preston had patronized often as a teenager. But it was another business that stopped Michelle in her tracks. She turned to her left and stared blankly across the street.
"Is something wrong?" Dorothy asked. "Do you see something?"
She dropped her arms to her sides and squeezed the life out of a soggy tissue. She sighed before slowly turning toward her new acquaintance.
"How long has it been there?"
"How long has what been there?"
"The barbershop," Michelle said.
"I'm not sure," Dorothy said. "It was there when I moved here in sixty-three. The building is much older, of course. Why do you ask?"
Michelle ignored the question and walked across the street as if walking in a trance. A boy on a bike yelled at the crazy jaywalker as he swerved to avoid what appeared to be an imminent collision. Dorothy allowed a car to pass and then joined Michelle in front of a narrow brownstone building the barber shared with a florist. A classic barber pole spun nearby.
"What is it? Is there something in the shop?"
Michelle glanced at Dorothy but said nothing. Shielding her eyes from the reflected glare of the sun, she pressed her face to a shiny window covered with words and graphics. A moment later she pulled away from the glass and flashed the older woman a weary smile.
"You say you know where I can get some rest?" Michelle asked.
"I do," Dorothy said. "It's just another block."
"OK, then. Let's go."
Dorothy put a hand on Michelle's back and gently guided her down the uneven sidewalk. They advanced about fifteen feet when a slim, handsome man of fifty opened the barbershop door and stepped onto the walk.
"Can I help you ladies?" he said.
Dorothy looked over her shoulder and smiled.
"I think we're OK, Fred. I'm just helping a new friend find her way."
When Michelle faced the man a second later, she leaned into Dorothy and grabbed an arm for support. Color that had returned to her face just as quickly disappeared. For several seconds, Michelle Preston Richardson gazed at a man she had loved and revered, a man who had taught her a hundred and one life lessons, a man who had been dead and buried for twenty-two years.
Daddy.
Michelle glanced at Dorothy and then at the barber. She took two wobbly steps forward and held out her arms before gravity took over and her world went black.
CHAPTER 5: MICHELLE
Unionville, Oregon – Tuesday, August 28, 1979
Michelle stared at the cold coffee in the foam cup and pondered her predicament.
She was in Unionville, all right, but not the Unionville of her high school reunion or even the Unionville of the twenty-first century. The morning paper at her side made that abundantly clear. Hurricane David, Lord Mountbatten, and President Jimmy Carter were not ancient history but rather the day's headlines. Somehow, someway a woman who rarely traveled more than thirty miles from home had traveled more than thirty years into the past.
When Michelle had rolled out of her shelter bunk at six, she had wasted no time getting to the likely source of the problem. She had raced back to the Franklin house and turned the place upside down in search of a portal that might return her to the future.
No room had been spared or possibility excluded. Michelle had even reentered the mystery chamber and given it a thorough inspection. But all she had found were a dozen bottles of seventies wines, dead insects, and a Crissy doll that had probably belonged to six-year-old Alice Franklin. She had returned to the shelter frightened, depressed, and despondent.
The apparent hopelessness of the situation did not sit well with the perpetual optimist. Michelle was a master problem solver who had always been able to break things down, find solutions, and act quickly. She had won awards as a high school teacher for innovative thinking. But nothing she had learned in nearly forty-nine years had prepared her for this. This was The Outer Limits on an endless loop, an affront to a rational mind, and a challenge that no normal person could possibly expect to manage, much less overcome.
What would she do? What could she do? Michelle wrestled with those questions and others as she stared at the not-so-hot beverage in the not-so-great cup.
"Welcome back," Dorothy Purcell said as she approached the small table in the dining area of the Unionville Women's Home. She sat down across from Michelle. "My assistant called me this morning and said you had gone for a stroll. I trust you enjoyed your tour of the town."
"It was OK," Michelle said glumly.
"You had a bit of excitement last night. Do you remember any of it?"
"Some. How did I get here?"
"You walked here, without assistance and at your insistence," Dorothy said. "You were out only a few minutes. The police and paramedics looked you over, saw that you were fine, and released you to me when they saw you had no identification."
"Oh."
"Care to tell me your name?"
"Michelle."
"That's a pretty name. Do you have a last name, Michelle?"
&n
bsp; Michelle hesitated. She had every reason to believe Dorothy had her best interests at heart, but she was starting down an unfamiliar path. She decided to proceed carefully.
"I'd rather not say right now."
"I understand. There are women who come here every day who want to keep their names to themselves. It's not a problem."
Dorothy glanced at Michelle's left hand and then her face.
"Is there a husband or boyfriend I should know about?"
"No. It's just me." Michelle took a sip of her coffee. "What exactly happened last night?"
"You fainted. Our handsome barber does that to people," Dorothy said with a laugh. "But I suspect there was more to this episode. You looked at Fred Preston like you knew him. Do you?"
Michelle closed her eyes. Another pointed question. She wanted out of this Q and A.
"I don't think so."
"He doesn't know you either. But he is most definitely interested in your welfare. After he ran an errand, he stopped here to check up on you. You were already fast asleep. You demanded a sedative the moment we arrived and I gave you one."
Michelle raised her eyebrows.
"There is no cause for alarm, dear. Among other things, I'm a registered nurse."
Michelle tried to process Dorothy's words, but couldn't. The trauma of the previous evening had impaired her ability to connect many dots.
"In any case, Fred said he would be back, probably today or tomorrow. He told me to give you anything you needed to get back on your feet."
"That was nice of him."
"It was. Fred's a good man. But I couldn't tell him what you needed because I didn't know the first thing about you. Do you have someone you can stay with, say a friend or relative?"
"No."
Michelle pondered the lie. She had all sorts of friends and relatives in this town, including a few that would probably take her in, if only she could convince them that the middle-aged stranger before them was the ponytailed girl they loved and adored.
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