The Tree House on Yates Street

I was not, as so many people insisted, the toughest kid on the block. I was, in my humble opinion, just doing the best that I could every day. The truth is, my father and I had built the refuge in the old cedar tree in our backyard. I remember helping him by simply holding a tape measure or passing him a hammer. Being honest, I was only three when it was built, I couldn’t really be relied on to do much more than that. I had traveled a long distance, well, for me it was. That hot July day, I lingered in the heat, lying down on the tree house floor and relaxed, despite the horror the day had wrought before. I had made it, so I was going to enjoy whatever little time I had left.

I considered the possibilities, all the joy and excitement the summer could have brought, and the terror and trepidation that I was subjected to instead. I was, to say it simply, not the ideal candidate for the world as it had turned. I lay on the floor of the tree house and remembered fondly the time father and I had put into its construction. I let myself remember the sorrow and fear I had felt when they had told us we were moving to the other side of town. I sat up, taking stock of the tree house fully.

It had a good solid frame, reinforced with thick wooden beams. The walls were solid sheets of plywood covered on the outside with sheets of stainless steel. I had no idea how dad had managed to build it with only my help. Outside of the tree house, I shuddered to think about the carnage waiting out there. I did have to check, to see if I was followed. I knew I was, really, but I had to see how bad it was.

I opened the wooden shutter, and I looked out. I had no idea just how bad it was, and a part of me regretted looking. There was a small horde of them, the nightmares, swarming toward the tree house. They were hard to look at directly, shifting shapes at any attempt at a close inspection. I closed the shutter and ensured the trap door was secure. I’d just have to wait them out, I realized. 

I had once used the refuge as a fort with friends from the neighborhood. We had played various games, capture the flag, tag, hide and seek, and played soldier many times. I reminisced about those days instead of the previous week. I knew it was all thanks that stupid leather-bound book my little sister and her friends found at that estate sale. Well, they hadn’t found the book in the sale, the book was in a stupid statue my mother bought for my sister, because she had been going through a ‘witch’ phase. My mother, I sighed, was always a supporting type. She hoped she could work my sister out of the silliest phase the girl had ever gone through. I knew, by process of deduction, that she and her friends had learned Latin just to read from the cursed hidden tome. And read from it they had, over the course of several weeks, they tried all sorts of spells. They each drew power from the dark arts and did several things normal people would consider macabre. But when they got to the chapter about summoning their new demon over-lord they didn’t even hesitate. The nightmares, I know, are their fault. I could have stopped them, if I had cared to stop playing video games. 

I relented on my grief and thought about what staying here meant. Well it meant simply that I might survive longer. I pulled up my backpack, from where I had dropped it beside the trap door and opened it. I had gathered a few supplies based on, one of the stepmother’s favorite programs, a survival show’s suggestions. Bottled water, a water filter, that seemed silly considering. Several packs of protein bars, and other things. I pulled one of the bars out and ate one, taking a few sips of water. The heat was climbing, as the day progressed. I turned my attention to passing the time, playing stupid little mental games as the hours ticked away. I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes had passed. I groaned and slumped to the floor, deciding to sleep instead, it was the first time I had slept in a long time, nearly two days honestly. I drifted off to sleep but was again pestered by the nightmares. I couldn’t sleep. A check of my watch revealed that only two hours had passed, since I had last checked it. I pounded my fist on the floor in protest. I turned to the window again, wondering, and went to it, opening the shutter once again.

It was nearly noon, and the nightmares were wandering around, seemingly aimlessly. There were less out than there were earlier. I glared at the horizon, out past the trees where I knew the school was. I was only fifteen, I shouldn’t be trying to survive the apocalypse, I should be trying to date somebody. I moved to the trap door, ensuring it was secure, to settle my nerves.

“Jerome?” A voice called from below, a familiar voice, and it sent chills through my spine. I moved away from the door and pressed myself against the wall, shuddering in fear. It was an impossible voice. I didn’t answer, I didn’t dare acknowledge it. The door jostled, and I nearly screamed. I sat still unmoving, not wanting to imagine what was going to happen if I answered. 

“Jerome, open the door.” The voice called, and the door thumped harder than it should have been possible to be moved from below. I found myself launching at the door, as the pin worked itself free of the latch, to hold it in place. “Jerome this isn’t funny.” She cried out, and the door bounced several times, I clutched the latch with my fingers, as it bounced beneath me, my fingers twisted and scraped against the latch as I was bounced. I cried then, as my fingers started to bleed from the motion, and I jumped away from the door. A few more bounces and the pin slipped out, the latch popped open and the door flung open.

Up out of the hell that was below the tree fort she rose up into the space that was my refuge with her eyes glaring red fire flicking flames at my in pure hostility. She seized me, seeming to glide through the space between us, and jabbed my arm swiftly with the large blade, I fought, weakly. It didn’t matter. I felt the poison ripping flames and ice through my arm. Where the ice spread in the wake of the fire so did numbness and I felt myself relaxing despite my rising fear. And with that, I felt my heart was slowing. I saw the flames around her face diminish, and fade. The dark demented features of her face softened, and I saw my real mother shifting form, into that of my little sister. I pondered it, but she cradled my head in her lap, stroking my hair. 

It was night when she finally coaxed me out of the refuge, to where father, his wife, and several police and paramedics were waiting. I was half aware of what was happening at that point.

“I told you I could get him out peacefully,” She said handing the paramedic the syringe she had used on me. I cried, despite myself.

“Just make sure he gets his medication.” My dad said, there were tears in his eyes. I knew what was happening, I was being sent to the institution again, because I had another break. I broke again because my brain was wired wrong, and I saw things that were not there. I didn’t protest, I knew I had done something to warrant this attention, but I couldn’t be sure what it was. As the door to the van closed, I took one last look at the refuge.