Part 1: The Night She Disappeared
Clearwater, Illinois, was a quiet town in the Midwest in the summer of 1986.
Amy Parker, who was 15 years old, was supposed to be home by 9:30 p.m.—that was the law.
Her father, Tom Parker, worked in manufacturing and was a single dad who trusted her. Amy wasn’t a bad kid when she was a teen. She was shy and liked to draw in her notepad. She wanted to be an artist.
That night, July 14th, she told her dad she was going to the corner store to grab some soda and gum.
Tom said, “Be quick,” but he didn’t look away from the TV. “It’s getting dark.”
She smiled, put on her denim jacket, and left.
That was the last time he ever saw her.
Tom was walking around the living room and checking the time by midnight. He called the police, the store, and her friends, but no one had seen her.
The search began the next day. There were flyers everywhere in Clearwater.
A lot more people looked in the woods, fields, and along the river.
They only found Amy’s notepad, which was lying near a drainage ditch a few blocks from the store.
The pages were muddy and dirty, but one page stood out. It contained a drawing of a woman near a lake with a red balloon in her hand.
Months passed. No one. There is no evidence. Nothing.
The town moved on, but Tom stayed the same. He quit his work and spent his nights wandering around, following every story and whisper.
He even left her room the way it was, with the posters on the walls, the notepad on the desk, and the sketch pencils next to the window.
Time passed. Then years.
Tom had not changed since 2006, but Clearwater had.
He was 62 years old, had gray hair, and lived alone in the same small house where he had last seen his daughter.
He went to the thrift store in the neighborhood every few weeks, but he never bought anything. He didn’t know why. Anything that would remind him of her, maybe.
Then, on a dreary November afternoon, he walked through the secondhand store like he often did. But he paused when he saw something on a shelf that was dusty.
There was a drawing inside an old, cracked picture frame.
A picture.
A picture of a woman by a lake holding a red balloon.
Tom’s hands began to tremble. He can sketch. He had seen it before, in Amy’s notebook, which she was working on the day she went missing.
But this one was not the same.
He shivered at the five words written in faded pencil in the bottom corner.
“Hey, Dad, I’m still here.”
He let go of the frame, and the glass broke. His heart was beating so fast that he couldn’t breathe.
How could this happen?
It’s been twenty years since Amy left.
Did someone play a nasty trick on him? Or did his daughter miraculously send him a message from wherever she was?
Tom bought the picture immediately, but his hands shook as he handed the seller some crumpled dollar bills.
A young woman at the register smiled. “Oh, that came from a donation box last week. It was for some kind of estate cleaning or something. It’s been there ever since.”
She didn’t know where it came from, but Tom wanted to know.
None of them did.
That night, he sat alone in his kitchen and stared at the drawing through the broken glass.
He felt something move inside him for the first time in years.
Hope.
Part 2: The Donation Box
Tom didn’t sleep much that night.
He lingered at the kitchen table till morning, staring at the thrift store sketch in front of him. It had the same lines, shading, and smooth curves as the lake’s shoreline that Amy used to draw in her notebook.
That was how she did things.
Every syllable screamed her name.
He put on his coat and went back to the thrift store about daybreak.
Megan, the cashier from yesterday, was there again. She said in a nice tone, “You’re back early.”
Tom’s voice shook when he spoke, “I need to know where that picture came from.” “The frame with the lady and the red balloon.”
Megan made a face as she looked through the donation book. “Let’s see…” I guess it’s number 221. Last month, there was an estate auction for it because the people who owned it died.
Tom stopped moving.
Elm Street.
Three blocks distant from where Amy disappeared.
“Do you know who lived there?” he asked.
Megan slowly nodded. “The Daltons are an older couple. They were nice people. The husband passed away years ago, and Mrs. Dalton passed away last month. Their son gave everything to the thrift store.
Tom thanked her and left immediately. His heart raced with every step he took.
He went right to 221 Elm St.
In front of the small, peaceful house, there was a “For Sale” sign stuck in the wet ground. The windows were dirty, and the curtains were closed.
He stopped on the porch for a moment with his hand over the doorbell. Then he saw a man in his forties come out of a car nearby.
I can help you?” The man asked.
Tom coughed. “Are you the Daltons’ son?”
The man said, “Yes,” thoughtfully. “Hi, I’m Ben Dalton. Are you…?”
He added, “I’m Tom Parker.” “My daughter went missing in 1986.” I suppose anything from your parents’ house might have something to do with her.
Ben’s face went from a polite question to alarm right away. “I don’t get it.”
“This picture,” Tom said as he held it up. Before she went missing, my daughter made this. You got it from your house.
Ben stared at it for a long time. His hands began to shake. “That… that was up in the attic. I almost threw it away. I didn’t think it was important.”
