Imaginary Friend (ARC)

by Stephen Chbosky

  “David?” he whispered. “Are you in here?”

  The temperature in the room suddenly dropped. He could smell the old baseball glove. He squinted through the clouds in his eyes. The cataracts that turned the whites into cracks in a windshield. It was only a matter of time now. His eyes would go, and he wouldn’t be able to see the wallpaper replaced with paint. The area rug replaced with hardwood floors. The old bookshelf replaced with a crib. His old family replaced with Jill’s new one. His little brother David replaced with their baby. The baby was crying on the porch.

  Let me out, Ambrose! Let me out!

  Ambrose could feel his brother in the room.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Ambrose, please!

  “David, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Ambrose could feel the draft shooting through the floorboards. The wind howled outside the window where David left never to return again. Ambrose traced the draft along the gaps in the floorboards. He reached the corner of the room. The corner where David’s bed used to be. The corner where David read Frankenstein and drew terrifying pictures on the wall that his mother papered over with her promises of “He’s fine. He’s fine.” Ambrose bent his arthritic knees and knelt down in the corner. And that’s when he felt it.

  The floorboard was loose.

  Ambrose took out his army knife and jammed it into the gap. He sawed back and forth, creating more space. He finally loosened it enough to pivot the knife and create a little crowbar. He lifted the board out and stopped when he saw it. Sitting there. Hidden in the crawl space.

  David’s old baseball glove.

  Ambrose lifted the glove out of its hiding place. He held it to his chest like a lost child. He took a big deep breath. The leather smell poured through Ambrose, bringing with it memories. And that’s when he noticed the glove was too thick.

  Something was hidden inside the glove.

  Ambrose took a quick breath and opened it like a clamshell. There he saw a little book wrapped carefully in plastic. A little book covered in leather. It was bound with a strap and held together with a little lock and key. Ambrose had never seen it before, but he was almost positive he knew what it was because his brother talked about it. It was David’s best-kept secret.

  Ambrose was looking at his little brother’s diary.

  Chapter 49

  Christopher stood on the street, looking up at the old Olson house. The nice man was in there somewhere. He had to rescue the nice man. Christopher had gone straight from school to the woods. When he went into the tree house, it felt like Superman’s phone booth from the old movies. A place to change. Once he closed the door and crossed to the imaginary side, he immediately felt better. His fever and headaches were replaced with clarity and power.

  But the hissing lady could be anywhere.

  Christopher crouched low and watched Ambrose standing in David’s old bedroom. The old man was holding a baseball glove. David Olson was standing right next to him, trying to put his hand on Ambrose’s shoulder. But Ambrose did not know that his little brother was there.

  David is…

  David is…helping us.

  Be absolutely silent. She will test to see if you are there.

  DO NOT FAIL THAT TEST.

  Christopher stepped onto the porch. Silently. He looked into the little glass windows on either side of the front door. The entry hall was empty. But the hissing lady could be waiting for him. She could be crouched on the other side of the door. He tried to calm his fear by reminding himself that he was invisible in the daylight when he walked through the tree house. But she saw him in his nightmare at school, and that was in the daylight. He didn’t understand the difference. He needed the nice man to explain the rules. He needed to rescue the nice man. Now.

  If she catches you, she will never let you out of the imaginary world again.

  Christopher listened for another minute. Then, he quickly opened the front door, making as little sound as possible. He shut it behind him and stood still for a moment just in case the hissing lady heard him. The living room was silent. The grandfather clock stood in the corner of the room. Precious seconds passing in a tick tick tick.

  Christopher tiptoed through the empty living room. The hardwood floors squeaked under his feet. He quickly knelt down and took off his sneakers. He threw them over his neck like a scarf and stood on the hardwood floors in his stocking feet. A draft poured through the floors. He could hear the wind picking up outside. A few mailbox people stood at the end of the driveway.

  They were little kids playing jump rope with the strings.

  With their eyes sewn shut.

  Christopher moved to the bottom of the staircase. He stared up at the second floor, waiting to see if she would appear. He was just about to walk up the stairs when a noise stopped him.

  “The school is excellent,” the voice said.

  Christopher stopped. He knew that voice.

  “You picked a great place to raise a family.”

  It was his mother.

  Christopher quickly moved to the kitchen and saw his mother sitting at a small table with a woman.

  Her name is…Jill.

  She bought the house with her husband…Clark.

  They are trying to have a baby.

  “Well, Clark and I have been working on having a family,” Jill said.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Christopher’s mother joked.

  Jill laughed and poured Christopher’s mother a steaming cup of coffee.

  “Would you like some milk?” she asked.

  “Love some.”

  Jill and Clark…almost had a baby last year.

  She lost the baby. But they kept the crib.

  And changed the color of the walls to make it good for a girl or a boy.

  Jill brought the carton of milk over to the table. Christopher saw the picture of the missing girl, Emily Bertovich. The little girl sat frozen in a photograph. Smiling with the gap in her teeth. Suddenly her eyes darted over his shoulder. Her smile turned to terror. Then, quick as a blink, she quietly turned and ran away, disappearing out of frame.

  Christopher froze.

