The Misfortunes of a Teenage Blogger

It was a normal summer night. As usual, I’d retreated to the old tree house in the backyard, my bundle of necessities in tow. Inside of my maroon sleeping bag was my MacBook Pro, a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, a large bag of T.G.I. Friday’s Cheddar and Bacon Potato Skins chips, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia ice cream, the complete Hunger Games trilogy, a sketchbook, and a few packs of various writing utensils. Oh, and a package of plastic silverware, of course. With these treasures, plus my stash of things up in the tree house, I could easily last out here for a week, at the very least.

Climbing the shaky rope ladder took me seconds. Years of practice allowed me to scale the tree itself without a problem. Not that anyone else had to know that, though. I saved my spider-monkey-like abilities for times when I was guaranteed privacy and solitude.

Tonight, my entire family went to some fancy benefit at the local country club. Because I wasn’t your typical debutante, my mother always left me at home to avoid any embarrassment. Attending her soirees didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, anyway. I’d choose a lonesome night of blogging and consuming massive amounts of sugars and starches over spending hours in a frilly dress, making small talk with snobby high-class individuals any day. Unlike me, my younger brother, Carter, adored rooms full of young women drunk off of expensive champagne. He had quite a refined taste, that one.

The second I reached the platform encircling the tree house, I pulled the ladder up, securing it around one of the branches higher up in the tree. After a few unfortunate incidents involving my brother’s friends and some water guns filled with questionable fluids, I’d decided it was in my best interest to secure the fort during my stays. Being your average spoiled rich kids, Carter’s gang of morons couldn’t climb a tree if their lives depended on it. From rambunctious high schoolers, I was safe.

Watching crime investigation shows throughout my entire childhood taught me that one could never be too cautious. Sophomore year, when the tree house was built, I forced my father to install a complicated system of locks inside the door to ensure my safety while I resided in the space. Not once did I even consider keeping the door unlocked while I stayed. Paranoia always got the best of me, but in my book, you were better safe than sorry.

Once everything was properly secured, I flicked the switch next to the doorway, turning on the strings of yellow fairy lights dangling from the ceiling, illuminating my perfectly furnished getaway. If there was one thing I took pride in, it was my knack for interior decorating. Ever since middle school, I’d been obsessed with concepts like feng shui and color schemes. Instead of a splinter-inducing wooden floor, my feet sank into a soft carpet. It was made of turquoise, navy, pale yellow, lavender, and mint green fabric strips haphazardly sewn together. To some, it may seem like a jumble of scraps, but I thought it had a certain pizazz to it. Against one wall was a black fleck sofa, held on top of a simple chestnut base. The plushy fabric was as soft as the hair on a newborn baby’s head. Next to the couch was a small side table with a couple of drawers, containing clothes fit for any form of weather. From stockings, to sweaters, to sundresses, I had it all. On the wall across from the sofa were a few black shelves, holding various books. I was a proud book worm, rarely found without a novel in hand. My personal tree house library consisted of roughly fifty selections, ranging from thrilling mysteries to travel guides. It was safe to say that I almost never suffered from boredom.

Lastly, underneath the shelves, was my pride and joy, my vintage record player from the seventies. Made of polished chestnut and shiny brass, it added the perfect balance of crackling static to my favorite records. My collection was stored on a large black bookcase next to the player. Hundreds of vinyls in thin sleeves lined the shelves, arranged in alphabetical order by artist, begging to be played. Grabbing a collector’s edition record from one of my favorite artists, Bon Iver, and my precious Catching Fire hardcover, I nestled onto the couch, settling in for the night.

For a few hours, I indulged in junk food, cried over the romantic martyr, Peeta Mellark, and listened to Justin Vernon’s voice, serenading me with sweet nothings. Finally, around midnight, I snuggled into my owl shaped and lavender crocheted pillows, drifting to sleep within minutes. That night, I dreamt of light city rains and bike rides down a sunlit path.

When I awoke the next morning, I knew something was wrong. As always, I went to check my laptop to see if I’d received any messages overnight, but for some reason, my internet connection was down. At any other location, I wouldn’t have been alarmed, but once the tree house was constructed, the first thing my father installed was a secure, top of the line Wi-Fi system. The only way the network would malfunction would be if someone manually shut it off, something no one in my family would do.

Before the panic could set in, I let out a small, disbelieving chuckle. How could I have been so oblivious? Of course, Carter must have overridden the system when he got in last night, to aggravate to me. Shaking my head, I unlocked the door, walking onto the patio. Just as I started to lower the ladder, I nonchalantly looked at the ground beneath my tree-top cabin.

Someone, clothed in black from head to toe, was sitting cross-legged at the base of the tree, peering up at me.

Without hesitation, I flitted back through the door, locking and barricading it with the side table. Heart racing, I collapsed onto the floor, my head resting against the wall. Now was not the time to go into shock. For a few minutes, I focused on my breathing until I wasn’t gasping desperately for air. Once my pulse had returned to normal, I began to assess the severity of the situation. It was possible that I was overreacting, that the dark figure was just my brother pulling a prank, but I had a nagging feeling that that was, in fact, not the case. Assuming that they would’ve climbed the tree if they could’ve, I decided that it was safe to return outside to attempt to interrogate the watcher. Pulling on a large sweater and wrapping a blanket around me, I crawled back out into the misty summer morning.

