Imaginary Friend (ARC)

by Stephen Chbosky

  Christopher’s mother strained to make out the last sentence.

  you Are my beSt friEnd.

  DAVID

  Christopher’s mother closed the diary. The two sat in silence for a moment. She grabbed Ambrose’s hand for support and turned to the window. The bottom of the sun was touching the horizon. The sun would set within minutes with her boy stuck on the wrong side of the night. If history was hell-bent on repeating itself, she knew the hissing lady was leading him down a blind alley. She looked at her son lying on the bed, tubes sticking out of his mouth. Christopher’s mother wanted to scream. Scream through the machines keeping him alive.

  “Don’t follow her, Christopher,” she prayed. “Don’t go into David’s tree house.”

  Chapter 82

  The sun was setting.

  Christopher had ten minutes.

  He saw the hissing lady in the middle of the enemy camp as she made her preparations for war. The deer were brought to her. She whispered in their ears. They moved back into the Mission Street Woods. Back to their positions.

  Waiting for the mirror between the worlds to shatter.

  Christopher crawled through the mud to get closer to her. He was only invisible in the daylight. This was his best chance. He had to get that key buried in flesh around her neck.

  He took the dull, silver blade out of the leather sheath.

  “What was that sound?” a voice hissed nearby.

  Christopher held his breath. He watched the mailbox people cuddle next to the hissing lady like kittens on a leg. The people were all shapes and sizes. All ages and genders and colors. Her soldiers. Christopher wondered who they before they stood in this clearing, letting the hissing lady unzip their eyelids and kiss their eyes?

  “Chrissstopher,” the voices said. “Are you there?”

  Mailbox people and deer converged on the area around him, sniffing and circling. Poking the ground. Christopher made his body as small as he could. They walked closer. He raised the silver blade. The deer came right up to Christopher’s face and looked through him. Nose-to-nose. One more step, and they would know he was there.

  Suddenly, a great scream rose from the camp. They turned to see where the commotion was coming from.

  It was the nice man.

  He was bleeding. Running for his life. Fighting off the deer. One by one. Until finally an 8-point buck drove its antlers into the nice man’s hands and feet and broke them off. Leaving the sharpest for his chest. The deer dragged the nice man in front of the hissing lady and left his body like a mouse offered by a cat to its master.

  “NO!” the nice man screamed.

  The scream was a little too loud. Christopher understood that this was the nice man’s diversion. This was his sacrifice. The hissing lady left her perch and approached the nice man. Christopher crawled at them. The mailbox people stood the nice man up. The hissing lady grabbed one of the antlers broken off in his body. She ripped it out of the nice man’s flesh.

  “WHERE IS HE!?” the hissing lady screamed.

  The nice man was silent. His arms spread. The deer bit his feet. The mailbox people clawed him, moaning. Christopher watched as the nice man smiled and took his punishment, knowing that Christopher was there, safe and invisible, hunting her. The hissing lady took the other antler sticking out of his chest. She ripped it out violently and threw it on the ground. The nice man doubled over in pain. Christopher kept crawling. The blade in his hand. Get the key. Save the nice man. Save his mother. Save the world.

  “WHERE IS THE BOY!?” she hissed again.

  “You can make me scream, but you will never make me talk,” the nice man said.

  The hissing lady did not respond. She only smiled. Twisted. Cruel. And evil. She raised her arms and the entire camp opened their mouths. A tremendous scream ripped through the sky. The sound was unbearable. Christopher dropped the blade and covered his ears as the hissing lady made a slight motion with her head, and the entire camp picked up and started marching.

  Deeper into the Mission Street Woods.

  Christopher picked up the blade and followed behind the procession as it moved down a wide path. A mailbox person stood at every tree. The deer nipped at their ankles to keep them in place. Marking the route like guardrails down a highway. Christopher looked up through the trees into the sky. He had maybe three minutes of daylight left. He would be visible. He needed to get the key. Now.

