Natalie Porter couldn't get out of the attic fast enough.

There was something decidedly creepy about the space at the top of Little Moreton—which was the name her father had so blithely given the echoing, dusty mansion they'd moved into five years ago. Maybe it was the unopened boxes and old steamer trunks, the promise of what could be behind the dusty surfaces of the lids. Or the full-length mirror in the corner, cracked and listing slightly on one side of the wooden frame, reflecting her freckled face back at her in a truly warped, funhouse mirror style.

The windows were only partially boarded, as if the previous tenants had grown bored halfway through and abandoned the project, and light slipped in through the open spaces, painting the wooden floorboards in bars of yellow sunshine.

For a moment she hesitated in the doorway. It wasn't just the spookiness of the place that gave her pause. Here was the place that Derrek Porter had regulated his long dead wife to. The only memories of her that were allowed to exist in the house were here.

Natalie could hardly remember her mother, she'd died years ago, when she was only six. There were vague memories, sometimes, in the place between waking and sleep. When she was drifting off, she would imagine a woman's face, blurry around the edges, the warm lilt of an accented voice and the subtle scent of lavender. A tumble of chestnut hair over a pale shoulder.

But maybe they were only dreams. The picture her father kept, the only one that was allowed in the house, was of a much different person. Stern dark eyes and short cropped hair. Her mother had been in the military, she knew, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Derrek Porter was, for the most part, easy going. He had a bright, contagious laugh and was upbeat most of the time. But if someone asked about his dead wife the transformation was almost alarming. Natalie had seen him go from smiling to grave in the same instant, his face pale and drawn. He wouldn't talk about. About what happened to her.

It used to drive her crazy. In her desperation to know, she had become macabre. Sitting in her room writing out theories in her pink, My Little Pony diary. Her mother had been killed by an exploding tank. She had single-handedly taken out one hundred enemy soldiers before finally succumbing. She had sacrificed her life for a busload of schoolchildren.

Or maybe it was nothing so heroic as that. Maybe Mrs. Porter had died from food poisoning, or choking on a bit of cracker. Life was weird and unpredictable, and Natalie no longer dreamed up what had become of her mother. After all, it didn't help things, did it? All it did, when she dared to ask, was drag her father's smile down and create long, awkward silences between them.

She sighed, rolling up the sleeves of the loose-fitting green smock she wore. She set to work dragging the nearest chest to the center of the room. Most of this stuff would be crap, but if she got lucky, she might find a few antiques the last person had left up here. Her dad had promised if she found something, she could sell it.

The trunk was heavy but she threw her weight behind it. The thought of her meager college fund was enough to lend her a burst of furious strength. She was going to college, a good one too. Far away from this hicktown and the people in it. And she would never have to see Cresswater Highschool again, with it's two electives.

Other highschools had creative writing and kayaking and first aid and hair school. And what did Cresswater have? Cooking or auto.

Typical for the town of Ashton. What will it be, kids? A housewife or a blue-collar worker?

It wasn't as if either of those things were bad, but she wanted choices. She wanted more. Something that would take her out of town, to more exciting parts of the world. Some of her classmates had never been outside of Ashton, seemed content to grow up here, get married and die here.

Natalie couldn't get out fast enough. There was so much out there to see. The was a whole world out there, and she hadn't experienced any of it yet.

The latch was stiff with rust, and she crouched down beside the trunk, hesitating. It would be just her luck to cut herself trying to wrench it open. Could you get tetanus from this sort of thing?

Casting about herself, she found a set of rusted-looking tools hanging from wooden pegs. Carefully taking an old screw driver down, she returned to her task, prying the lock open. Finally it inched upwards with a shriek of protest, and Natalie set her fingers to the edge and shoved, nearly falling backwards when the lid flew open.

Her first reaction was disappointment.

Nothing inside the trunk looked very old. There were a few envelopes, all of them still crisp and white, and what looked like a tangle of silk scarves at the bottom. And...a jewelry box.

Her pulse picked up. Maybe she was about to find her entire college fund here. If there were gold rings or something they might be worth a lot.

As soon as she picked the box up she was sure it was empty. It was too light.

The hinges creaked faintly as Natalie tipped the lid up.

Inside there was a tiny silver finger balancing on one foot, a fairy with delicate silver wings poised mid-dance. She waited for the figure to rotate, for the box to chime out a song. But it remained silent, the fairy stayed in place, and Natalie felt a pang of disappointment. She was just feeling for the key at the back, when her gaze fell on a glimmer of silver nestled in the center of the box. It was almost lost in the crumpled tissue paper inside. Carefully she reached in and grasped it between finger and thumb, pulling out a slim silver chain. Her heart leapt. This could be valuable, couldn't it? The chain looked like it might be pure silver.

She pulled it all the way out, surprised to find a pendant on the end. When she weighed it in the palm of her hand she was shocked by how light it was. Costume jewelry maybe. She felt the hope dissolve again. It couldn't be worth anything then.

Still, she tilted her hand to catch the light coming in from the window. The pendant was a slender halfmoon. The light that fell across her palm revealed a small, intricately carved figure sitting in the curve of the moon, smiling, her face tilted upwards. There were a pare of lace patterned wings on her back. A fairy woman.