  He looked up at the windows in the kitchen. And the reflection inside them.

  The hissing lady was right behind him.

  She had walked up from the basement, carrying a dog bowl that smelled like rotten food. The hissing lady stood, the key on the noose around her neck, her ear to the air. Waiting. Listening. Christopher held his breath.

  The hissing lady can’t…

  The hissing lady can’t…see me.

  She waited. Searching with her ears. After a minute, she was satisfied. He watched the hissing lady move to the sink and throw the dog bowl into rotten water. The bowl made a horrible clanking noise.

  “What was that sound?” Christopher’s mother asked.

  “The house is still settling,” Jill said.

  Jill and Christopher’s mother kept talking, completely unaware of what was happening around them. The hissing lady sat right next to Jill as she put a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. The hissing lady touched Jill’s arm. Jill immediately got an itch and started to scratch her arm.

  “God, this cold weather. Murder on my skin,” she said.

  “Tell me about it. I can’t moisturize enough.”

  The hissing lady looked straight at Christopher’s mother. She slowly moved toward her. Christopher wanted to scream, “MOM! GET OUT! PLEASE!” but he knew it could be a test. So, he silently took hold of his mother’s left hand from the imaginary side. He closed his eyes and thought as loudly as he could.

  Mom. Leave this place. Now.

  The heat began to rise on his forehead. The wind picked up outside. The hissing lady instantly looked up. She knew something had changed, but she didn’t know what it was.

  MOM. LEAVE THIS PLACE. NOW.

  Christopher’s head began to cook. His fingers and arms felt like they were birthday candles melting onto a cake.

 
The hissing lady swung at his mother’s right hand, holding the coffee cup. Christopher’s mother suddenly tipped the cup over, scalding herself with coffee.

  “OW!” she shrieked.

  “Are you okay?” Jill said, grabbing a dishrag.

  Christopher’s mother moved to the sink and put her hand under the cold tap. The water poured over the burn.

  “Let me see that. Oh, you need first aid,” Jill said.

  The hissing lady stood in the kitchen, waiting to see if there would be a reaction. Christopher said nothing. He just followed Jill over to the sink to cover the sound of his footsteps. Then, he took hold of his mother’s hand in the water, closed his eyes, and thought as loudly as he could.

  MOM! LEAVE THIS PLACE! NOW!

  Christopher’s mother suddenly checked her watch.

  “God, is that the time?” she said, alarmed.

  “Please, let me get you a bandage,” Jill said.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you. I need to get Mr. Olson back if I’m going to be home in time for my son’s school bus.”

  Christopher’s mother stood up, leaving Christopher breathless, his forehead dripping sweat. Jill followed Christopher’s mother out into the entry hall.

  “Well, why don’t you bring your son up for dinner sometime?”

  “I would love that,” Christopher’s mother said, then she called up the stairs. “Mr. Olson! I’m sorry to rush you, but I have to get you back. My son will be coming home.”

  Christopher watched as Ambrose came downstairs, carrying the baseball glove. His little brother David followed him, playing hopscotch on his shadow.

  “DAVID! WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING!?” the hissing lady shrieked.

  David said nothing and ran back upstairs, afraid. Christopher watched silently as Ambrose and his mother thanked Jill, then left the house. They walked to the car. Away from the hissing lady. Away from danger.

  Jill walked back to the kitchen with her mug of tea. The hissing lady followed. Christopher didn’t have a moment to lose. Quiet as a mouse, he tiptoed on his stocking feet to the basement door. He opened it quickly and slipped through. He could hear Jill on the other side of the door.

  “Clark, could you bring home some Lanacane? I’ve got an allergy or something. I can’t stop itching. And did you call the exterminator? It still smells like shit in the basement.”

  The basement was dark. Christopher stood at the top of the long staircase. He squinted to try to see what was down there, but he could see nothing. He could hear nothing. But he knew that whatever was down there was horrible.

  From the smell.

  The smell of rotten food was everywhere, mixed with a leather baseball glove and what felt like hundreds of years of “long shots” that missed the urinal. The hissing lady had come up with a dog bowl full of rotten food. Was it for a prisoner?

  Or an animal.

  Christopher heard a chain clank in the basement. He looked down the wooden staircase. With open stairs. Open for hands to grab him.

  “Sir, are you down there?” Christopher whispered.

  There was silence. And Christopher didn’t trust it. Something was terribly wrong. He knew it in his bones. He took a little step to get a closer look, but he almost slipped. He looked down at his feet and saw something wet on the bottom of his socks.

  It was blood.

  A trail of it ran down the staircase like a river. Christopher wanted to retch, but he held it in. He wanted to run, but he could feel the hissing lady in the kitchen blocking his escape.

  There was nowhere to go but down.

  Christopher slowly moved down the stairs. Into the darkness. The wood planks creaking beneath his feet. He almost slipped in the blood, but he steadied himself on the railing. He took another step. He heard shallow breathing. He squinted, trying to see if anyone was standing in the room. He couldn’t make out any shapes. Just darkness. And that stench. Rot and copper. More pungent with every step.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs.