  Christopher looked up ahead. The nice man struggled to walk. His flesh was pierced. Blood poured from his wounds. He stumbled and fell. The deer bit him to keep him moving.

  The army marched down a long, winding path that Christopher had never seen before. Or had he? He wasn’t sure. The feeling reminded him of the dreams his mother used to have when there were suddenly three more rooms to their apartment that she had never noticed. She was there with him. Somewhere. Somehow.

  The group walked toward the coal mine tunnel, which opened like a giant cave mouth. Its wooden jaws clicking. Click click click. The hooves of the deer. Click click click. Christopher followed closely. Or was he being led? He didn’t know anymore. It could be a trap, but he had nowhere else to go. The procession left the coal mine through a different exit. One he had never seen before. One that was hidden on the real side. What he saw terrified him.

  It was a lovely little garden.

  A perfect little garden with flowers and grass and evergreens. The trees were so thick that the snow couldn’t find its way to the ground. But the light could. The daylight was beautiful. The weather was unseasonably warm. A perfect spring day mixed with a crisp, balmy autumn. Christopher had never felt such perfection.

  The procession stopped.

  The hissing lady stood in front of a tall tree. Christopher looked up and saw something—beautiful and white—perched on the tree’s thick branches ten feet off the ground. He saw a ladder descending below it like baby teeth. And a bright, red door.

  It was David Olson’s tree house.

  “David!” the hissing lady called out. “Come out!”

  The door to the tree house opened. David Olson stood in the doorway. He crawled down the tree like a serpent and slithered over to the hissing lady. She patted his head as if to say, “Good boy.” She turned to the crowd and raised her hand. The drums sounded. The mailbox people dragged the nice man up the ladder. The hissing lady followed.

  The last to go into the tree house was David. As he stood in the doorway, he looked back out into the woods. Maybe he knew Christopher was there. Maybe he thought his message didn’t make it to Christopher in time. Whatever it was, he had the saddest eyes Christopher had ever seen.

  “David! Now!” the hissing lady barked.

  David followed her into the tree house like a dutiful little dog and closed the door.

  Christopher looked at the red sky through the branches.

  He had thirty seconds of daylight left.

  There were still dozens of deer and mailbox people around the tree. Standing guard. Preparing for battle. Worshipping. Christopher had no time to lose.

  He ran to the tree house.

  “What is that sound?” the voices hissed.

  Christopher didn’t stop. He ran faster and faster to the tree house. He had to get into it before sundown. It was the only element of surprise he had left. He ran around the mailbox people. Jumped over the deer.

  “Is he here? Where is he?” the voices yelled.

  Christopher raced to the foot of the tree. He grabbed the ladder and began to climb the little baby teeth. The daylight was fading.

  Christopher reached the tree house.

  The little glass window was fogged from the cold. Christopher couldn’t see in. He had no idea what was in there. He listened to the door. There was no sound.

  Christopher turned the knob. He slowly opened the door. His heart raced. He looked into the tree house. There was no one in it. Just an old picture of Ambrose hanging on the wall. The only other decorations were scratches from fingernails. David trying to get
out? Something trying to get in? The mailbox people and hissing lady were long gone. There was no trace of David Olson. No sign of the nice man. What was this tree house? A portal? A door to another level? A mousetrap?

  He stepped into David’s tree house.

  Christopher turned back to the horizon. He saw the last sliver of sun touching the top of the earth. The clouds floated like an audience of faces. He could feel the whole town. Thousands of frogs trying to fight their way out of boiling water.

  Christopher walked into the tree house. He had no idea what would happen when he closed that door and walked into the place where nightmares are so scary, we can’t remember them when we wake up.

  The world went quiet. Christopher thought that he might be walking to his own death. But he had no choice.

  Christopher closed the door just as night fell.

  Chapter 83

  beEp.

  Christopher’s mother was so focused on David Olson’s diary that she didn’t hear the machine at first.

  beEp.

