There is a house that I often visit. I know this house. I lived here once. But, something is different about it now. As I enter, I notice a vase of red roses sitting on the living room coffee table. A winding white marble staircase obstructs my view. I stop a minute to gaze upon it. I close my eyes and I can smell the sweet fragrance of the roses. After a time, I take to the stairs. My first step is apprehensive. I can feel a breeze coming from an open window. I stop. No longer can I bring myself to journey up.
Then turning around, I can see her form�the form of that woman who was my source of terror when I was younger. Not now, when I am happy for the first time in my life. My adversary draws near and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. But, as I run, I begin to trip on my train. It is white as the snow in December. A veil appears before my eyes. I am in my wedding dress.
I continue to pass down the hallway, flying from her malevolent hands. There is a room at the top of the stairs. In it is a cradle and playpen. This is the nursery where I grew up. But, when I was here, it was cold and dark. There was once another that occupied these quarters, long after me. Then, it was warm and bright. But now, despite the fancy bows and canopies, it again lacks light.
I pass on and come to another room. It is my stepmother�s. Doubtless my adversary advances this way, so I continue on. There is much to see in my stepmother�s room, but none of it is for me.
At last, I come to the room. It was once my father�s. But now, at the prime of my life, I am alone, for my father is gone and I have none to share my life with but my husband. I should be getting home now. Why do I dawdle here? Do I not know that my father is dead along with my stepmother�s child? Do I not know that she blames me?
I enter my father�s room and look about. There is nowhere for me to hide. The room is empty. I go to the open window whence the breeze had come. It opens onto a terrace. I step out and look down. It is a long drop. Will I risk a jump?
Apparently my stepmother did not wish to go to her room. She advances towards me. I back away, and bump the railing. There is no escape.
�You shouldn�t have come back,� she says calmly.
I feel her cold hands at my throat. She squeezes softly at first, then with growing strength. Life drains from my limbs and I curse myself for trying to return to a non-existent past. My limp body begins to fall. I can only hope to wake.