The street was quiet. She guessed the neighbors were all on vacation. She would be on vacation, but instead her parents decided they had to spend their summer moving across the country. She left her friends, her home, even her dog behind.

Her father just didn't understand. "I'm building a better life for us. Why can't you be happy?" he had asked her.

"Happy? I'm supposed to be happy? You made me leave Beth, Cory, even little Daisy behind! How am I supposed to be happy? I hate you!" She screamed this and more as she stormed out of the house.

Now, trying not to cry, she kicked a stray rock down the road. Thinking about how selfish her father was, she gave the rock a good kick. It clanged against a fence post, and she looked up.

Immediately she was transported to another time. She looked at the house, and saw a beautiful Victorian style home. Rose bushes lined the front of the house, and a white porch wound its way from front to the side. Lace curtains hung in the windows, and from inside you could hear the sound of music and laughter. 

As if in a dream, she walked to the door and went inside. She felt as though she belonged here. It was her home. Within was an array of beautiful cherry furniture, arranged as a welcoming entry for guests. Just inside the door was an elegant winding staircase. The wood was so polished that it reflected the light from outside. 

The girl went up the staircase, seeming to know exactly where she was going. She turned the corner when she reached the hallway above, and took the second door on the left. Within was an eighteenth century style four poster bed with a canopy of velvet and drapery of mesh. A victrolla played in the corner, an opera of great intensity. 

Out of nowhere a shadow of a man dressed in black appeared. She fell backward, landing on the steps. He came toward her, ready to kick her down the stairs. She braced herself against the coming force, eyes shut tight. There was a crash of sound, then silence. The kick never came.

Slowly she opened her eyes. She lay in a hallway filled with cobwebs on a floor of moth eaten carpet. The winding staircase was dusty, with chips in the railing. Disoriented, she made her way back down the stairs. The furniture and curtains were gone. The house smelled musty, obviously abandoned. 

Shaken, she wandered outside. The rose bushes were there, but long dead. Curious and disoriented still, she followed the porch around the side of the house to a large backyard. She wandered aimlessly to the back of the yard underneath an old oak. Her face went pale, and she began shaking with fright.

There, beneath the tree, was a grave. The stone read "Here lies Anna Marie Wallace. Her life cut short, she is forever in our hearts. May 1832-1845."

Thirteen. Anna was thirteen. She looked on her arm at the birthmark there, the shape of a footprint. Now she understood why they were here. But they were in the wrong house. She ran to her new home, desperate to tell her mother. She saw her past life, a memory, not a dream. And she knew now where she belonged.