Author's Note: (cracks knuckles) Okay, first writing in a while, and first publishing in even longer. Cut a girl a break on anything that's out of place, and don't be surprised if it takes me a while to get the dialogue and characterizations right. Please R and R, constructive criticism welcome.

Twenty years ago:

Winter had come early to northern New York, but then again, this was not an uncommon occurrence. The wind was howling between the houses that sat closely together on Branch Street, tossing snowflakes into uneasy cyclones.

The little girl hiding in the corner, head buried in her arms, could feel the drafts coming from the window above her. Her foster father kept saying he was going to re-caulk the windows, but it was just one of those things that got lost in the shuffle of ordinary life.

But the child wasn't hiding from the wind or the cold. She was hiding from the cyclone inside of the house, the chaos she was beginning to believe she really was responsible for after all. She had gotten into a fight with Cindy, the real daughter in the house, and Cindy had broken her heart by tearing the head off of her only doll. She had run to the kitchen in hysterical tears, to ask her foster mother to make things right, but had been ignored. That was when things got bad. Again.

The flour, sugar and tea containers had shattered, their contents tossed to the center of the room by invisible hands. As her tears increased, the white powders and tea bags had organized themselves into cyclones, joined soon by the contents of the broken salt and pepper containers.

At the sight, the girl had run to the living room and huddled in the corner, arms on her knees, curled into a self-protective ball, trying to calm her tears and awaiting her punishment. She'd been kicked out of foster homes a number of times for similar incidents, and she waited for the social workers to come and tell her to pack up, it was time to leave again.

As a matter of fact, Laura Hough, the child's foster mother, had not contacted Social Services at all because she believed she understood what was going on with the little girl. Laura herself had had a sister who had exhibited odd behaviors as a child, behaviors that had been considered paranormal. Last week, she had contacted a government agency that specialized in these things. Maybe the child could get help that didn't involve being switched from home to home.

Of course, they pick tonight to show up, Laura thought to herself as the doorbell chimed. Cindy had been sent to her room for what she'd done to the little girl's doll, and now, as she stood in the hallway and could see the whirlwind of foodstuffs calming in the kitchen and the child huddling in the corner, she saw a single man in winter gear standing on the doorstep.

"Mrs. Hough, is it?" the older man smiled warmly as he stepped inside. "Where is the girl?"

"She's there, in the living room," Laura replied, gesturing to the child, then leading the way to her. "My daughter ruined her doll, and we just had another, well, incident." Now she knelt down and addressed the child, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Honey, someone's here to see you. It's okay to look. He's not going to hurt you."

The little girl lifted her tear-streaked face and brushed her hair away for a better look at the older man who had also knelt to her eye level and was smiling gently at her. "Are you another social worker?" she asked quietly, snuffling up more tears.

"No, not at all," the man replied with a gentle chuckle. "My name is Dr. Broom. What's yours?"

"Samantha Gold," the little girl answered with a waver in her voice, though her watery eyes stayed unflinchingly on his face. "It's a long name. I get called Sam a lot."

"Well, Sam, let me tell you about where I live. I would like to take you there for a visit . . ."

Now thirty years old, Sam Gold had always looked at that as the most important moment of her life. She smiled at the memory as she flicked through the TV channels. Her six-year-old daughter, Lily had been tucked away into bed for a couple of hours now, and she was tucked away in her living room, in her house, the isolated farmhouse she had scrimped and slaved and dreamed for.

Sam had left the BPRD ten years before, feeling in control of herself and her life, and wishing for what she had finally attained. Single motherhood had not exactly been in the plan, but she had fit it in and would never trade Lily for a single thing in the world.

All at once, familiar faces were on her television screen. Faces that weren't supposed to be seen in public, let alone national TV. The faces of her friends. There was Abe, dear Abe who couldn't get over the fact that she was a rock fan. There was Liz. Boy, she was probably pissed off. And there, to top it all off, was Hellboy himself, actually talking to the reporters.

The remote dropped out of her slack hand. Her friends, on TV. Trouble. She hadn't been to Jersey since Dr. Broom's funeral, but now it seemed it was time. Sam had spent moments over the last ten years wondering when she was going to get a sign to come back to her first home. This was it.

After a quick call to the neighboring farm asking them to take care of the chickens, she packed herself and Lily into her truck and headed south on the highway, back to the place she had once called home and the friends she hadn't seen in years, but who now needed her help. She could feel it.