  She read the last entry again. There had to be something they missed. Some clue to help Christopher. David went to his tree house that night. David went into the woods. He was never seen again. What happened to David Olson in the woods? How did he die that night?

  beEp. beEp.

  “What is that sound?” Ambrose asked.

  Christopher’s mother looked at Ambrose. Even with the bandages covering his eyes, she could read the fear on his face. A horrible weight pressed on her chest. The room sounded like she was lying in a bathtub. The world under water.

  beEp. beEp. beEp.

  The third sound was unmistakable. Something had changed. She turned to the life-support machine, her eyes searching for the reason. That’s when she saw it. Christopher’s temperature. It had been 98.6 every time she looked at it. Except now.

  102 degrees

  She sat up in her chair. She felt Christopher’s hand. It was hot as a skillet.

  “I’ll get you out of there. I promise you. But you have to fight for me. Fight!” she said.

  103 degrees

  Thanks to WebMD and the panic of early motherhood, Kate Reese knew that any temperature above 104 degrees was dangerous. At 107, the brain begins to cook.

  beEp. beEp. beEp. beEp.

  104 degrees

  The door opened. The doctor and nurse moved quickly into the room.

  “Mrs. Reese, we need you to leave. Now.”

  “No,” she said. “I can help.”

  “Security!” the doctor yelled out.

  The guards ran into the room so quickly, Christopher’s mother thought they must have been standing outside, waiting for this moment. Ambrose put a steady hand on her shoulder.

  “That won’t be necessary, Doctor,” Ambrose said. “We were just leaving.”

  “The hell we were!” Christopher’s mother shouted.

  Ambrose squeezed her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  “You can’t help him in a straitjacket.”

  Christopher’s mother looked at the security guards. Two big guys with even bigger bellies. They were both obsessively scratching their faces, sweaty with flu. One held pepper spray. The other a nightstick.

  “Doctor asked you to leave…” the bigger one said, swallowing the word “bitch” and pushing its replacement through the bile in his throat. “…ma’am.”

  Everything in her wanted to fight them, but she knew they would just lock her up.

  Just give us a reason…bitch ma’am.

  “Of course,” she said as pleasantly as she could fake. “I’m sorry.”

  Then, she calmly left the room with Ambrose in his wheelchair, giving one last glance to the life-support machine as it ticked up.

  105 degrees

  beEp. beEp. beEp. beEp. beEp.

  106

  Chapter 84

  When night fell, something changed. There were no words, but everyone felt it. The temperature dropped. The wind quietly picked up and left a little whisper on the backs of a thousand necks.

  it’s tiMe

  “It’s time, Eddie. Listen to Grandma.” Special Ed sat in his bedroom with his father’s gun in his hand. He looked outside at the tree in his backyard. One branch sagging like a smile gone sick. Load the gun, Eddie. It’s time to go to the woods, Eddie. To Grandmother’s house we go, Eddie. Special Ed loaded the gun. Each bullet slid into the chamber with a click sick click. Special Ed threw it in his backpack along with the rest of the supplies Grandma told him to pack. He zipped up his coat and opened the window. He jumped out of his window and grabbed the grinning branch, which lowered him safely to the ground like a snake. Go into the woods, Eddie. Brady is going to try and take the tree house, Eddie. Don’t let them take the tree house, Eddie. Brady. Eddie.

  “Listen to Grandma.”

  it’s tiMe

  “Did you hear me, Brady? It’s time. Listen to Grandma,” Mrs. Keizer said.

  Brady Collins tried to help his grandma stand up, but her arthritic joints clicked, and she fell back into her hospital bed.

  “Brady, I’m too old to walk to the woods, but you remember what Grandma told you to do, right?”

  “Yes, Grandma,” he said.

  Brady walked to the closet. He put on his scarf and winter jacket. He grabbed his backpack that he filled with supplies when he waited for the ambulance to bring his mother to the hospital. He found his father’s hunting knife and a handgun that he collected from World War II. Brady zipped up the pack and walked back to the bed.

  “I hope you find your maiden name, Grandma.”

  “I will if we win the war.”

