This road I do not know, though something about it relates that familiarity commonly found in a moment of Déjà Vu. It is a part of my lifetime that has never existed, yet hidden within me, it lingers as recognizable in my memory. In moments such as these, I've accepted a smaller frame to lead me. A girl no older than nine or ten has been substituted for my young woman's body.

A choice was not given, just as being here again is involuntary. I do not understand the repetition I am engaged in, as I also question being drawn into her, creating in me a being incapable of protecting her or myself.

Who is this small person, and what is she to me? We share no connection other than her insistence of dominance. It is as if our receptacle, her body, is now occupied by both of us. I still have my mind, but because she is choosing our path, it is obvious that she holds the greater will. We walk in the direction she has chosen, and we pass a bend where a granddaddy graybeard masses over the turn and it warns us, 'Beyond this point you have gone too far.' Each time I ask her to cease in our travel, but my thoughts do not seem to pass into her understanding. We make the turn and continue until I see that she is determined to return again.

I am frightened and I don't want to be here, but she continues, and I am compelled to remain with her. We walk further until she decides to halt and we stand on the far side of the road, looking at the house. It is white, it is large, and it is surrounded by a yard with massive oaks and cropped cut grass. Various pieces of evidence support the existence of life found within its structure. Two bikes I see resting along the side of the house. A red and black Hiawatha, geared with safety lights and horn, placed behind bushes for a quick get away. Also conveniently hidden I see a girl's bicycle with banana seat, butterfly handlebars and a white wicker basket. On the opposite side of the house, between the property's edge and the building, a clothesline has been erected. Behind the house I notice of a shed whose windows seem to be blacked out.

A metal fence encompasses the property, dividing it from neighboring land, and as we stand near the gate I look beyond each boundary until I see a woman kneeling, her hands sifting through the soil of her garden. By her side is a Maxwell House coffee and I watch her select an assortment of night crawlers from the tin and distribute them among her plantings. She sees us and she stares, but in such a way that I understand she doesn't want our returned gaze. I see her lips move as she traces the sign of the cross with a white crucifix that she kisses as she turns away. I don't know her. I don't know her god. I don't understand why she does this. Then the realization comes that she doesn't see me and I have not been blessed. Only the child is in her prayers and again this frightens me. My host takes us to the gate and has placed her hands upon the U-shaped lever holding it in place. She swings it open and away from us, enabling our entrance into the yard. Walking in, we turn and I see her hands move the wooden portal back to its proper position before we continue toward the house.

She is singing as we move up the stairs and I try to catch the words, but most of them come to me muffled. I hear something about a frog and a mouse and several times she repeats the phrase, 'and he did go', but it's nothing I recognize. I cannot read her thoughts and I wonder if, because she is my controller, she can read mine. I don't know if she even realizes that I am part of her now; she gives no sign acknowledging my presence. I try to send her my thoughts, but she doesn't respond. I want to see her face because I think I might be able to understand why I am here if I know who is leading me. Again I feel fear--though I know where she has brought me only exists when I am with her.

As she walks up the steps and moves closer to the entrance, I am becoming more frightened. I tell her I don't want to be here. She doesn't hear and keeps walking forward. She stops to wipe the bottom of her shoes on the mat, carefully removing any traces of dirt she might carry inside. She pulls open the screen door, allowing it to rest against her back, as she pushes the heavier wooden door until we are able to enter. She stops, listens and when it appears that we are alone, I feel her sigh as we continue inside. She closes the door and we walk down a hallway until we reach a flight of stairs. She listens again and I know she is speaking, but still I can't hear her words. We ascend and, reaching the second level of the house, we move onward as she investigates the possible existence of others. She knocks on the first door we come to and she opens it, finding an empty bedroom. We go to the next door, where she repeats with another knock before finding that room empty as well. She comes to a third door, but doesn't knock. She enters and I know that this must be her room. She shuts the door behind her and she takes time to review that things are as they should be. I see nothing unusual in their placement. This is the habitat of a girl about her age. The bed has been covered with Holly Hobby and her laced curtains match the white contemporary dresser between the window and where she sleeps. An assortment of posters of Donny Osmond, a teen idol that created swoons in my mother, decorate her walls. In the corner sits a collection of record albums and cassette tapes neatly placed in racks next to her phonograph and portable cassette player. She steps toward the bed, where we sit for a short time until she sprawls back, stretching her arms out over her head. She remains motionless and closes her eyes and I fear that she might fall asleep, leaving her senses disabled. I notice her shallow breathing and again I attempt calling out to her.

"Wake up, please. Don't go to sleep, not here."

She does rise, but I don't believe it was due to my beckoning. Her eyes open and she looks toward her nightstand at an alarm clock that is topped by characters from the Winnie The Pooh stories. Tigger, Owl, and a smiling Christopher Robin, whose hand is dragging a chubby yellow bear, all bounce in unison with the movement of the timepiece. She swings her feet to the floor and springs in its direction, touching the face of the plastic boy before turning away.

