The checkered path was straightforward, however seeming to lead to nowhere. It kept turning in different directions every thirty feet or so, right the left, alternating with no pattern. The hall was growing wider, and eventually the corners of the hall started to be cluttered with tiny statues, of which the effigy I couldn’t discern.

Soon, the statues began to grow in size as I continued through the endless hallway. I could clearly see the people they were emulating – creepily enough, they all were Jesus, Mary and Joseph, all in different positions or focused on a limb. I found it odd, and it reminded me of the fact that I had been walking for at least thirty minutes and have found no sense of safety. I felt trapped.

My moving forward began to pick up. I gave a light jog, rolling my bike on my right side at an equal pace. My shins hit the pedals as I moved sometimes; it hurt but I needed to keep moving. The statues were getting larger and larger each corner I came to, until finally I reached the end – an enormous room, with most of it filled with the statues of all shapes, sizes, poses and foci. However, beyond this spectacle, I know realized I was trapped between a hard granite wall and a long hallway that lead back to the foggy, crime-ridden park. No escape.

I moved toward the right wall, tears beginning to form. I began to examine a large statue of Joseph’s head, taking in the detail included in it. Suddenly, a whisper came to my ear. Muffled, I stood up straight and focused on it.

Turn around… the exit is right behind you.

It was Mrs. Em’s voice! I had found her – lucky me. I turned, turning my bike to be parallel to me. I did not see her though, just another person. Her name was Maria, and she stood behind a row a knee-tall statues, in front of a darkened entrance, and with a large ornate candle holder.

This took me back. However, she smiled at me, and gently sipped from the candle holder. She winked and then stepped back, going through the dark entrance until no longer visible. Mrs. Em’s voice whispered to me again.

That’s the exit.

It sent chills down my back. I reached in my pocket and touched the note I was to give to her.

Don’t read it yet.

I had no other option. I carefully lifted one leg after the other, ensuring that I did not hit a statue. However, I was now leaned awkwardly over the row of statues, with my hands on my bike, keeping it balanced. Carefully, I lifted the bike’s front, bringing the front tire over the statues successfully.

The back tire was next, and was nothing but failure. I lifted it, the awkward positioning making it difficult. Lifting it too late, it tipped a statue of Mary. I wiggled and wobbled, beginning to decide a direction to fall in. My heart stopped. It began to fall towards me. I had my bike in hand, to put it down would surely knock over others. I couldn’t kick it. It was mid-fall, I sweated bullets, tears escaped from their ducts. It was seconds from hitting the floor. It was over…

Two weeks later, in the waking world, Mrs. Em died of a stroke. She never received the note I was meant to give to her. Not even I knew what was written on it. And I never will.