  Brady Collins nodded, kissed his grandmother’s whiskery cheek, and left. The hospital was so crowded that no one paid any attention to the eight-year-old boy with the backpack. Brady easily slipped out of the hospital and started the long walk to the Mission Street Woods. He wanted to say goodbye to his father, but his dad was at his mother’s bedside in the ICU. Brady hoped that when his mother woke up, she would forget Kathy Keizer. She deserved that. After all, she sacrificed herself to distract Brady’s father from tearing down the woods by midnight. Brady thought it a shame that nothing else had worked. But now it’s time, Brady. Jenny. Brady.

  it’s tiMe

  “Jenny?” the voice whispered. “It’s time, Jenny.”

  The voice sounded like her mother. Soft and sweet. Warm as a blanket. Jenny Hertzog reached under her pillow and pulled out the knife. She looked at the reflection of her eyes in the metal and smiled when she pictured it disappearing into her stepbrother’s skin. Then, she walked down the hall to her stepbrother’s room and opened the door without knocking. He was on the computer, zipping down his pants.

  “Scott?” she said. “Scott?”

  “What the fuck do you want?” he barked, startled.

  “I’m going to the woods. Wanna come?”

  “Why the fuck would I go to the woods with you?” he said.

  “Because I’ll give you anything you want.”

  Her stepbrother immediately shut down his computer. Jenny walked up to Scott and took his hand. She moved the itch down her arm and into his skin. Just as she had every night while he was sleeping. For days, she breathed through her mouth, so she wouldn’t have to bear the sour smell in his room. His socks and B.O. and acne medicine. For days, she touched that miserable sweaty hand. Preparing for this night. The war was here, and her mom told her that they needed soldiers. But her mom promised that as soon as the good guys won the war, Jenny would be allowed to cut off Scott’s face and feed it to him. She could finally take her stepbrother’s blood and drown him and the rest of the fucking world in Floods.

  it’s tiMe.

  Ms. Lasko’s face was in the toilet when she heard the whisper, sweet and wet on the back of her neck. She was in the women’s bathroom at the bar, making herself throw up. Not because she felt sick. No. Because she still felt sober. She thought that if she emptied her stomach and filled it with a whole bot
tle of Jack Daniel’s, she might at least get a little buzz. But it didn’t work. So, she began to weep. It had been so long since Ms. Lasko felt drunk that she couldn’t even remember the feeling. It’s not that she hadn’t had alcohol. On the contrary, she drowned herself in floods every night. But that God damn itch wouldn’t let her feel it. And now she felt everything else. Life had become a merciless, dry drunk that made her remember every terrible thing that she had ever done. And every terrible thing that had ever been done to her. It got so bad that she got on her knees in front of the toilet and prayed to God to let her feel drunk again. And suddenly, to her delight and great relief, her prayer was finally answered. A little voice told her that she would finally be able to feel drunk again. All she had to do was go to a “little after-hours place” in the Mission Street Woods.

  it’s tiMe.

  It went on like that for an hour or so. All through town, people stopped whatever they were doing and started walking to the Mission Street Woods. Doug was in the middle of Christmas Eve dinner when his phone buzzed.

  She’s cheating on you, Doug. She wouldn’t let you go all the way, but she let everyone else do whatever they wanted. She loved it, Doug. She’s pregnant, Doug. With another man’s baby. But the woods will fix your broken heart. It’s time.

  Debbie Dunham was fucking the security guard in the parking lot of the Giant Eagle after all the supplies had finally been sold.

  Stop fucking that man, Debbie. The woods will make the pain stop. It’s time.

  The old woman sat in the attic, rocking in her chair.

  We know you swam in the Ohio River together. He was such a beautiful boy. And he’s here in the woods. He wants to see you, Gladyssss. It’s time.

  Mike and Matt sat at the dinner table with their mothers. The Gabrielson-Scott Christmas tradition of Chinese food and a movie started one day early. When the feast was done, the boys cracked open their fortune cookies.