We walk across to the window and she looks outside, searching again for signs of life other than her own. She wants to be alone; it is the only thing that will make her feel safe. It is when she realizes that this desire has been granted that she turns on the phonograph and places the needle at the beginning of a 45rpm record. She begins singing and dancing around the bedroom. 'Sugar da-da-dada-da-da, ah, honey-honey, da-da- dada-da-da' is coming out of her, and she starts twirling in circles, stretching her arms out and holding her head back until she finds herself dizzy. She staggers toward the bed again and falls onto it, closing her eyes. I can feel the loss of equilibrium inside her head and wait for her mind to right itself. When it does, she quickly rises and decides that she is safe and it is time to explore other realms of the house.

She opens the door and we walk down the hall as The Archies continue singing over and over until they become a part of us. We no longer hear them and we move in the direction that brought us here, but before reaching the top of the stairway she turns toward the first bedroom door. She doesn't bother to knock this time, because she knows it is still empty. Entering, we slowly slip into the master bedroom. It is dark and our vision is hampered. We walk in and move to the side of the bed furthest from the window, near a large dresser with a mirror attached to its back. The girl sits beside the pillow at the head of the bed and she decides it best to turn on a small lamp located on the nightstand. I'm presuming this decision is made because the overhead light can be viewed from the street in the daytime, even when the curtains are drawn shut.

Assuming that this is her parents' bedroom, I believe we must be on her father's side of the bed. On the nightstand is a glass ashtray from Kerr Hardware and Feed filled with partially smoked butts. I take this as evidence of a chain smoker and believe the butane lighter, with a scantily clad woman who becomes naked when one turns it upside down, do not belong to woman. Also, alongside the ashtray we spot a paperback copy of Herman Wouke's Winds of War resting on top of a copy of Sports Illustrated that reads 'Can the BoSoxx beat the Jinxx?'

We stand again and walk to the mirror on the dresser where she begins looking over an assortment of perfumes, powders and creams. Ah, so that's what she looks like, but who is she? My host seems to be a pretty little thing. She has beautiful blond hair and blue eyes. She's wearing a pair of denim jeans and a white tee shirt with a picture of The Fonz from the TV show Happy Days on the front. It is difficult for me to guess her age, but she is less than five feet tall and weighs about eighty pounds. As I continue watching, I can't shake the feeling that something is not right. When I watch how cautious she is I know she understands that there is danger, but she shows no sign of wanting to leave.

Maybe the feeling of peril is something she's learned to accept and she allows herself minimal risk. I try to call to her again, but as before she still doesn't hear me.

"Please, let's get out of here. We aren't safe; you feel it, don't you?"

She continues to spray and powder herself, ignoring my thoughts. The longer she stays in this room, the more frightened I become. Something is going to happen and this I won't be able to stop it.

Eventually she tires of playing and puts the bottles and jars back in their respective places. We leave things precisely as they were found and walk to the stairs, which we descend. Upon reaching the ground floor we turn and walk to the back of the house and into the kitchen. The room is immaculate. I have never seen a cleaner kitchen in my life. It then dawns on me that the entire house is spotless and I wonder where the person might be who tends to it. Knowing that no one else, including the mother, is in the house at this time, I wonder where she might be. Anyone who can keep a home looking like this doesn't have an abundance of free time.

The girl walks over to the refrigerator and opens the door. I see the usual: milk, butter, cheese, veggies and an assortment of plastic covered containers filled with leftovers. She reaches into the back of one of the lower shelves and gets a bottle of Coca-Cola, opening it as she closes the door. Looking around the kitchen, she seems to be searching for some sort of snack. A cookie jar contains the remaining crumbs of some peanut butter cookies, which she devours in seconds, and then moves on to the pantry. She runs her eyes from top to bottom and decides that she's hungry for cereal. She seems to have a hard time deciding if she's in the mood for Lucky Charms or Rice Krispies, before deciding on the former, which she eats dry from the box. Returning to the refrigerator she takes the milk out, pours herself a large glass, and walks to the table where she sits with the box between her legs as she consumes the bits of dehydrated marshmallows.

She's finished eating and we're leaving the kitchen. Now she's walking in the direction we entered, but she stops at a door to the immediate left of the kitchen entrance. She knocks on the door. I find this strange since it seems as if no one else in the house. It's as if she's making sure this room is empty. She opens the door and moves into the room... We have entered some sort of office and I am guessing that she is not supposed to be in here without an adult. She doesn't close the door, but leaves it ajar enough so that she can hear if someone comes into the house.