As I’d suspected, the figure hadn’t moved an inch. Because they were wearing a white mask, similar to the one Michael Myers donned in Halloween, I couldn’t get a good look at their face. We stared at each other for a few moments before I decided to speak.

“Who are you?”

No response.

“Do we know each other?”

This time, I got a nod.

“What do you want with me?”

Silence.

“Are you armed?”

Again, there was no answer. Finally, I asked the question that I thought would be a bit dramatic, but figured I had nothing to lose.

“Do you want to kill me?”

With another nod, the figure stood up, but remained there, staring. Now a tad edgy, I slowly inched my way back through the door, secured the locks and adjusted the barricade, then moved to my couch. Trying not to panic, I ate some chips and turned on the record player across the room with a remote, keeping the volume as low as possible. No matter what, I would not panic. The person would have to leave eventually, and seeing as I had all of my necessities here, I would camp out until they accepted defeat. As long as my captor remained on the ground, I would be safe.

For the remainder of the day, I read my book and snacked. Honestly, if there hadn’t been a suspicious figure waiting at the bottom of the oak tree to possibly murder me, it would’ve been a normal day. Not exactly being a social butterfly, I spent a majority of the summer reading, attending concerts, or painting. It may have sounded boring to anyone else, but it was my idea of paradise.

I checked regularly, just to make sure that my visitor wasn’t attempting to climb the tree. Each time I popped my head out the door, they were either standing or sitting, always looking up. I wondered if their neck had started to bother them yet.

As the sun set, I went to check on the status of my observer one last time before I hunkered down for the night. They remained seated, head still tilted toward me. Before I returned to my safe haven, I saw the figure salute me before rising. With one last glance, they retreated into the surrounding woods.

Perplexed, I stood on the porch for a moment, trying to decipher the stranger’s actions. Instead of naively climbing down from my escape, assuming the coast was clear, I returned to my couch inside. To be safe, I would spend one more night here. If the dark figure was still missing by morning, I would return home as quickly as possible.

I slept restlessly, constantly thrashing around, even falling off of the couch at one point. Nightmares plagued my mind, the stranger outside as the reoccurring star. After waking with a start from my fifth or sixth unpleasant dream, I decided to stay awake, watch the sun rise.

Seconds, minutes, hours could’ve passed. Exhausted, I’d stopped checking the time a while ago. Thinking about how good it would be to sleep in my own bed in just a few hours was a comforting thought. To keep myself occupied, I began to imagine all of the lovely dreams I’d be having. It started in a meadow, full of beautiful yellow and purple flowers. Trees made a circle around the edge of the field. Finally at peace, I picked the grass and flowers, arranging the beautiful bouquet. As I began humming to myself, the smell of a campfire wafted around me. Intrigued, I began to look around, wondering if the hosts had anything to make s’mores with. Strolling across the field, the smell grew more poignant. Suddenly, the trees around the meadow blazed with flames, lighting each other with a domino effect, I was smothered by the ash and smoke closing in on me. Without realizing it, I’d fallen asleep, surrendering myself to another nightmare.

But when I woke, the dream wasn’t over. The walls of my precious tree house were engulfed in flames, spreading across the floor rapidly. While I slept, the mysterious person must have thrown a lit match up, lighting the tree house on fire to lure me to the ground. To avoid being burned to death, my only option was to make a mad dash for the house.

Looking at my sweet record collection one last time, I sprinted out the door. Without bothering with the ladder, I jumped off of the porch, landing swiftly on my toes. Luckily, nothing felt broken or torn, so I was able to run as fast as my legs would allow. In the twenty seconds it took me to reach the safety of my house, I hadn’t spotted the pyromaniac. Hopefully they took me for dead, a victim of the flames, and fled the property.

Flinging the back door open, I flew into the kitchen, screaming for my parents, Carter, the housekeeper, anyone. I ran excitedly to the foyer when I heard movement, expecting to be greeted by a friendly face to save me from this horror story. Instead, I found Carter on the ground, a bullet wound straight through his heart, already gone. With a terrified whimper, I threw myself at his body, sobbing uncontrollably. Unable to think rationally, it took me a few minutes to realize that my terrorizer had to be somewhere inside of this house.

Kissing my little brother on the forehead, I unsteadily rose to my feet, feeling ready to black out at any moment. When I turned around, I was ecstatic to see her standing silently in the doorway, gazing at me with sad eyes. I was about to run into her arms when I saw the pistol held loosely in her right hand. All at once, everything snapped into place. She’d been distant lately, spending lots of time in her room by herself. One day, when my father came home from work, she’d briefly inquired about his stash of fire arms. It made sense now.

Accepting my imminent death, I returned to the floor next to Carter, pulling his body onto my lap, resting his head against my shoulder. Still staring into her eyes, I began to rock him slowly, as I did when he was a toddler. Finally, a single tear ran down my cheek.

“Why, Mom?”

She looked back at me, remaining silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

As she raised the gun, I kept eye contact with her. The silence lasted a little longer, and was then shattered as the bullet pierced my mother’s skull. Unable to stand anymore, I finally fainted, falling into the last dreamless slumber I would experience for months.