The silver figure was so well done that Natalie half expected her to move.

In awe, she traced one finger over the smooth surface of the moon. Had this belonged to the previous owners of the house? It couldn't possibly be her father's.

It was some kind of strange impulse that made her put it on. She lowered the chain carefully over her head, taking care not to let it catch in her curls. Once it was on, the moon sat flat against her t-shirt in the center of her chest. The light caught the fairy and made it glitter the tiniest bit, and Natalie wrapped her fingers around the pendant.

When she glanced back into the chest, thinking idly that maybe she would keep the necklace, one of the envelopes caught her eye. Something was written on one of them, thin black letters had been scrawled along the surface. They seemed to jump up at her.

June Porter, 2007.

The date her mother died. Ten years ago, exactly.

Natalie's mouth went dry. She released her hold on the necklace, reaching for the envelope.

She was most definitely, certainly, not supposed to have found this trunk. It should have been locked, or...she shouldn't have been able to pry the clasp up that easily. Her father's white face flashed in front of her eyes, and her hand hovered over the envelope.

He wouldn't want her to look at this.

But...didn't she have a right to know? June Porter had been her mother.

Maybe her father had left this out for her to find. Maybe this was his way of finally telling her. He meant her to read this.

She snatched up the envelope. It wasn't sealed, and she slid one shaking finger into the slot at the top, until the tips of her fingers brushed the paper inside. It crackled slightly when she pulled it out. Not a letter, as she had expected, but an old newspaper clipping. The lettering was worn and slightly smudged, but her mother's picture was at the top.

It was her mother, in spite of having to look twice, she recognized her own light green eyes staring back at her out of a freckled face. Her mother was younger in the photo than she was in the picture Natalie's father kept in the hall. Not yet in the military, if she had to guess. Her hair was dark, and flowed in curls over both shoulders, and her face was soft, not lined and sharp with edges as it was in the portrait. She was looking a little ways away, as if something over the photographer's shoulder had caught her eye, and the smile on her lips was mischievous.

Natalie's chest tightened. It made drawing breath difficult.

She couldn't look away from the photograph, though she wanted to know what the rest of the article said. It was her mother's eyes that caught her, they were so similar to her own, and so different than the eyes of the woman in the picture downstairs.

What had happened to her in the years between this picture and the other?

Natalie finally tore her gaze away from the photo, taking in the headline.

Woman vanishes under mysterious circumstances.

She felt her mouth drop open.Natalie Porter couldn't get out of the attic fast enough.

There was something decidedly creepy about the space at the top of Little Moreton—which was the name her father had so blithely given the echoing, dusty mansion they'd moved into five years ago. Maybe it was the unopened boxes and old steamer trunks, the promise of what could be behind the dusty surfaces of the lids. Or the full-length mirror in the corner, cracked and listing slightly on one side of the wooden frame, reflecting her freckled face back at her in a truly warped, funhouse mirror style.

The windows were only partially boarded, as if the previous tenants had grown bored halfway through and abandoned the project, and light slipped in through the open spaces, painting the wooden floorboards in bars of yellow sunshine.

For a moment she hesitated in the doorway. It wasn't just the spookiness of the place that gave her pause. Here was the place that Derrek Porter had regulated his long dead wife to. The only memories of her that were allowed to exist in the house were here.

Natalie could hardly remember her mother, she'd died years ago, when she was only six. There were vague memories, sometimes, in the place between waking and sleep. When she was drifting off, she would imagine a woman's face, blurry around the edges, the warm lilt of an accented voice and the subtle scent of lavender. A tumble of chestnut hair over a pale shoulder.

But maybe they were only dreams. The picture her father kept, the only one that was allowed in the house, was of a much different person. Stern dark eyes and short cropped hair. Her mother had been in the military, she knew, but that was the extent of her knowledge. Derrek Porter was, for the most part, easy going. He had a bright, contagious laugh and was upbeat most of the time. But if someone asked about his dead wife the transformation was almost alarming. Natalie had seen him go from smiling to grave in the same instant, his face pale and drawn. He wouldn't talk about. About what happened to her.

It used to drive her crazy. In her desperation to know, she had become macabre. Sitting in her room writing out theories in her pink, My Little Pony diary. Her mother had been killed by an exploding tank. She had single-handedly taken out one hundred enemy soldiers before finally succumbing. She had sacrificed her life for a busload of schoolchildren.

Or maybe it was nothing so heroic as that. Maybe Mrs. Porter had died from food poisoning, or choking on a bit of cracker. Life was weird and unpredictable, and Natalie no longer dreamed up what had become of her mother. After all, it didn't help things, did it? All it did, when she dared to ask, was drag her father's smile down and create long, awkward silences between them.

She sighed, rolling up the sleeves of the loose-fitting green smock she wore. She set to work dragging the nearest chest to the center of the room. Most of this stuff would be crap, but if she got lucky, she might find a few antiques the last person had left up here. Her dad had promised if she found something, she could sell it.

