Girl vanished from her bed in 1991 — 9 years later mom plays her old recording toy…and was shocked

Izzy’s face showed confusion, discomfort. Stop! Elaine cried out. Turn it off! Morrison paused the video immediately.

Elaine collapsed onto the couch, sobbing. Her whole world had shattered in seconds. The man she’d loved, trusted, shared a life with.

He was a monster. I never knew, she gasped between sobs. I never saw that room.

Oh, God. My baby. Morrison sat beside her, his voice gentle but urgent.

Mrs. Rhodes, I need you to think. Could your daughter still be in this house? In the basement? Elaine’s head snapped up. The possibility hadn’t occurred to her.

The basement? It’s always locked. Charles has the only key. He said it was for safety, to keep his tools secure.

An officer approached. Detective, I spoke with Mrs. Jansen. Charles Rhodes hasn’t attended therapy in three weeks.

He’s not there tonight. Morrison stood. That’s probable cause.

We’re going into that basement. He turned to his officers. Get the breaching tools from the car.

We’re going through that door. Yes, Elaine said firmly, wiping her tears. Do it.

If there’s any chance she’s- She couldn’t finish the sentence. Nine years? Could Izzy have been in the basement for nine years? Officers returned with heavy tools, a battering ram and crowbars. They moved toward the basement door, a solid oak barrier that had always seemed excessive for an interior door.

Stand back, ma’am, Morrison instructed. Elaine pressed against the far wall, heart pounding. After all these years of not knowing, of grieving, of slowly accepting that Izzy was gone forever, could the answer have been beneath her feet all along? The first blow from the battering ram shook the entire wall.

The door held firm. Charles had reinforced it, she realized, made it stronger than necessary. Another piece of the horrible puzzle falling into place.

Again, Morrison ordered. The second impact cracked the frame. The third sent splinters flying.

On the fourth blow, the door gave way with a tremendous crash. The basement door gave way with a final crash, revealing wooden stairs descending into darkness. An officer found the light switch and flipped it on.

Fluorescent bulbs hummed to life, illuminating a surprisingly organized space. Morrison led the way down, weapon drawn, followed by three officers. Elaine waited at the top of the stairs until Morrison called.

Clear. You can come down. The basement looked exactly as Elaine remembered.

Charles’ workbench stood against one wall, tools hanging in neat rows. Shelves held labeled boxes of screws, nails, and hardware. A washer and dryer occupied one corner.

Everything in perfect order. My husband is very organized, Elaine said, her voice echoing slightly. He works down here sometimes, building things.

It’s not entirely abandoned. Morrison nodded, but his expression remained skeptical. Check everything.

There’s got to be a hidden entrance somewhere. Officers spread out, examining every wall, every corner. They knocked on surfaces, listening for hollow sounds.

They checked for fresh paint that might hide new construction, different materials that didn’t match, unusual marks on the concrete floor. Upstairs, Elaine could hear other officers going through the videos, searching for clues about the hidden room’s location. Occasionally, someone would curse or make a sound of disgust.

She didn’t want to know what they were seeing. The hardware store clerk mentioned renovation supplies, Elaine told Morrison. Said Charles bought materials for some project.

Do you have the house’s original blueprints? Morrison asked. Building plans? I haven’t seen them in years. Charles would know where they are, but- She trailed off.

Charles wasn’t going to help them. The search continued methodically. Officers pushed aside storage boxes, moved furniture, checked behind the water heater.

Twenty minutes passed with no success. Elaine found herself on her hands and knees, peering under the workbench. If Charles had hidden something, he’d done it well.

She moved to check under the washing machine, angling her head to see into the narrow gap. Something caught the light, a thin edge that gleamed differently than the concrete floor. Detective, she called.

There’s something under here. Morrison and two officers hurried over. Together, they gripped the washing machine and pulled it away from the wall.

The dryer followed, scraping loudly across the floor. A disc lay where the washer had been, covered in dust. Morrison picked it up carefully.

The label read, Princess Room Volume, 331 inches. Look at the wall, one officer said. Where the machines had hidden it, the wall showed a subtle irregularity.

A section of drywall didn’t quite match, the seam cleverly disguised, but visible now, they knew where to look. Morrison ran his fingers along the edge, found a hidden latch. The false panel had been masterfully crafted, nearly invisible when closed.

Stand back, he ordered. The latch was locked. Morrison tried to force it, but it held firm.

An officer handed him a crowbar. Metal scraped against metal, then the lock gave way with a snap. The panel swung open.

Behind it, a narrow passage stretched into darkness. Pink fairy lights ran along the ceiling, unplugged but clearly meant to illuminate the way. The smell hit them immediately.

Mildew, metal, and something else. Human habitation in a confined space. Morrison found where the lights plugged in and connected them.

Pink glow filled the passage, revealing walls covered in soundproofing material. The corridor was barely wide enough for one person. Jesus Christ, an officer muttered.

They moved through single file, Morrison leading. The passage extended about twenty feet before ending at another door. This one was painted pink with princess stickers decorating it.

Morrison tried the handle. Locked, he knocked firmly. Police! Open the door! Silence.

He pressed his ear against the wood, shook his head. The soundproofing made it impossible to hear inside. He raised his fist to knock again when the lock clicked.

The door opened a few inches, and a young voice called out cheerfully. Daddy! You’re early! The door swung wider, revealing a teenage girl. She wore a pink nightgown, her blonde hair long and tangled.

Her smile froze when she saw Morrison and the officers behind him. A scream tore from her throat, high and terrified. She stumbled backward, hands over her face.

No, no, you’re not real. Daddy said everyone’s dead. Elaine pushed past the officers.

Even after nine years, even with the changes from child to teenager, she knew her daughter instantly. Izzy! She rushed forward, tears streaming. Darling! It’s Mommy! It’s me! The girl pressed against the far wall, shaking her head violently.

No. My mom died. Everyone died.

Dad said the world ended, and it’s just us. Elaine dropped to her knees, holding out her arms. No, sweetheart, that’s not true.

I’ve been searching for you all this time. I never knew you were here. Daddy! Izzy screamed.

Daddy! Help! Where are you? Please, Elaine begged. Look at me. Really look at me.

Morrison quietly motioned his officers to stay back, giving mother and daughter space. He pulled out a pen and handed it to Elaine. Understanding immediately, Elaine took the pen and began drawing on her own hand…