key from her father twitch, ever so slightly, on her bureau—just as it had done the day before. But she had to be imagining it … right?
Michele sank back onto the bed, eyeing the key warily. Suddenly there it was again—the key twitching, moving from left to right. Michele yelped, scrambling back in terror. Am I going crazy? she thought fearfully. Isn’t this what happens when people lose their minds?
The key continued its strange movements, as if it were anxious to get Michele’s attention. Michele pinched herself as hard as she could and flinched from the pain. She definitely wasn’t dreaming.
Her gaze fell on the locked drawer. As she glanced back at the animated key, an idea flickered in her mind. It was crazy … but then, she had to try something to stop the key’s spasmodic movements.
Steeling herself, she walked over to the bureau. She squeezed her eyes shut as she reached for the key. It stopped moving and she picked it up. Barely able to exhale, Michele approached the desk. With a shaky hand, she tried to fit the key in the lock.
The key burst to life. Michele cried out in shock, stumbling backward, as the key didn’t fit into the lock but instead melded to it like a magnet, sparking and moving as if it contained a hidden battery.
The desk drawer swung open, the key falling forward into it. At first Michele was too afraid to look inside. What other bit of crazy witchcraft or voodoo could be waiting there for her? But her curiosity got the best of her, and she gingerly took a peek.
Lying flat in the drawer was an ancient-looking leather-bound journal. The skeleton key was pressed to it like a paperweight. Michele’s heart raced. Had this journal belonged to one of her parents? Were they trying to communicate with her somehow? She quickly stuck the key into her pocket and opened the worn and dusty diary. But to her disappointment, the name “Clara” was engraved in calligraphy on the inside cover. Beside that was written the year— 1910 . Michele flipped open the diary to the first yellowed page.
10/10/10
Today began just like any other day, but it quickly turned into much the opposite.…
As Michele stared at the date, her jaw dropped. Today was also 10/10/10—October 10, 2010!
Just then, the gold mantel clock sounded a chime. And suddenly Michele had the inexplicable feeling that her hands were stuck to the diary pages. She tried to pry them off, but she couldn’t let go! What is this? she thought anxiously as she continued her attempts to yank her hands off the diary. Did the pages turn to glue over the past century or what?
In the most terrifying motion Michele had ever experienced, the diary seemed to pull her into its binding, and she found herself falling headfirst into an abyss of pages. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her stomach swooping sickeningly, as though she were on an upside-down roller coaster.
“Help!” she shrieked. “What’s happening to me?”
She was swimming now, in a sea of papers and ink, as the diary had somehow enlarged to a monstrous size, able to swallow her whole. Then the diary pages vanished, and Michele screamed again as her body involuntarily spun and swirled around her bedroom—a bedroom that seemed to change with every glance, strange-looking figures entering and disappearing at the speed of light. The room seemed to turn older and older as she spun, and without warning, the spinning stopped and everything was once again clear and in focus.
Michele hit the floor with a thud. The scream she heard when she landed was not her own.
Standing right in front of Michele was a waif of a girl with pale skin, red hair tied back in a braid, and green eyes. She looked just like the painting of Clara Windsor hanging in Michele’s room, but unlike the aristocrat in a sumptuous ball gown, this pale-faced girl wore a ratty, ill-fitting black dress and looked entirely out of place in the elegant bedroom. Michele scrambled to her feet in terror, but she
Michele sank back onto the bed, eyeing the key warily. Suddenly there it was again—the key twitching, moving from left to right. Michele yelped, scrambling back in terror. Am I going crazy? she thought fearfully. Isn’t this what happens when people lose their minds?
The key continued its strange movements, as if it were anxious to get Michele’s attention. Michele pinched herself as hard as she could and flinched from the pain. She definitely wasn’t dreaming.
Her gaze fell on the locked drawer. As she glanced back at the animated key, an idea flickered in her mind. It was crazy … but then, she had to try something to stop the key’s spasmodic movements.
Steeling herself, she walked over to the bureau. She squeezed her eyes shut as she reached for the key. It stopped moving and she picked it up. Barely able to exhale, Michele approached the desk. With a shaky hand, she tried to fit the key in the lock.
The key burst to life. Michele cried out in shock, stumbling backward, as the key didn’t fit into the lock but instead melded to it like a magnet, sparking and moving as if it contained a hidden battery.
The desk drawer swung open, the key falling forward into it. At first Michele was too afraid to look inside. What other bit of crazy witchcraft or voodoo could be waiting there for her? But her curiosity got the best of her, and she gingerly took a peek.
Lying flat in the drawer was an ancient-looking leather-bound journal. The skeleton key was pressed to it like a paperweight. Michele’s heart raced. Had this journal belonged to one of her parents? Were they trying to communicate with her somehow? She quickly stuck the key into her pocket and opened the worn and dusty diary. But to her disappointment, the name “Clara” was engraved in calligraphy on the inside cover. Beside that was written the year— 1910 . Michele flipped open the diary to the first yellowed page.
10/10/10
Today began just like any other day, but it quickly turned into much the opposite.…
As Michele stared at the date, her jaw dropped. Today was also 10/10/10—October 10, 2010!
Just then, the gold mantel clock sounded a chime. And suddenly Michele had the inexplicable feeling that her hands were stuck to the diary pages. She tried to pry them off, but she couldn’t let go! What is this? she thought anxiously as she continued her attempts to yank her hands off the diary. Did the pages turn to glue over the past century or what?
In the most terrifying motion Michele had ever experienced, the diary seemed to pull her into its binding, and she found herself falling headfirst into an abyss of pages. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her stomach swooping sickeningly, as though she were on an upside-down roller coaster.
“Help!” she shrieked. “What’s happening to me?”
She was swimming now, in a sea of papers and ink, as the diary had somehow enlarged to a monstrous size, able to swallow her whole. Then the diary pages vanished, and Michele screamed again as her body involuntarily spun and swirled around her bedroom—a bedroom that seemed to change with every glance, strange-looking figures entering and disappearing at the speed of light. The room seemed to turn older and older as she spun, and without warning, the spinning stopped and everything was once again clear and in focus.
Michele hit the floor with a thud. The scream she heard when she landed was not her own.
Standing right in front of Michele was a waif of a girl with pale skin, red hair tied back in a braid, and green eyes. She looked just like the painting of Clara Windsor hanging in Michele’s room, but unlike the aristocrat in a sumptuous ball gown, this pale-faced girl wore a ratty, ill-fitting black dress and looked entirely out of place in the elegant bedroom. Michele scrambled to her feet in terror, but she
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