“How did it get there?” “Tom asked. “Did your parents know Amy Parker?”
Ben thought about it for a second and then agreed. “They did.” She used to take care of my little sister when I was younger, maybe twelve. Amy was nice and always drew. She liked her.
“Take care of the baby?” Tom asked. He suddenly felt queasy. She never told me that.
Ben rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s more. My mom changed when she left. She got paranoid and thought someone was in the basement when she heard footsteps at night. She locked the attic, and we weren’t allowed to go in there for years.
Tom’s voice got quieter. “And you never looked?””
Ben shook his head. While we were cleaning out the house, I spotted the frame behind a pile of boxes. Next to it was an old shoe box that was full of… I have no idea. “Letters, drawings, and papers.”
Tom’s heart stopped beating. “Letters?””
Ben made a frown. “I also gave them to the donation center.” I didn’t read them.
Tom’s heart was beating suddenly. “Which donation center?””
Ben said, “The same thrift store.” “A few boxes went last week.”
Tom didn’t say anything else and ran back to his car.
He insisted on seeing the other things that had been given to the thrift store from the Daltons’ house. Megan checked out the storage room.
A few minutes later, she came back with a shoebox that was covered in dust. “This is the last one,” she said.
Tom opened it slowly.
Inside were a few little sketches, all done in Amy’s style. The same lakes and the same red balloon. But one paper stood out.
It wasn’t a photo. There was a red “X” on the hand-drawn map showing the area around Clearwater, near the old quarry.
There was also a folded letter next to it that said “Dad.”
Tom’s hands shook when he opened it.
“I’m sorry if you ever find this.” I wanted to go home. But they wouldn’t let me. You know, the place by the water?
Tears made his eyes hazy.
She was still living. At least she had been.
And now he had a location to go to: an old clue that had been buried for twenty years.
Tom held the letter near to his heart, and his breath shook.
He knew just what to do next.
He was going to the quarry.
The Quarry, Part 3
In the previous twenty years, not much has changed along the road to Clearwater Quarry.
The short dirt road was still lined with tall pine trees, and the wind still brought the lake’s cold, metallic smell up from below.
Tom carefully parked his old truck at the edge of the woods and stepped out.
The sun was low in the sky in the afternoon, and it made the lake look golden.
He clasped Amy’s letter carefully in his hand.
“You’ll get the feel of the place by the water.”
He kept saying the words over and over, as if they would help him find her.
He found the ancient wooden dock at the end of the path. It was half-fallen down and coated in moss.
He remembers bringing Amy here when she was a child.
They used to hurl rocks and give the ducks food.
But this time, things seemed different.
He observed a faint path that led beyond the dock and down to a rocky place behind the trees. It looked like it had just been disturbed, maybe by footsteps or an ancient path that had been used again.
Tom went after it.
At the end of the trail was an old shed with rusting walls and vines growing on them.
It seemed like it could break at any minute.
The door was locked by a rusted chain.
He pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. Then he noticed that the little window on the side was smashed. He climbed in after wiping the window with his coat.
The air inside was heavy and stale.
He coughed and moved his flashlight around.
There are pictures on one wall.
A lot of them.
There are papers all over the wood, either pinned or taped in odd rows.
Lakes. Trees.
That red balloon again.
Over and over.
Tom’s knees gave out.
It was her. Amy had been here.
Some of the designs had years on them, like 1987, 1989, 1991, and then, out of nowhere, 2002.
He stopped moving at that point.
She was still alive sixteen years after she went missing.
He heard a faint clink of metal behind him.
Tom changed the position of his flashlight.
There was a tin box in the corner that was covered with dust.
He opened it.
There were images within, some of them old and some of them recent.
Most of them were photographs of the same girl with long hair clutching a red balloon and the same lake.
But Amy wasn’t the only one in the last several images.
There was a woman with gray hair who seemed familiar.
Mrs. Dalton.
Tom’s heart almost stopped.
The Daltons had kept her here.
Put her away.
Why?
He looked through the pictures till he found one dated 1998.
Amy was sitting outside the same shed with a sketchbook and a weak smile.
Written in faded ink on the back of the picture:
“She says she’s not ready to go yet.” She is scared of them.
Tom dropped the picture because he was thinking too fast.
Them? Who was she scared of?
A voice behind him whispered before he could think,
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
The flashlight shook as Tom turned around.
The son, Ben Dalton, stood at the door.
His face was cold and blank.
“Ben,” Tom said, his voice breaking. “You knew.” You knew she was here.
Ben got closer. “You don’t understand. People weren’t supposed to find her. My mom tried to save her, but—
“But what?” Tom asked.
Ben’s face turned darker. “She didn’t want to go.” And when she eventually did, it was too late.
