All May Be Right, But Is Not

It was summer, and the air was sweet. The changing of seasons burn deep within the honeysuckle petals. The clumps of pink and maroon and clementine have spread themselves far across the plantation. There is no light out now, for the midnight clouds have sent the moon into a familiar darkness. A neighboring brook storms to a bayou set below, echoing among the rustling leaves and settling along the lily-pads and moss patches. A frog croaks, a deer bleats, the owl ponders its eternal query. They all flee as the sounds of heavy footsteps and branches snapping discharge a resounding thunder in the dark. All should be right, but is not.

The flowers grow up Tawny House in sprawling vines. A single light illuminates from a back room, where the boy sits at his desk. He smells the succulent aroma wafting from the plants and listens to the brook that no longer babbles far off. Nothing else matters now. It seemed so unfair to be confined to work all day inside the house, and during what had been a beautiful midsummer’s day. He cared no longer about arithmetic or language or the forest primeval. The day was no more, but the night held endless opportunities in reach.

He could peer from his window to the fields where his Daddy grew corn and wheat and cotton, before moving into the workers’ quarters and then the forest beyond that. The workers had children, some of whom did not help in the fields, though Mama said her Curtis wasn’t allowed to play with their type. There could have been many more to plow the crops - would have been, but Uncle Abe and his war made things difficult for everyone here. Currently the boy would have been satisfied in the company of a garden snake.

A rickety old fence lined where the grass halted and the rich crop soil began. Growing along the boundary’s edge, placed in the middle of the fence, was a giant oak tree known to Curtis since he slept in a crib. It rivaled Tawny House in height, and set deep inside the branches was the tree-house the men built for him. He was always happiest up there, shaded by the leaves and watching the men work through the day. There would be no yelling from Daddy, no nagging from Mama, nothing from Aunt Bessie to get your work done, child. He could sit up there and disappear into his own little world.

And why should he not do so now? He was Curtis God-forgive Aubudon, and his Daddy claimed enough land to practically own the state. All of his hard work today deserved a kind of reward. He knew that work and more work with no play never concluded well. Look at what happened to poor Jack.

He stood and blew out his candle, and gently stepped his way to the window. The honeysuckle grew strongest around its frame, descending to the ground as some make-shift ladder. He made an adventure of climbing up and down many times over summers prior, and this one was no exception. He pushed himself onto the window ledge and swung his legs out, and sat there. He registered his legs dangling from two stories up, wondering for a split moment if he could jump and land fine on his feet.

Deciding not to take the risk, and to not spend a summer confined in bed, he tugged on a strong spot he could remember and pulled himself onto the vines. It took longer than expected, particularly when he nearly lost footing and a crisp image of split bone popped into his head. But his prior experience proved useful, and he was darting across the lawn before someone hollered for an immediate return.

Running across the grass, counting to one hundred in his head, he felt the coarseness of a rope ladder reach his hand by eighty. He could have ran dumb and blind, he had done it so many times. His face perspired from the warm night’s air, and the hard sprint left his muscles aching. But as he pulled himself upward, spotting the trap door through the shadows, joy overtook those pains quickly. Everything was right.

There Curtis sat on an old stool, in clear view beside a cutout window. A small lamp laid on the floor, flickering with whatever oil remained. His toys and playthings were morphed into horrific shadow beings on the walls. The wind-up bear from his youth was scrawled into some monster, ready to crush his head with gigantic paws. His set of marbles were now mountainous boulders, barreling down to flatten him in their path.

His imagination began to pick up steam. The ball and stick Ol’ Barbury made him was a rock dangling overhead, as he lay waiting just in time to dodge it. The brook’s steady rushing morphed into the snarls of something beyond his deepest dreams. A foggy dirt smell replaced the sweet aroma of the honeysuckle. It was the boogey-man, come to snatch him away - but not without a fight first. He rose with a smile and held his fists in a boxer’s stance.

And then it spoke.

“-boy.”

He froze, arms limp by his sides. For a moment Curtis convinced himself it was not real, but part of this game he was playing. What was once a fun make-believe game had now soured. That voice was nothing he would have thought up. It sounded like Ol’ Barbury, even had the tired slur from what little teeth were left in his skull. But it sounded like the old man had the worst cold of his life, and this disease was eating him from the inside out. The voice choked on itself, held an icy tinge buried within it. It hurt him by just listening.