  Christopher put his stocking feet on the cold cement floor. He reached out to flick on the light. But the light was broken. He thought he heard someone breathing in the corner. Christopher groped in the darkness, his eyes trying to adjust. He took another blind step into the basement.

  That’s when he tripped over the body.

  It was the nice man. His wrists and ankles shackled. Swimming in the rust-smelling blood.

  “Sir?” Christopher whispered.

  The nice man did not move. Christopher reached around in the darkness. His hands found two buckets placed against the wall. The first was a bathroom. The second had clean water and an old ladle. Christopher picked it up. He took the nice man’s head in his hands. He dipped the ladle to the very bottom of the bucket and brought the cool water to the nice man’s cracked lips. He tried to give sips of water, but the nice man was motionless.

  The nice man is…

  The nice man is…dying.

  Christopher didn’t know what he was doing, but instinctively, he reached out and put his hands over the nice man’s wounds. He closed his eyes. Immediately his head began to ache and a fever ran through his forehead and down his arm to his fingertips. Christopher felt the blood run from his nose and trickle onto his lips. The blood tasted rusty like a copper pipe. It was the nice man’s blood. The fever became too hot and Christopher was forced to let go. He reached out to use the water to clean the wounds. But the wounds were gone. There was nothing but healthy, healed skin.

  That’s when the nice man grabbed him.

  “Leave me alone! Stop torturing me! I’ll never tell!”

  The sound would have brought the hissing lady running downstairs, but the nice man was so weak, his voice was barely audible.

  “Sir, it’s okay. It’s me. Christopher,” he whispered.

  “Christopher?” the nice man whispered. “What are you doing here? I told you never to come in without me.”

  “We have to get you out of here,” Christopher said. “There has to be something we can use to pick the lock.”

  “Christopher, it’ll be dark soon. She’ll be able to see you. You have to get out. Now.”

  “I’m not leaving without you,” Christopher said.

  The stubborn silence hung in the air. The nice man finally sighed.

  “The table,” he said.

  “Where? I can’t see,” Christopher said.

  “The light is above it,” the nice man said. “Reach for the string.”

  The nice man took Christopher’s hand and gently pointed him toward the darkness. Christopher crawled on his hands and knees until he came to a cold metal table. He groped in the darkness. His fingers reading the contents of the table like a blind man’s book. It took a moment for his brain to process what all the edges, corners, and points were.

  Knives and screwdrivers.

  All wet with blood.

  The hissing lady…

  The hissing lady…tortured the nice man.

  Christopher pulled himself onto the table. He stood in the wet blood. Reaching up for the light. After a moment, his fingers found the lightbulb with a long string hanging from it. Like the noose holding the key around the hissing lady’s neck. Christopher pulled down the string, bathing the room in sick, yellow light.

  What he saw almost made him scream.

  The room was not a finished basement. There was no beanbag chair or wood paneling. There was only a cement floor. A metal table. And four walls covered in saws, knives, and screwdrivers. Every surface was dripping blood.

  This was a torture room.

  The nice man was chained in the corner like an animal. Covered in dirt and blood and bruises. His skin had been ripped apart and put back together a dozen times. He squinted at the light as if waking from a nightmare. Christopher had seen that look before when he went to the dog pound back in Michigan with Jerry. Some dogs get beaten for so long, they don’t remember how to do anything but flinch.

  Christopher quickly climbed down. He grabbed
a knife and screwdriver. He rushed back and handed them to the nice man, who began to pick at the lock on his wrist. His fingers trembled with pain.

  “How did you find me?” he whispered.

  “David Olson.”

  “David? But he’s with…her.”

  The way the nice man said “her” sent a shudder down his back.

  “No. He’s helping us. He wants me to take you both to the real side.”

  The news spread across the nice man’s face. Confusion at first. Then, hope. The nice man was pale and drawn, deathly ill from all of the blood loss. But for the first time, Christopher saw him smile.

  The hissing lady had ripped out some of his teeth.

  The nice man freed one of the shackles. The screwdriver slipped out of his slick, bloody hand and clanked on the cement floor. A board creaked above them in the kitchen. The hissing lady stopped moving. Listening to the basement.

  “Yes, Dr. Haskell,” Jill said. “Can I get a referral to a dermatologist? I can’t stop itching.”

  Christopher picked the screwdriver off the floor and handed it back to the nice man.

  “Can you do it?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” the nice man said weakly.

  While the nice man picked the locks, Christopher turned back into the basement, searching for a way out. His eyes finally settled on a small, filthy window covered with a curtain on the other side of the room. The window was at least ten feet off the floor. Too high for even the nice man to reach. They needed something to stand on. A chair. A bookshelf.

  A metal table.

  Christopher rushed over to the bloody table and started moving the instruments quietly to the floor. When he had cleared the table of anything that could fall, he put his shoes back on for traction. He grabbed a few blood-soaked towels and threw them under the legs to cut the noise.

  Then, he waited for Jill’s voice to cover his tracks.

  “No, Dr. Haskell. It started suddenly. I don’t know what it is.”

  Christopher dragged the table painfully across the floor. Moving with each word. Stopping with each silence.