It was listed as a fixer-upper. According to the broker, the family one day just up and left, didn’t even bother taking their things. The bank repossessed the old 1919 house and put it on the market “as is.”

I love a good challenge, but even I had a hard time seeing the potential in this place through all the boarded up windows, dust covered clutter, and exposed wiring. It was hard to imagine anyone could have lived here, much less a family with little kids.

The broker had mentioned kids, and there were signs of them all over the house. A crib still half made up. A room with a race car bed and ninja turtles posters. And a space in the basement that must have been the playroom.

Carefully stepping between the toys strewn about, including a mix of hot wheels and plastic tea sets, I came upon a small notebook, tucked away in the living room of an oversized hand made dollhouse - the dollhouse was actually quite beautifully made, probably by a doting parent or grandparent.

On the cover of the notebook a young hand had written “private property of Abigail - Keep Out.” Opening it - despite the warning - to last entry in what must have been Abigail’s journal, there were just two words: “He’s back!” And next to those words, bloody streaked fingerprints…small ones, surely those of a child.

Without anything else to go on, I was pretty sure Abigail and her family hadn’t just up and left. They’d been taken.