“David Olson,” she said slowly. “That’s it. God, I’ve been trying to remember that name all night. It was driving me crazy.”
Mrs. Henderson sighed. She was still talking slowly, as if her whole body were underwater. But she felt such a relief that she remembered his name.
“He loved to read books. Just like you,” she said.
“What books?” Christopher asked.
“Oh, gosh. Everything. He couldn’t check them out fast enough,” she continued, suddenly lost in memory. “‘Mrs. Henderson, do you have Treasure Island? Do you have The Hobbit?’ He would read them in a day. I’ll bet if he hadn’t gone missing, he would have read every book in the library.”
Her face suddenly changed with the memory of David’s disappearance. Christopher saw the wrinkles come back around her eyes and mouth. Deep lines that she earned with a lifetime of pretending to smile.
“Do you know that when he went missing, there was one book he threw into the return bin. I just didn’t have the heart to check that book back in. I knew if I ever did, he would be gone forever. God, that sounds so strange now, doesn’t it? I kept it checked out for the rest of the school year hoping that he would come back. But he didn’t. And when we did our year-end inventory, I was finally forced to check the book back in.”
“What book was it?” Christopher asked, his voice stuck in his throat.
Mrs. Henderson put her other hand on Christopher’s. It felt so warm and dry to her. She felt so good all of a sudden. So peaceful.
“Frankenstein,” she said, smiling. “God, David checked that book out a dozen times. It was his favorite. I never had the heart to replace it.”
Mrs. Henderson stopped for a moment. Tears begin to well up in her eyes.
“I went home that night for the start of summer vacation. Mr. Henderson surprised me with our first color television set. He had saved his money all year to buy it. We watched television together on the couch all summer. Old movies. Baseball games. We even saw Frankenstein. It was part of a double feature. And I thought about David and lay on my husband’s chest. And I knew how lucky I was just to be alive.”
“You’re still lucky, Mrs. Henderson,” he said quietly.
“Thank you, Christopher,” she said. “Tell Mr. Henderson that.”
With that, she let go of his hands. She blinked twice and looked around the library, as if suddenly realizing she was crying in front of a student. Embarrassed, she excused herself and rushed away to the bathroom to fix her makeup.
Christopher was alone.
He knew the solitude was temporary. He felt the voices trapped in homerooms swirling around him in a circle. Hundreds of classmates busy daydreaming or paying attention to their lessons. Teachers with sins and secrets busy instructing children how to know what they knew. He was an island in the eye of a hurricane.
Just like the tree house in the middle of the clearing.
Christopher steadied himself and moved as quickly as he could on wobbly legs to the computer. He clicked on the search engine to look for David Olson’s book. He began to type rapidly…
F-R-A-N-K-E-N-S-T-E-I-N
Christopher saw the section where the book was. He moved over to the shelves and found an old hardcover copy, beaten and worn with the same years that took the red out of Mrs. Henderson’s hair. He cracked it open and looked at the title page. There was nothing. No notes. No writing. He turned the page. And the next. And the next. There was nothing. Just a few underlines. Christopher didn’t understand. He was sure that David Olson left him a message in the book. Why else would he come to the library? Why else did he listen to Mrs. Henderson’s story? There had to be a message in here somewhere, but there was nothing but these stupid underlines.
Christopher flipped back to the title page of the book. He looked again and thought maybe David wrote in invisible ink. Maybe David was afraid that the hissing lady would find his messages, so he hid them somehow. Christopher stopped and looked closely at the underlined passages of the book. The underlines were strange. They weren’t full sentences. They were words. Sometimes, letters within a word. Christopher looked at the title page again.
Frankenstein by Mary Shelley.
The phrase that was underlined was…She
Christopher turned the pages until he found the next underline. He saw the word was…thinks
The temperature rose. Christopher could feel a presence in the room. He looked back to see if anyone was watching him. But no one was there. Christopher quietly turned back to the book and flipped pages until he found the next underlines.
The first two underlines were…She thinks
The next two underlines were…you are
And the next…reading
And the next two…right now.
And the next…Do not
And the next…write this down
And the next…or she
And the next…will know,
And a series of letters…C-h-r-i-s-t-o-p-h-e-r.
Christopher got silent. And still. He knew the hissing lady was watching him right now from the imaginary side. So, Christopher did his best imitation of reading a book as he flipped through the pages and read nothing but David Olson’s underlines. This is what it said.
She thinks you are reading right now. Do not write this down or she will know, Christopher. She is watching you right now. She is always listening. You can never speak your plans out loud, or she will kill your mother. Do not contact my big brother Ambrose. She will kill him instantly if she knew I was helping you.
Christopher kept turning the pages at a lightning speed.
I know you have questions, but we cannot speak directly, or she will know that I have turned on her. I’m sorry that I scare you in nightmares, but I have to prove my loyalty. I will leave you clues when I can, but if we are going to defeat her, you must rescue HIM. He is the only person who can help us. I called him the soldier. You call him the nice man. He was put here to fight the hissing lady. Without him, your world is doomed.
Christopher thought about the nice man. The soldier.
