Point of No Return

  Christine pulled her hood up and hunched over, the autumn wind biting her face with cold. She hurried away from the scene behind her, tears stinging her eyes and despair tearing at her heart. A whirl of thoughts flew through her quick mind, pricking her like needles, defying her to hope again, denying her worth.  Skirting past familiar houses, Christine hustled towards the corner. Turning around it, out of their sight at last, she broke into a run. The hopes she had smiled about that morning fell scattered about her like the golden leaves. Now tears came in a flood. Christine ran blindly, no longer caring where she ended up. She ran for miles, forcing the tears back, until she could run no more.

  Chest burning, she collapsed in a heap on the ground, sobbing and tearing at the grass with her fingers.  Heartbroken, she cried until she had no tears left. The sun began to fade in the sky.

    Sitting up, Christine looked around her. She was in a maple grove near the park. Behind her, a large house sat nestled in the maples like a cozy child wrapped in a blanket. Christine stood up, brushing her muddy hands on the seat of her jeans. She looked at the house more closely.

  Big. Yes, very big, and it looked old. Old and empty. Any other day, innocent, imaginative, cautious Christine would have turned and fled, for this house looked like something straight out of a Halloween movie. But today, her crushed spirit made her feel sorry for that lonely house.

  She walked up the steps, onto the large porch. The steps creaked and moaned; the porch sagged beneath her wait. She peered in through the open doors, their once beautiful glass cracked and foggy with dust. Blackness. It was a true ghost house.

  Christine, wide-eyed with fear now, brushed a cobweb from her hair and pushed into the quiet house. Imagination concocting a thousand ghouls to haunt the place, her breath came in fast gasps. Her booted foot bumped something. It was a glass bottle, the contents long evaporated. Next to it, clothe napkin lay. As she stared down at it, a whisper echoed in her ear.

 

   Point of…

 

  Startled, Christine whirled. A voice, surely from my own head. She thought. But had it been? She listened again.

 

  Point of no return….

 

Shaking, she looked up. Stairs. Not just stairs, a giant, twisted banister curling up three stories, mansion style. They were beautiful, even in such a corroded state. Above, a crystal chandelier hung, its thousands of prisms dull and cloudy. There were tables, still set with rotting food, a punch bowl stained pink, molded meats and breads, a beautiful cake, still half intact.

  Remembering her study of Great Expectations, Christine half expected to see the bitter old woman come down the stairs any moment.  But no one came.

  “Is anyone here?” She gasped softly, her own voice resounding throughout the great house, quiet though it was.

No answer. Sniffing, her nose red with cold, she spoke again.

  “Is anyone here?” Nothing. Louder this time,

  “Is anyone here?”

Trembling, she put a hand on the banister and stepped onto the first step.

 

   You’ve passed the point of no return!