The Treehouse

tree-house-844712_640Skye led me through the overgrown grass, pushing the grass out of the way and leaving a clearing of our path behind us. I could only see grass and the canopy of the oak trees ahead of us, which is where she was headed, though I wasn’t sure why she was taking me there. To our right I could hear the babbling of a stream. As we neared the trees, the grass became sparse and I could see the stream flowing near the roots of the trees.

In the tree top of the largest oak, hidden by the leaves that swayed back in forth in the breeze, was a small treehouse perched on the branches. I gazed at the house, noticing that the wood was weather worn and would likely fall apart if anyone climbed up there.

“Morgan, come on!” Skye called out to me as she dashed forward and began clambering up the trunk.

“Don’t go up there!” I cried.

Skye peered back at me, sticking out her tongue before saying, “Don’t be a chicken. It’s not that high.”

Not knowing how to convince her to come back down, I gaped at her as she went higher and higher. Occasionally, she would look down at me and wave, silently urging me to join her. My feet were planted firmly on the ground; there was no way that I was going to go up in that old treehouse.

Skye reached the base of the house and was dangling on one of the floor panels. She pulled herself up to peer over the edge.

“Morgan! You have to come up here and look at–”

The board Skye was hanging on cracked and she tumbled down, hitting a couple of branches on the way down. Her piercing scream echoed through the trees and I watched, helpless, as she fell to the ground.

Her cry stopped.

Sprinting to where Skye landed, I tried to convince myself that she was okay. I reached her side and saw her lifeless face staring up at the treetops, gazing at something that I couldn’t see.

I knew she was wishing I could see what she was seeing, but I was too scared to follow her any further.


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