When you see him, tell him that the hissing lady has found the way. It’s already started. You have seen some of it. You haven’t seen other things. But it’s spreading beyond the woods. Beyond the town. She is only getting stronger without him to check her power. And when the time is right, she will shatter the mirror between the imaginary world and yours. And there will be only one world left standing. She doesn’t know that I know, but I can tell you the exact moment WHEN everything will be revealed.
Death is coming.
Death is here.
You’ll die on C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s Day.
The words flew through Christopher’s mind. He looked up at the calendar. Tuesday, December 17. He went back to the book.
The soldier is our last chance. If we can get him out of the imaginary world and back to the real one, then he can stop her. But if we can’t, all is lost. I will do what I can to help you, but you must rescue him alone. She keeps him chained in my house. Go in during the day. Be absolutely silent. She will test to see if you are there. DO NOT FAIL THAT TEST. If she catches you, she will never let you out of the imaginary world again.
Christopher, I have been here for 50 years. I don’t want you to be trapped like I was. So, please be careful. And if you do find a way to get HIM out of here, PLEASE TAKE ME WITH YOU.
Your friend,
David Olson
Christopher turned the pages and reached the end of the book. There were no more underlines. No more words. Christopher returned the book to the shelves and casually left the library. Then, he went to his locker, grabbed his coat, and slipped into the “long shot” bathroom on the first floor. There was an open window the fifth graders used to skip school. He didn’t know if he had heard that or simply read it in someone’s mind. All he knew for sure was no one would see him leave, and he could make it back before the final bell. After all, it was only a two-hour walk to the tree.
Then, another ten minutes
to David Olson’s house.
Chapter 48
The house was smaller than he remembered it.
Ambrose had not been back since he moved to Shady Pines, but when he woke up that morning, something compelled him to go. It was more than a hunch. It was more than grief. He simply knew he had to see the old house before his eyesight was completely gone.
And he had to go today.
He would have left that morning if it hadn’t been for the funeral. That’s what was so troubling to him. Ambrose had spent the week planning it. Without any heirs, Ambrose did not worry about money. His brother didn’t get the best in life, so Ambrose made damn sure he would get the best in death. The casket and headstone were as lavish as he could buy while still remaining tasteful, a quality that his mother regarded above all others.
“You can’t buy class,” she loved to say.
“You can’t buy life, either,” he thought out loud.
Kate Reese and the sheriff both attended the funeral. The sheriff had been kind enough to drive to Ambrose in person to tell him that the DNA was indeed a match. When the sheriff brought out the evidence bag with the lock of David’s hair, Ambrose squinted up at him and shook his head. The two looked at each other. Soldier and cop.
“Keep it in the evidence bag, Sheriff. We’re going to solve this crime.”
That was it. The sheriff nodded and put the evidence bag back into his pocket.
“Sheriff,” Ambrose finally said. “Would you come to my brother’s funeral?”
“I would be honored to, sir.”
Ambrose did his Catholic best at the funeral. He listened to Father Tom’s mass about peace and forgiveness. He ate the Communion wafer, which tasted like a stale Styrofoam cup. He willed himself to help carry the casket—let his back and two arthritic knees be damned. He would have broken his back before he let David be put in the ground without him. Father Tom delivered a final word at the grave. Ambrose put a rose on the headstone.
But there was no peace. There were no tears.
There was only this uneasy feeling.
That this was not over.
His little brother was not at peace.
And Ambrose had to go to his old house. Right now.
He still had a car, but with his bad eyes, the state had already taken his license. Luckily, Kate Reese offered to drive him since she lived in the old neighborhood. Ambrose was grateful for the company because another feeling had started to bubble up inside him as he got closer and closer to the old house.
It was something close to terror.
Don’t open the door. It’s not a baby! Your brother was telling the truth!
Ambrose put his foot on the old porch. He rang the doorbell. As he waited, he looked down at the exact spot where he had found the baby carriage. He could still hear the sound of the baby’s cries. He could still hear the police speaking to his father.
We found no fingerprints on the tape recorder, sir. No prints on the carriage.
Then, who put it there!?
And his mother speaking to him.
Why didn’t you watch your little brother!?
Ambrose turned his sights back to the neighborhood to get the bad out of his body. For a moment, he could remember that final summer before David starting getting sick. All the fathers worked on their cars in the driveways with their sons. Barry Hopkins was trying to turn that old piece-of-shit ’42 Dodge into something. The street was safe. People looked out for each other. All the men listened to the Pirates game on the radio while all the women busied themselves in the living rooms with games of bridge, white wine, and gin. The following summer after David had disappeared, people did not spend as much time in their driveways. Kids were almost never outside. And as far as the bridge games went, if they were happening, no families invited the Olsons. It hurt his mother’s feelings deeply, but Ambrose always understood that people are afraid that tragedy is contagious. Still, it would have been nice if his mother hadn’t lost her friends along with her son.
“Hello? May I help you?”
