Assignment 3
1st, 2nd and 3rd Person

Late one winter evening, as I am racing home, running late, as per usual, I realize that if I take one of the roads to my right, I can cut my driving time in half. But, I am not positive I can identify that particular short cut. Yet soon, in the beam of my headlights, a sign indicates that Old Briarpatch Road will soon intersect the highway from the left. “That sounds like the right road,” I think, depressing the brakes and flipping on my turn signal despite the fact there is no one behind me nor anyone heading in my direction. In fact, I haven’t passed any vehicle in miles.
            The further I drive, the more unfamiliar the surroundings become. I should be heading west toward the small town of Briarpatch but the road has curved so much I am no longer sure which direction I am heading. Acres and acres of pine trees are broken only by the occasional fallow field. I have yet to see a store, gas station or even a home and I am getting panicky. I just want to stop and ask for directions.
            Finally, the silhouette of an old Victorian house seems to rise from a barren hillock. No lights glimmer from the windows to dissipate the deepening twilight, but I decide to take a chance and see if anyone is home. As I park in front of the house and walk cautiously toward the steps leading up to the front porch, my pulse begins to race and my heart pounds with unreasonable fear. I knock on the door, glancing in trepidation at the porch littered with leaves and dirt, and the door creaks open, slowly, beneath my touch. I call, “Hello! Is anyone home?” until my throat is raw, and that is when I notice the book lying open on the dusty wooden floorboards. I pick it up and read:
            You are lost. Somehow, you thought you knew where you were heading but, instead, you found yourself on a road in the middle of nowhere.
            But, finally you saw what once must have been a beautiful Victorian mansion, and you decided to stop your car and see if, perchance, anyone resided in the broken down ruin. Climbing the steps to the porch, you felt yourself overcome with terror though your mind argued, reasonably, that there was nothing to be afraid of. After all, you thought, surely the house is empty; no one will answer the door. You thought that within moments you’d be returning to your car, that you’d continue on your way and that all would be well. But then the door swung open and it wasn’t long before you saw the book lying on the floor. And once you picked it up and began reading, you couldn’t stop.
            And you never will. Because some books you just can’t put down.
            “Where do you think she is?” the nurse asked, indicating the patient, whose eyes seemed to follow line after line in a book that didn’t exist, expressions flickering across her face in reaction to whatever she was reading.
            “We’ll probably never know,” the doctor answered. “She was found wandering on Highway 41, scratched and bruised as if she’d clawed her way through brambles. Her car was about a mile away, buried deep within the briars that have long since claimed Old Briarpatch Road. You know it?”
            “Yes,” the nurse shivered. “And I grew up hearing the stories; that crazy writer.” She studied the woman. Maybe the stories were true . . .