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 businesses 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
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 businesses 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
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