“What are you talking about?”
Ben pointed to the ocean and said, “She’s still here.”
Tom’s stomach got cold.
“What do you mean, you’re still here?”
Ben didn’t utter a word. He just turned around and began to walk toward the lake.
Tom followed, and the light from the flashlight shook on the rocks.
The water was still, too still.
Ben then stopped close to the dock and pointed at the ground.
He remarked in a hushed voice, “There.” “That’s where we put the box.”
Tom crouched down and used his hands to dig. After a few minutes, he hit something hard: metal.
A small, unopened time capsule.
He made it open.
There was a notebook inside that had Amy’s writing in it. Pages full with drawings, notes, and thoughts.
And on the last page:
“Tell him I forgave him if he ever finds this.” Tell him that I never stopped drawing the water.
Tom’s tears kept falling.
He held the book to his chest.
But when he looked up again, Ben was no longer there.
There was simply the sound of the wind.
Part 4: The Final Drawing
Tom stood by the lake till the sun went down behind the trees. The water was still and gleaming.
It seemed as if the trees had eaten Ben Dalton, since he was gone without a trace.
Tom stared at the notebook he was carrying.
Amy’s writing shook as it traveled over the pages, like memories stuck in ink.
He read the first entry.
“I can’t go home. They say it’s best for me to stay. I miss Dad, though. I miss the sound of the pencil scratching against the paper while he drew with me.
Tom’s throat got tight.
Her photos of the lake, the barn, and people he didn’t know were like windows into the lost years on every page.
In the margins, the name Dr. Keller kept showing up.
The next morning, Tom drove straight to Madison General Hospital.
He remembered the name of the doctor who had seen Amy’s mother before she died: Dr. Richard Keller.
Tom hadn’t seen him in a long time.
The young clerk grimaced when he walked into the hospital records office and said the name.
“Keller?” she said. “That’s odd.” He hasn’t been here in years. But we do have some old records.
She gave him a small folder with the word “Confidential” on it a few minutes later.
There was a report from July 1986 inside, two weeks after Amy went missing.
It was signed by Dr. Keller.
Tom read the phrases slowly, and his stomach got cold.
“The patient shows signs of trauma and dissociation.” She says she saw her father get into a fight with a woman she didn’t know. Suggesting that the person move and be kept safe until their mental health improves.
Tom stopped moving.
“What… What is this?” He stated in a quiet voice.
The clerk looked scared. “Sir, are you related to me?””
He nodded without thinking. “She’s my daughter.”
Everything changed.
Amy wasn’t taken away.
The Daltons, Keller, and maybe even the system had hidden her because she had seen something that night.
Tom stumbled outside, the words echoing in his head.
She saw something.
He remembered the night before she went missing, when they fought with a woman who had been to their house. Someone you don’t know is saying, “You think you can just walk away?” and asking for money.
He closed the door and didn’t think about it again.
But Amy must have seen.
Tom had put the topic out of his mind two days after the woman was found dead.
Keller must have made everyone think that Amy wasn’t safe and had to leave.
The Daltons had vowed to keep her safe, though.
For a long time.
That night, Tom sat on his patio with the thrift store sketchbook open on his lap.
He looked at the drawing of the lake and the words below it again on the previous page:
“Let him know I forgave him if he ever sees this.”
It was hard to see because of his crying.
He had blamed the world—strangers, the police, and fate—for years, but the truth had always been right in front of him.
Amy stayed at home.
She had run home to keep him safe and stay alive.
And in her last drawings, she handed him a map as well.
There were faint lines in the corner of the last page that showed the shape of the quarry. There was a small circle drawn near the trees.
Tom went back there the next day.
He found an old wooden box hidden under the roots of an old pine tree in the place illustrated in the drawing.
There was a tape recorder inside, and it was wrapped in plastic.
He pressed the play button.
There was a voice in the air that was faint, young, and shaking.
“Hey Dad, if you hear this, I’m gone.” But don’t hate them. They saved me when I couldn’t. That night, I was scared of what I saw. I thought they were going to hurt you. I stayed because I thought that was the best way to keep you safe.
But I was wrong. “I should have gone home.”
When the voice cracked, Tom put his hands over his face and began to cry gently.
“I kept drawing so you could find me.”
I knew you would.
Then everything was quiet.
The tape’s buzz and the wind’s whisper across the water were the only sounds.
Tom put the recorder back under the pine tree, right where she had left it.
He didn’t need to take it home.
She was home now, in the drawings, the water, and every line she had ever made.
He stood there for a long time, watching the lake move in the light of evening.
After that, he spoke in a hushed voice.
“I found you, my love.”
And for the first time in twenty years, the weight in his chest began to lift.