“Boy.”

This was no game. Goose-flesh sprawled its way over his skin. The hairs on his body prickled with attention like tiny soldiers standing to salute. His heart was racing, his brain was pounding away inside his head. He remained as still as possible, holding his breath and his bladder, for he knew any sound could give away his presence.

Maybe it was indeed Ol’ Barbury, gone out for a walk. Mama taught him to not be cruel against people who sounded different. After all, Grampa had sounded different before he passed on. He should not be so scared of something natural. But he was. Oh, he was terrified. His mind kept replaying like a broken record: This is not real. This is not real. This is not -

“Boy, come help me.”

He would never. He would not even open the door. He would block it and scream at the top of his lungs for help. He could see himself do it, pressing down on the door to barricade himself. But he never moved from the spot he found himself stuck to. His brain cried out Run and scream! Run away and scream! His body said Relax, it’s all okay. What’s the worst that could happen?

“I’m comin’ up there, boy. You betta help me now.”

He wanted to move, wanted to jump and run, but he didn’t. His knees gave out and he slid along the wall onto the floor. It was climbing up the ladder step by step but it didn’t sound right. Every step that should have been low creaking registered like shoes echoed in a great hall. That horrid dirt smell was filling his nose and forcing its way down his throat. It suffocated him, and tears of pain escaped down his cheeks.

He was helpless. Nobody was coming. He did the only thing he could think of: he closed his eyes. Curtis would not give the thing recognition, nor show it the coursing terror he felt.

The door creaked open for an eternity, and the stench smothered him. Rushes of heat wafted over him like tidal waves. The tears were pouring from his sealed eyelids. Every part of him registered how slow the thing crept towards him, relishing these moments in sadistic glee.

“Don’t cry, boy.” It wasn’t even human now. “Errythin’ gon’ be alllll right. I’m heuh for you now. Take m’hand.”

He wanted to cringe back, try and make himself smaller. But what his mind once sharply grasped was now struggling to comprehend. Laced within the heat were rolling waves of fatigue, drifting and settling over him. He could feel his own mind shutting down, waiting for this dream to be over. For that was what this all had to be: a devilish dream that somehow stemmed from too much work.

His fingers crawled over something. He moved with all his might to grip the object, when his fingers suddenly became burning hot. It was so unlike the heat waves - more akin to hovering your hand above a flame. Or touching a flame.

The lamp shot his mind back awake. Without a thought entering his head, he burned his whole hand as he took hold of the lamp and smashed it over the thing with a loud CRASH. The oil spilled and caught hold of the flame, and all went awry.

A terrible sound escaped from the figure. It was guttural and shrieking simultaneously, piercing his ears and shaking the boards beneath them. He had never been so terrified to do anything else before. He knew it was down to the floor, rolling in pain. He had to leave while it was occupied. But where was the door?

He opened his eyes. There are no words to describe what horrors he saw thrashing about on the boards of his tree-house; not then, and not now. It was horrible, something eons and millennia of nature had left in a destructive path. The single idea his mind comprehended was how the flames hovered and never touched the putrid, pulpy substance that passed for its skin. His mind had become a white space, bereft of logic or reasoning for this disgusting abomination.

But when logic has gone, instinct floods in. He sprinted away and flung the door open, nearly breaking the hinges with the force he threw into his arms. He saw the ground below, green and healthy and beckoning him to join down there. The flames had caught along the walls, and had danced their way to the leaves poking through the window. He jumped, and hit the earth with pain erupted from his ankle and tears pouring down his face. He ran as fast as he could on the lawn. A shriek exploded from behind him, and the boy shouted one so similar, so full of pain and terror, his doting parents awoke thinking some animal was caught in a trap. The workers jumped awake in their beds, afraid of what was happening outside, and rushed quick to see. The flames had engulfed the tree-house, and was working through the leaves steadily like paper. The workers (including Ol’ Barbury, awoken from a restless slumber) saw the oak tree envelop in a white-orange fire in no time.

Hours later, when the wreckage held nothing but charred wood and scorched greenery, the boy lay screaming to get it away, dear God make it go away, when the air was sweet again.