Christopher opened his eyes.
He was still in the tree house. He saw his physical body still lying next to Ambrose and the sheriff, lost and twitching. But something was different. Something had changed. Christopher moved to the door. He put his ear to it. He listened for any signs of the nice man. All he heard was whispering. Voices he’d never heard before. Hissing his name.
“Chrissstopher.”
“We know you can hear ussss.”
He turned to the windows to see who was whispering, but the windows were so fogged over that he couldn’t see out. The clouds were all around them. Covering both sides of the world like a blindfold.
“Chrissstopher…you’re running out of air.”
The voices were right. The air inside the tree house had become hot and thick like breath under a blanket. The whispers scratched at the tree house.
“This is what happens to people in coffins.”
“They run out of air.”
“They are alive down there, Christopher.”
“They are squirming.”
“If you don’t come out, you’ll die just like them,” the voices whispered.
Christopher had no choice. He reached for the doorknob. He opened it just enough to let fresh air into the room. The breeze outside was charcoal-sweet like cotton candy barbecued on an open spit. He peeked one eye through the door crack. What he saw horrified him.
The imaginary world was beautiful.
The grass was green. The sky was blue. And black. And starry. And clear. All at the same time. The sun was as bright as the moon right next to it. A breeze rustled through the tree leaves, green and ripe as fruit. The weather was a perfect mixture of warm and cold. Balmy and dry. A beautiful spring day mixed with a crisp autumn night. The best of all seasons. The best of all times. Not quite day. Not quite night. The best of both and the worst of none.
The Mission Street Woods were heavenly.
Christopher looked down into the beautiful world and saw.
Hundreds of deer.
In the clearing.
Staring up at him.
Voices hidden in the wind.
“Hi, Christopher.”
“Hello, friend.”
“Just come down. We won’t eat you. Not this time.”
Christopher felt the whispers on his neck. He whipped around and saw a tree branch reach down like a snake in Medusa’s hair. The branch offered its hand to him and helped him down to the ladder. Light as a feather.
“Right this way, Christopher,” the friendly voice said.
The voice was everywhere. The voice was nowhere. He looked up at the blue moon next to the orange sun. They lit the clouds above the clearing like a lantern. The stars above were twinkling like Christmas lights.
Christopher held the ladder. It felt wet and slick. White and shiny. The 2x4s were now baby teeth. He climbed the ladder.
Down the giant tree.
With every step, Christopher’s body ached. He felt weak after healing his mother. The only thing he had left was his mind. He knew the sheriff was lost somewhere inside here. Ambrose, too. They were running out of time. He looked down at the clearing and saw the deer standing there. Trying so hard to not look like their ribs were sticking through their skin from starvation. They licked their noses with long, scratchy tongues.
“That’s it, Christopher. Careful now,” said the voice.
Christopher kept walking. For his mother. For his friends. For his town. He reached the ground and stared at the deer approaching. Bowing to him. Nibbling the ground around his feet. Nuzzling his hands.
Christopher was too weak to outrun them. Too weak to fly. But he forced himself to walk. They surrounded him like guards. To keep him safe. To keep him walking. He looked ahead at the woods. The tree branches were smiling now, slithering like cat tails. A frown gone sick.
The breeze did its best to cover the sounds, but he could still feel the screaming in the distance. The cries of “Make it stop!” on the imaginary side mixing with the shouts of “Here we come!” on the real. The worlds were bleeding together. The frogs were starting to itch.
Ms. Lasko just opened a bottle of whiskey. She put it to her nose. It smelled delicious. She moved it to her mouth. But her mouth was sewn shut.
Christopher could feel Ms. Lasko cry through her stitches. He didn’t have much time. Christopher walked through the beautiful woods. The branches rubbed his shoulders. Ruffled his hair. Gently nudged him down the path.
“Mom?” he could feel Mrs. Collins scream. “Mom!? Why won’t you let me in the kitchen now!? You promised! Please! I’m so cold!”
Christopher hobbled down the path. He looked down and saw footprints. Every foot was different. Men. Women. Boys. Girls. The feet were getting smaller. Human beings disappearing.
“Mom!?” he could feel Brady Collins cry. “Mom!? Why won’t you let me in the kitchen now!? You promised! Please! I’m so cold!”
Christopher walked past the billy goat bridge. He felt something splash in the creek on the real side.
Jenny Hertzog just pushed her brother Scott into the creek to drown him in floods. She didn’t understand why the creek became his bed. “Mom! Please! Make it stop!”
Christopher looked at the billy goat bridge. It was all up to him. He had to save Jenny. He had to save them all. The splashing in the creek got louder.
The old lady across the street just went swimming with her husband, but she doesn’t understand why he keeps getting tired. “You have to swim, honey! Please! Oh, God! He’s drowning!”
Christopher knew he had to defeat the nice man, or this would be the world’s eternity. The people in the clearing would blame each other. Turn on each other. The nice man had gathered them all together to play a game of pickup war. Shirts and skins. Tribes could be made out of something as small as a sports team. It would start at this clearing. One neighbor would strike another neighbor. And that neighbor would have a cousin somewhere who would join in. Then, another. And another. Until everyone knew a mother or father or brother or sister or spouse or son or daughter who was wronged by some other mother or father or brother or sister or spouse or son or daughter. And the two sides would begin fighting and they would never stop. They would never die. They would never listen. They would just bleed. Hell would come to Earth.
Christopher looked up ahead as flowers lined the path leading out of the Mission Street Woods.
Christopher reached the street.
He stopped the moment he saw it. His neighborhood. His house. The log cabin. The cul-de-sac with a beautiful night fog mixed with the morning dew. All of it was trying desperately to look happy despite the fact that it was burning. He heard muffled screams coming from the houses. Thousands more trapped behind stitches. Trying to sound so cheerful.
“He’s back! He’s back! Hello, Christopher,” they said.
He saw the man in the Girl Scout uniform tip his softball visor. The couple made yum yum sounds as they kept kissing until their teeth landed on the street like pebbles. The mailbox people stood next to each other like passengers crammed into a train. No doors. No seats. No hope. The street stretched forever as the mailbox people lined the sides, keeping everyone in their place as the damned screamed the same thing under their smiles.
“Make it stop! Please God!”
There was only one person not smiling. She lay on the lawn next to the street. Her feet and hands bound. Surrounded by deer.
It was the hissing lady.
“You’re off the street,” she said, defeated.
Christopher stepped onto the cul-de-sac. Deer started to walk around the circle like a snake hugging its young. A shrouded figure walked toward Christopher. It reached its hand out. Then, it slowly took off its shadow the way others take off clothes at the end of a long day.
It was the nice man.
He looked so handsome. So clean. A charming man in a grey suit. He smiled so pleasantly. His mouth full of baby teeth.
“Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you need to kill her now. it’s tiMe.”
Christopher looked at him. The nice man had no weapon in his hand. Just a pleasant expression. And a paternal nod.
“because god iS a murderer.”