The trunk was heavy but she threw her weight behind it. The thought of her meager college fund was enough to lend her a burst of furious strength. She was going to college, a good one too. Far away from this hicktown and the people in it. And she would never have to see Cresswater Highschool again, with it's two electives.

Other highschools had creative writing and kayaking and first aid and hair school. And what did Cresswater have? Cooking or auto.

Typical for the town of Ashton. What will it be, kids? A housewife or a blue-collar worker?

It wasn't as if either of those things were bad, but she wanted choices. She wanted more. Something that would take her out of town, to more exciting parts of the world. Some of her classmates had never been outside of Ashton, seemed content to grow up here, get married and die here.

Natalie couldn't get out fast enough. There was so much out there to see. The was a whole world out there, and she hadn't experienced any of it yet.

The latch was stiff with rust, and she crouched down beside the trunk, hesitating. It would be just her luck to cut herself trying to wrench it open. Could you get tetanus from this sort of thing?

Casting about herself, she found a set of rusted-looking tools hanging from wooden pegs. Carefully taking an old screw driver down, she returned to her task, prying the lock open. Finally it inched upwards with a shriek of protest, and Natalie set her fingers to the edge and shoved, nearly falling backwards when the lid flew open.

Her first reaction was disappointment.

Nothing inside the trunk looked very old. There were a few envelopes, all of them still crisp and white, and what looked like a tangle of silk scarves at the bottom. And...a jewelry box.

Her pulse picked up. Maybe she was about to find her entire college fund here. If there were gold rings or something they might be worth a lot.

As soon as she picked the box up she was sure it was empty. It was too light.

The hinges creaked faintly as Natalie tipped the lid up.

Inside there was a tiny silver finger balancing on one foot, a fairy with delicate silver wings poised mid-dance. She waited for the figure to rotate, for the box to chime out a song. But it remained silent, the fairy stayed in place, and Natalie felt a pang of disappointment. She was just feeling for the key at the back, when her gaze fell on a glimmer of silver nestled in the center of the box. It was almost lost in the crumpled tissue paper inside. Carefully she reached in and grasped it between finger and thumb, pulling out a slim silver chain. Her heart leapt. This could be valuable, couldn't it? The chain looked like it might be pure silver.

She pulled it all the way out, surprised to find a pendant on the end. When she weighed it in the palm of her hand she was shocked by how light it was. Costume jewelry maybe. She felt the hope dissolve again. It couldn't be worth anything then.

Still, she tilted her hand to catch the light coming in from the window. The pendant was a slender halfmoon. The light that fell across her palm revealed a small, intricately carved figure sitting in the curve of the moon, smiling, her face tilted upwards. There were a pare of lace patterned wings on her back. A fairy woman.

The silver figure was so well done that Natalie half expected her to move.

In awe, she traced one finger over the smooth surface of the moon. Had this belonged to the previous owners of the house? It couldn't possibly be her father's.

It was some kind of strange impulse that made her put it on. She lowered the chain carefully over her head, taking care not to let it catch in her curls. Once it was on, the moon sat flat against her t-shirt in the center of her chest. The light caught the fairy and made it glitter the tiniest bit, and Natalie wrapped her fingers around the pendant.

When she glanced back into the chest, thinking idly that maybe she would keep the necklace, one of the envelopes caught her eye. Something was written on one of them, thin black letters had been scrawled along the surface. They seemed to jump up at her.

June Porter, 2007.

The date her mother died. Ten years ago, exactly.

Natalie's mouth went dry. She released her hold on the necklace, reaching for the envelope.

She was most definitely, certainly, not supposed to have found this trunk. It should have been locked, or...she shouldn't have been able to pry the clasp up that easily. Her father's white face flashed in front of her eyes, and her hand hovered over the envelope.

He wouldn't want her to look at this.

But...didn't she have a right to know? June Porter had been her mother.

Maybe her father had left this out for her to find. Maybe this was his way of finally telling her. He meant her to read this.

She snatched up the envelope. It wasn't sealed, and she slid one shaking finger into the slot at the top, until the tips of her fingers brushed the paper inside. It crackled slightly when she pulled it out. Not a letter, as she had expected, but an old newspaper clipping. The lettering was worn and slightly smudged, but her mother's picture was at the top.

It was her mother, in spite of having to look twice, she recognized her own light green eyes staring back at her out of a freckled face. Her mother was younger in the photo than she was in the picture Natalie's father kept in the hall. Not yet in the military, if she had to guess. Her hair was dark, and flowed in curls over both shoulders, and her face was soft, not lined and sharp with edges as it was in the portrait. She was looking a little ways away, as if something over the photographer's shoulder had caught her eye, and the smile on her lips was mischievous.

Natalie's chest tightened. It made drawing breath difficult.

She couldn't look away from the photograph, though she wanted to know what the rest of the article said. It was her mother's eyes that caught her, they were so similar to her own, and so different than the eyes of the woman in the picture downstairs.

What had happened to her in the years between this picture and the other?

Natalie finally tore her gaze away from the photo, taking in the headline.

Woman vanishes under mysterious circumstances.

She felt her mouth drop open.