The Monster in the Treehouse

The Monster in the Treehouse

Magic exists.

It doesn’t exist in the way that we wish it did, but in smaller, lesser ways that often get overlooked. It exists in love, in random acts of kindness. It exists in nature, in the touch of a butterfly landing on your finger, its legs and wings tickling your skin as it readies for its next flight. Even in the stars, and the touch of rain as it falls from the heavens. For some, it even exists in their own backyard, in their dreams, their mind, their soul.

In her backyard, in the distant, and yet ever closer part of her mind, existed a treehouse. A type of magic that wove together nature with something that possessed a certain amount of humanity, but existed in a harmony that often wasn’t seen. The tree’s branches curled around the wooden home, welcoming the girl with every celebration, and comforting her with every sorrow.

Kissed by the sun’s rays, hanging from the tree, oranges grew alongside white, blossoming flowers. They shone a hue that seemed to suggest the future could be bright, full of wonderful beginnings, and even more wonderful endings. The white petals of the flowers were pure, untouched by sadness, darkness, anger. Each day, with each smile, creative outlet, birth of her children, she would go here, and she would see it grow. She would see the happiness on the walls within it, the love that nourished the outside.

She knew something else though.

Something else lived there. It was small at first. A sigh in the wind brushing against the wood. A whisper from the floorboards, somehow having found its way nestled into the tree’s limbs, its bark, perhaps its very roots. She wasn’t sure where it came from, and she wasn’t sure why it was there; she simply knew that it was. That was okay though, she thought when she was younger—when it was smaller, barely breathing, its whispers so low she could write them off. Writing them off, however, would prove harder as she got older.

The thing, a void that couldn’t quite be seen at first as much as it could be felt, moved throughout the safe haven, out from the board that the girl once constructed with her own hands, and into a corner, hiding underneath hanging art, underneath the carved initials of the woman’s name that she had placed there—this was her territory, after all; it belonged to her. At least, it did.

Over the years, a decay set in. Sickness began to overtake the brightness the oranges once had, beginning with small impurities, dark spots, white specks here and there, and, eventually, a blackness. What started slowly grew more rapidly. With each cruel word spoken, each love that knew only hate, the oranges died, and the unwanted guest made itself more at home.

“You deserve it,” it told her. Its black shape, scratchy, soulless, hovered around a rocking chair in the corner it had long since moved on from, now calling the once-safe-haven it’s home. Its whispers were now screams, taunts, reminders of any failure, big or small, and even turning the successes into fears of future failure.

“You can’t keep it up,” it would tell her. “They won’t love you,” it would say. “I’m all you have,” it said, and it took her a long time to realize what that meant, but she did as time went on.

“I’m all you have.” She was all it had. It hated her because no one loved it. Conceived out of hate, out of every negative thing ever said, ever done, it had grown to believe that’s all there was—why, then, should this girl know anything other than what it had known? It didn’t want her gone, but it didn’t want her happy either. It wanted her to have what it believed she deserved, to accept the love that it believed it deserved; and it knew it deserved the love it was born from.

Absence.

It didn’t understand the meaning, but on this day, the girl had come to the treehouse—its treehouse with one thing in mind. She had climbed up the ladder, the darkening of the roots and graveyard of oranges welcoming her in their death. Upon reaching the top, she felt over her pocket. Today, she decided, was the day, and she entered the monster’s home, a small case of gasoline clutched in one hand.

“Absence?” it asked, its shape filling the house, only its claws a visible outline against its form, its mouth forming words like static on a television. “Absence of what?”

Everything I am, she said. Her voice was barely audible against the noise of the thing’s very existence, but, for the first time in a very long time, she could hear herself, and so could it.

“And what are you?” said the beast, scraping its nails along the unseen wooden floorboard. “Friendless? Unloved? Hated?” Each word was like a knife, their blades cutting her but never killing her. “You’re nothing without me,” the voice said, rising, screeching. “You’re barely even anything with me. What could you possibly think you are?”

She spoke only one word.

Deserving.

Splintering wood cracked somewhere beneath the shape and it cried out in pain. The darkness receded, uncovering the rotting wood it had been eating away at, but it was still the master of the home, still overtaking most of what could be seen.

With what could now be entered though, the woman stepped in. Groaning rose from the floor. She twisted the cap off of the gasoline and splashed it on the wood, toward the monster that had grown too comfortable in her mind for too long.

It lunged at her, digging its claws into her shoulders, snarling. Still, she stood, staring it down—it hated more than anything to be looked at, to be spoken to or about, to be seen. And she understood why now.

You’re ashamed.

“What would I ever have to be ashamed of?”

You know, she said, and splashed the fluid on its shape. It shrank a little more with each drop. You know you deserved better too, she continued.

The rocking chair became uncovered with the next fling of gasoline. Its wooden backing was falling apart, a piece of it disjointed and leaning down on the seat.

Instead of fighting for it though, look what you did.

Her voice was stronger now, nearly on par with the creature, and it broke eye contact with her, taking in the death it had brought in with it. This place had once been so lovely. This is all it was capable of though. How could it grow, how could it learn when it only ever knew one thing? It wasn’t fair. This life wasn’t fair.

As if reading its mind, she spoke, this time loud, and undeniably over anything it could say.

“You’re right,” she said. “It’s not fair!” She sprayed the rest of the gasoline out and dropped the container, remnants of the fluid spilling out onto the floor. “But you,” she continued, slipping her hand into her pocket and pulling out a matchstick, “you chose to let that fester. You chose to poison this place, you chose to poison me!”

And what, you think—

The creature placed its hands to its throat. This wasn’t its voice. This was weak, low, pitiful. How had she done this to it?

It shrieked, You think this is it? A horn poked out from its head. You think you’ve won? Its mouth ripped open at its attempt to scream. You think I won’t just come back?!

It came at her, threatening to put its claws on her one more time knowing that it could never do any real damage—after all, she was all it would ever truly have. But if it could just make her believe, if it could simply push her back and remind her of her place…

Flame ignited from the match, the woman striking it against the soaked floorboard. Fire licked up the dark wood and lit up the inside with the glow of its hunger. The monster stumbled back, fell, and slid its way against the wall in the very corner it grew from all those years ago.

With one final look, she turned on the shape cowering below her inscribed initials as the fire grew closer, consuming everything in its path. She continued to watch it from outside, the flames growing higher, smoke billowing up to the skies, their darkness reminiscent of the creature itself.

Once the fire had done its job, she watched on as clouds rolled in, bringing a downpour that would extinguish what she had started. Rain fell until all that was left was a pile of ash and dirt. The woman approached its center and knelt down. She dug into the remains with her bare hands, staining her skin with the corpse of her nightmare and its prison.

She kept digging, and digging, until at long last, a shimmer of light sparked out from beneath the dirt. She had finally found what she had been looking for. With delicate grasp, she pulled the light up, revealing a seed. A light shone from it, much like the light that once shown from the oranges that once gave her such hope. With this, she could try again. She didn’t have to let the monster in the treehouse define her. She was fully capable of doing that herself, and she knew that she deserved better than what it had offered her.

And maybe they were right. Maybe they would be back. Maybe they would exist in harmony, and maybe it would repeat all of its past mistakes all over again.

One thing was certain though: This time, no one would take what was hers ever again. This was her life, and she deserved to live it.