The Point of No Return | Short Story

The Point of No Return

The moon winks at them over the wayward clouds drifting past the canopy of bare branches overhead, and it’s a struggle tearing his eyes away. He glances at the crumpled piece of parchment paper clutched between his fingertips, the one he tried so hard to straighten. It’s an assimilation of strange verses and occasional blotches of what he suspects is dried blood. Part of a whole, a final gift on Halloween night. He remembers receiving the first wrinkled piece of paper on his doorstep ten days ago. Ten more pieces since then, one each day, always left on his porch steps with not a single soul in sight. He has glued the rest of the pieces together in whatever semblance of a letter he could fathom. Not this one, though.

He doesn’t think he can handle finding out what the pieces make when complete.

“Earth to Rhys?” Tori says, breaking him out of his reverie. He shoots her an apologetic glance, pulling his hand out of his pocket, where it was wrapped around the paper. The final piece of a puzzle he could not bring himself to finish. “A penny for your thoughts?”

He makes an effort to squint up at the ornate double-storied manor looming over their heads, abandoned for decades, and magnificent in its solitude. The unfurnished branch of a tree curls near one of the windowsills, making its way up the roof to the gilded chimney, now coated in dust. Rhys averts his eyes, unable to process the pounding in his chest for what it truly is. He shouldn’t be having second thoughts now.

He turns a smile to Tori, and their partner-in-crime Lesley. “We’re here.” he says, voice coming out oddly gravelly. He clears his throat and tries again. “How did you say we were going to get in, again?”

Lesley pulls a bobby pin from one of the many pockets on his trousers, and holds it up in the moonlight, the curving branches nearby casting bizarre shadows on his face. “I’m the expert here, aren’t I?” he grins, hopping up the threshold and getting to work. Tori holds the flashlight in one hand, and a box of matches in the other. “I hope you remember the action plan: den first, then upstairs, straight to the master bedroom. Then the basement, and we’re all finished. Make sure you capture enough evidence.” He nods to the camera in Rhys’ hand, and grunts as he twists the pin around inside the lock.

Rhys peers down at the old retro plaything he picked out of his sister’s closet before leaving, and the candles balanced on his palm along with it. Tori didn’t want to take any chances in case their flashlight ran out of power. “Should we really be doing this?” he asks, hesitating as the door massive oak doorway slides open under Lesley’s expert hands. “It’s been a while since we went exploring.”

Tori shoots him an incredulous look as they tiptoe their way inside that he decides to ignore. Hardly do his feet hit the red and gold doormat placed at the entrance when cold gush of wind swishes past Rhys’ face, making him yelp in surprise. He glares around the room just as the door automatically slams shut behind them, and they’re bathed in total darkness. The only light entering the room is from a tiny vent at the space below the gold-studded ceiling, and a cold weight settles in his chest. The place feels wrong down to its core, and he can sense it in the heaviness of the air and the secrets it holds.

Tori has gone silent beside him, and he knows she is too dumbfounded to formulate a witty retort. He shoves her. “Who’s the scaredy-cat now?” he whispers and hears Lesley chuckle nervously as Tori shoves him back.

“Not me.” She says, and falls silent.

Rhys grabs the flashlight from her hand, turning it on before she can protest, and sighs as some of the discomfort leaves him. The living room is filled with furniture covered in sheets and drenched in cobwebs everywhere. The rug lies mouldy under his boot-clad shoes, and there’s a faint humming reaching his ears that he decides not to acknowledge.