Ambrose turned around to see a young woman. She was maybe thirty years old. Pleasant and pretty. He instinctively took off his hat and felt the winter air settle on his bald scalp.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you. I used to live in this house with my family. And uh…”
Ambrose trailed off. He wanted to ask her if he could look around, but now being here, he didn’t know if he wanted to go inside. His chest tightened. Something was wrong here. Kate Reese jumped right in.
“Mr. Olson wanted to know if he could look around. I’m Kate Reese. I live right down the street,” she said, pointing down the hill.
“Of course. Please, come in, Mr. Olson. My house is your house. Or should I say your house is my house,” the woman joked.
Ambrose forced a smile and followed her inside. When the door closed behind him, he instinctively turned to the corner to hang up his coat and hat. But of course, his mother’s coat-tree was gone. So was her wallpaper. So was she.
“Would you like some coffee, sir?” the woman asked.
Ambrose didn’t want coffee, but he wanted to be left alone to gather his thoughts. So, he agreed to a cup of Vanilla Hazelnut (whatever the hell that was) and thanked the woman for her kindness. Mrs. Reese followed the woman, who introduced herself as Jill, into the kitchen, chatting up a storm about neighborhood property values.
Ambrose walked through the living room. The fireplace was still there, but the carpeting on the floors was torn up, revealing the hardwood underneath. He remembered when wall-to-wall carpeting was a sign of status. How proud his mother was when his father’s raise made the carpeting affordable. He was sure that Jill was just as proud of her hardwood floors because he had learned that what is old is new again. He wondered someday when Jill became an old lady and sold her house if the status would already have changed back to carpeting, and the new couple would laugh at the old people’s funny hardwood floors.
He heard the floor creak behind him.
Ambrose turned quickly, expecting to see Jill with the coffee. But no one was there. Just the empty house and the sound of his own breathing. Ambrose saw that Jill had chosen the west corner for the sofa. His mother preferred the east for the evening light. Back when the focus of a living room was living. Not television. He remembered when his father brought home their first black-and-white television. His mother thought it meant the end of the world.
Ambrose, can we watch a movie tonight?
Sure, David. Find a good one.
His little brother would get the TV Guide and pore through it. This was years before people could get anything they wanted anytime they wanted it. Kids had to work for a movie, and the movies were more sacred somehow because of it. David would read every line of that TV Guide, trying to find a good movie to please his big brother. That’s how Ambrose Olson got to see Dracula, The Wolf Man, The Mummy, and of course David’s all-time favorite, Frankenstein. David would see Frankenstein any chance he got. He must have gotten the book a hundred times out of the library. Ambrose finally broke down and planned to buy David his own copy for Christmas, but David only wanted to read the library’s copy for some reason.
So, Ambrose got David a baseball glove instead.
When the movie was over, David was usually asleep. Ambrose would scoop him up and carry him upstairs to bed. That is, until David started having nightmares about things a whole lot scarier than Frankenstein’s monster.
Ambrose heard the floors creak upstairs. He didn’t want to go up there. But he had to see the room again. His feet started to move before he was consciously aware that he was going. He grabbed the banister and forced his knees to forget his age.
Then, he started to climb the stairs.
The Sears portrait of the family that Mom bought on layaway was gone. Pictures of Jill and her husband on a family trip stood in its place.
Ambrose, I’m scared.
Calm down. There’s nothing in your room.
&nb
sp; Ambrose reached the top of the stairs and walked down the hallway. Every step of the hardwood floor creaked. Ambrose stood outside David’s bedroom. The door was closed. The memories flooded back to him. David yelling, kicking, and screaming behind that door.
Don’t make me go to bed! Please don’t make me, Ambrose!
David, there is no witch in your room. Now stop, before you scare Mom.
Ambrose opened the door to his brother’s old bedroom. The room was empty. Quiet. It was already set up as a nursery. Ambrose could smell the new yellow paint. The lumber and drywall from the renovations. Ambrose looked at the crib sitting against the wall. The wall that David used to draw on. There was no more wallpaper. No more terrifying drawings of his nightmares. No more ranting and raving from a mentally ill child. Just a lovely nursery for Jill and her husband’s happily ever after instead of a bedroom covered with crayons and madness.
Mom, he needs a psychiatrist!
No. He just needs a good night’s sleep.
Dad, he hid under his bed for two days! He is talking to himself all the time!
I’ll teach him to act like a man!
Ambrose looked in the corner where David’s bookshelf used to be. The bookshelf that housed Frankenstein and Treasure Island from the library. He remembered how much his brother struggled to read when he was younger. Back before there was such a word as “dyslexia.” They just called the kids like David “slow.” But David kept working at it, and he became a great reader.
When Ambrose moved out of this house, he couldn’t bear to bring that old bookshelf, so he sold it to an antiques dealer. He would give all of his money to have it back now. He would put it up in his room at Shady Pines and put David’s baby book on the top shelf.
Creakkkkkk.
Ambrose stopped. He heard the floorboard behind him. Ambrose turned quickly. The door was closed behind him. But he hadn’t closed the door.
“Jill? Mrs. Reese?”
There was no one there. But Ambrose could suddenly feel something in the room. A wind on his skin. Little whispers on the hairs of the back of his neck.
Imaginary Friend (ARC) Page 26
