A quick note to the reviewer known as simply 'me': Yes this is an Alternate Universe story. If you want complete understanding to where all this is coming from I suggest you read 'Hidden Secrets' 'Rule Number One' and 'The Dangers of Holy Ground'. However, if you don't feel like reading all three stories I strongly suggest you at least read 'Hidden Secrets' (no worries, it's really short) to at least know how all this started. But thank you for keeping an open mind about my story, even if it threw you off a little. Sorry about the confusion!

. . . . . .

Richie paid the taxi driver, picked up his bag, and happily trotted up the front walk. 'Home again, home again, giggidy gig,' he thought with a smile. He couldn't remember where he had heard that, but somehow it always popped into his head when he came home. He remembered when Duncan and Tessa had bought the house, back in '93. A week before his nineteenth birthday, and a month before they got married. He had been so excited. He had never lived in an actual house before, he had never lived outside the city before, and he crossed both off his list in one swoop.

He had noticed that there were no cars in the driveway and assumed that Duncan and Rylan had gone to pick up Tessa at the airport. He unlocked the front door and let himself in. He stood in the foyer for a minute and decided to walk through the house and just look around. Everything was the way he remembered it. The living room was still far too stuffy for his liking, the den was still a mess of high tech entertainment equipment with the inviting smell of freshly baked cookies wafting in from the kitchen. Richie grabbed a couple cookies off the plate on the island before taking his bag upstairs.

He opened the door to his room and laughed. Although he had cleaned it up before he left, his bed was unmade, there were shoes in the middle of the floor, and there was an empty glass sitting on the night table with a note propped up on it. He picked it up and read:

'You were never one to be neat, so I thought I'd make it feel more like home. I'm sure you already found the cookies, but if you didn't they're in the kitchen.

-Rylan'

He dropped his bag on the floor and crossed the hall to her room opening the door without knocking. The light was on, but there was nobody there. He reached to turn off the light and noticed a note taped to the switch.

'You didn't think I'd make it that easy for you, did you? Nice try. Close but no cookie.'

"Ry, I swear, sometimes you are the strangest person I know," he mumbled thinking of where to look next. "The cookies." He turned and trotted down stairs to the kitchen. He rounded the corner and spotted a blue piece of paper lying on the counter next to the plate.

'You're getting warmer. . . or maybe I just left the oven on.' He opened the oven only to find 'Made ya look!'

"You have to make everything difficult, don't you?" He asked the notes. "Where else is there?" he thought for a moment. "Basement." He answered himself.

Richie slowly descended the wooden staircase and took in everything around him. The walls were still bright red, but it looked like they had been freshly painted, the posters of his favorite bands were still on the walls with the addition of a 'RICHIE RYAN WORLD TOUR' poster that he assumed Rylan had put up. In the corner stood the guitar and keyboard Duncan and Tessa had gotten him for Christmas six years ago along with the drum set he had gotten the next year and the bass guitar he had bought. The track lighting he had installed himself was lighting up the makeshift stage. He slowly walked over and stood amid the instruments. It felt strange being back in the basement. He had spent countless hours there over the years writing and practicing, pretending that when he sang he was on a real stage singing to thousands of people. But, now that he had done it for real, he almost wished that he could go back to just pretending. It was easier to imagine what it would be like forever, then to know and have to give it up.

"I see how it is," a voice scoffed from the shadows. "Are you just going to ignore me or do I at least get a hello?"

"I guess I could at least say hello, but that might be all you get." He said with a smile.

"You are a horrible, mean, spiteful person Richie Ryan." Rylan pouted.

"Me? What about all this crap? You make me run all over the house just to- -" she gave him no time to finish his sentence before throwing herself into his arms.

"Just shut up and say hi." She said.

"Hi." He answered hugging her. When she let go he held her at arm's length and looked her up and down. "I see college life is treating you well." He commented guiding her over to the couch that faced the stage.

"I'm just glad it's almost over." She settled herself on the couch across from Richie and studied him carefully.

"What?" he asked.

"I don't know, I was expecting you to look different, or something, I guess."

"Different how?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, "more. . . immortal. You never told me, you know."

"Told you what?"

"How you, um. . ." she cleared her throat, "How you died."

"Oh, I was wondering when you were going to ask about that," he said looking at his shoes.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," she rushed out. "I was just curious."

"No, it's fine. I don't mind."

*February 19, 1998: Rural Nebraska*

Richie sped around the curve. It was times like these he as glad he insisted on taking his motorcycle with him on tour. Sometimes he had to get away. And there was something about the seemingly endless miles of country road; he couldn't resist a midnight ride. The crisp winter air whipped around him, through him, energizing him, begging him to go just ten miles further. Who was he to deny Mother Nature what she wanted?

'Over the bridge and back,' he told himself spotting a wooden bridge straddling a creek. 'Over the bridge and back,' he repeated over and over in his mind. He looked at the patches of snow scattered in the fields on either side of him as he charged down the road. As he approached the bridge he groaned, 'over the bridge and back' he reminded himself, 'over the bridge and - - maybe there's another bridge a little further up the road. . .'

. . . . . .

Richie's lungs burned accepting and rejecting the sudden intake of air. He groaned and opened his eyes trying to remember what had happened. He sat up and pulled off his helmet.

"What happened?" he asked looking around. "Aw man, no!" he got to his feet and ran to his bike. "No! No! No!" he walked around his bike, and the tree it had wrapped itself around. He tugged lightly on the handlebars only to have them come off him his hands. Rubbing his stiff neck, he slowly walked back to where he had landed counting out fifty-three paces. He looked confusedly at the puddle of blood on the ground.

"Where did. . ." it was then he realized his jeans were stiff. He looked at his legs and squinted in the dim moonlight. His jeans had become much darker than when he had put them on that morning. "Oh, no. No way!" he looked between his bike, the blood and his jeans. "No! No! No! No! No!" he stomped his feet. "Why?" he whined. "Why? Why? Why? How can this be happening?" He dropped to his knees and pounded the ground with his fist. "This isn't happening," he decided. "You've had this dream before. And even if this isn't a dream, there has got to be some explanation other than. . ." he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. "I gotta call Mac."