The only light in the room appears to be a small lamp sitting on the desk. She makes no move to turn it on. She looks down at the floor as if she's studying how the wheels of the chair are positioned. The edge of a tile runs below one wheel, another is about an inch from the corner of an advertisement someone must have dropped on the floor. She pulls the chair away from the desk and turns it toward her as she sits. It's set too low for her comfort, but she makes no attempt to reposition the height. She pulls herself closer to the desk again and begins rummaging through the piles of papers in search of something interesting. The first stack seems to contain bills and though she speeds through it I find it interesting how she is able to place each item as it had been before her hands had touched them. She does this with three other stacks of papers, finding nothing of concern to her. Next she starts opening the drawers of the desk, first the middle one where she finds an assortment of pens, pencils, paper clips and various items one might store in such a location. She finds something she likes, a refillable fountain pen, and picks it up. On the desk is a planning calendar, and she looks for a place where someone has doodled and she attempts to copy the design with the pen. Assured that it works, she slips it into her pocket and closes the drawer. She explores the remainder of the drawers on the sides of the desk and finds nothing of interest, until she sees a file that is labeled with three initials I'm not able to read. She pulls it up so that the bottom half is still in place and she opens it. The file seems to be filled with legal papers and she doesn't seem interested enough to give me time to read any of them. In the back of the file she finds a plastic bag, like the kind used to put a sandwich in when packing a lunch, and as she pulls it out. She sees a lock of fine blond hair. She opens the bag and slips her fingers into it, touching the strands and for a moment my vision is blocked because I think she is wiping her eyes. Is she crying? I can't tell, but she does seem to be putting her hand in her eyes and I can only guess as to what she is doing.

Suddenly she turns toward the door. I think she's heard something. She takes the plastic bag and puts it back into the file, closing it just as it was when she found it. She pushes the file down even with the rest and closes the drawer. She stands and moves the chair into the same position she had found it in and she peaks through the crack of the door, seeing no one. She steps out of the room and closes the door. She turns and walks back into the kitchen. Crossing the room to the cupboard, she retrieves a plastic cup. Now she's walking over to the refrigerator and is taking out the carton of milk and filling the cup half-full. She speeds toward the table and sits in the same chair she occupied earlier; just in time for who ever it is with us now to enter the room.

She looks toward the doorway and sees a man. He's tall and thin with wiry brown hair extending down to his collar. He is smiling at her and saying something and I can hear a muffled sound, which I believe is her answering him. He is holding a small package, wrapped in brown paper, as he walks through the kitchen, and it seems as if he is looking for something. She continues to speak to him as he moves from the doorway to the sink and around the room, and when he comes over to where she is sitting he reaches for her and touches her face. Then he turns and walks through the door and is out of our sight.

The girl waits, finishing her milk as she rises again and goes to the sink, where she rinses the cup and leaves it. We depart the kitchen, and as she walks past the office she notices a light coming from beneath the door. She begins to walk faster and turns at the stairs and once again we go up. At the top she walks down the hallway and returns to her room, where she closes the door and lays on her bed. We are here for a long time. I'm not sure how long, because she continues to open and close her eyes and she doesn't look at her alarm clock, but her solitude eventually ends. I feel her flinch as she moves off the bed and over to the door. She opens it and the man is standing there.

He is smiling at her as he walks into the room. He is holding the package, but it has been opened, and he lets the brown paper fall to the floor as he walks toward her. In his hand is a narrow white box, which he opens, and takes out a handful of photographs. She backs away from him until stopped by the edge of her bed. She is speaking to him. Although he continues to smile, I know she is frightened. She is shaking and her hands move up in front of her face. There is something about the photos she doesn't like, but I can't see them, and her hand is constantly moving in front of her eyes. His smile remains as he reaches into his pocket, and I see him pulling something out. It's the plastic bag she had found earlier in the desk containing the locks of hair.

She tries to inch her way along her bed, but he is blocking her way with his body. The bag with the hair is in his hand and he's holding it up to her, asking her questions. He moves closer to her and she falls back onto the bed. He grabs her hand and bends it, forcing her forward, and I hear her muffled scream. She jerks away from his grip and falls back, covering her face with her hands. I see through her fingers that he is grabbing her arm. He has opened the bag and he is holding it over her face. I see his hand shaking the bag as he sprinkles the hair on her. It falls in her eyes and across her cheeks. He forces it into her mouth and her sight becomes blurred from the hair mixed with her tears, but I can see him laughing as he empties the bag on her face.

She moves across her bed until her back is against the wall. She holds her pillow in front of her and I hear her begging him to stay away from her. He steps toward the door and turns the lock, then faces her again and slowly removes his shirt. He reaches across the bed and grabs her ankles, pulling her toward him as he lifts her up. He pulls her against his chest and I see her hands pushing on him, but he is too strong. Holding her against him, he moves his hand behind her, and I feel her head being pulled back. She begins kicking him and he reaches down, holding her legs against him. His laughter ceases and he begins shouting at her as he continues pulling her head back, away from his face.

Suddenly he turns her body away from him, and I don't know what he's doing. Her body is hurled against the bed and he pushes her face into her pillow. I feel his weight moving onto the bed over her and he is pulling at her clothing. What is he doing? He is lifting her and I believe he is unbuttoning her jeans. I feel her body shifting as if her legs are being forced up. She does not look and I can only guess what he might be doing. He is on top of her and he begins moving hard against her. Oh my god, what are you doing? Stop it you son of a bitch, you're hurting her, oh my god, oh my god! Stop it! Stop it!!