A frightful encounter at an abandoned summer home
It’s raining when I pull the car down the hill into the overgrown driveway. The ground squelches under my feet as I rush to the cottage’s door.
The cottage has seen better days. It smells of mildew and mould now, and there is a hole in the kitchen ceiling letting the rain in. None of the light switches work, but luckily I brought a flashlight. There are mouse droppings and spiderwebs in every corner.
It isn’t a very big cottage, but it feels smaller now that I’m an adult. The furniture feels crammed inside, all covered in a thick layer of dust. My parents never had a chance to cover the furniture in tarps. They never even unplugged the old box TV, though by now the mice had chewed through its wire.
At my bedroom doorway, I hesitate. It’s been over a decade since I was last here. Life got busy, memories faded, and I got used to summers in the city. It feels…wrong to be back, especially alone. The dark room isn’t helping. But I promised my parents I’d clean up and sell the cottage.
When I finally enter the bedroom, I’m hit with a chilly breeze. The bed isn’t made, and the singular low window isn’t shut. I move closer to shut it but get a glimpse outside that makes my stomach sink instead.
Across from the bedroom window, at the top of the hill beside the dirt road, is a treehouse. It is dirty and yellow and made of crumbly old wood. It was old when I was a kid. My parents used to warn me away from it because there might be bears in it.
Memories come back, of lying in bed staring out the window, just knowing something was staring back at me from the treehouse’s darkness. No matter how much I buried myself under the covers, I always felt its gaze. It didn’t help that the other vacationing kids would tell spooky stories about the treehouse around the fire.
Thunder bellows and I remember that night it was raining too. I finally had enough sleepless summer nights. The other kids had faced their fears tubing, and I was going to face mine. I climbed out the bedroom window, towards the treehouse.
I find myself below it, heart racing. Slowly I climb the ladder, planks nailed to the tree slick with rain, and enter the darkness. I let my eyes adjust first to find a normal, weathered treehouse. Then I look out the window and my stomach sinks.
My bedroom light is on. My younger self is in bed, covers pulled to her chin, staring right back at me. With another clap of thunder, I hear a noise behind me. I turn, face to face with my younger, horrified self.
She stares at me, wide eyed, and opens her mouth to scream. I reach out to her, to calm her down, to see if she’s real, but she backs away from me and stumbles. My hand just grazes her arm before she falls to the ground onto an exposed root of the tree.
This story was originally published in Volume 24, Issue 7 on March 6 2025
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