A few weeks ago, I built a treehouse in our backyard for our two kids. It’s nothing fancy. Just about five feet on a side, several yards past the treeline, with a little window.
Our two sons are obsessed with it. They spend half the day in there. Out of the house, not making any messes, not fighting with each other. I thought it was the best thing Cari and I ever did.
I was wrong.
It was late last night (or I guess this morning), around 2 AM, that I first noticed it. I got up to go to the bathroom—and there it was.
A light was on in the treehouse.
“No, no, no.” I immediately ran to Brian’s and Kayden’s rooms, thinking they snuck out to play. But they were both fast asleep.
Then… who was out there?
It’s probably just some teenagers. They probably were wandering around the woods behind the school, saw the treehouse, and thought it was a good place to get drunk. No need to wake Cari and scare her. I’ll just go out and tell them I’m calling the cops if they don’t leave. That should scare them.
I stared out at the light. It flickered, as if it were candlelight.
Or a lighter.
Oh, no, they’re smoking.
For Pete’s sake…
I ran down the out there, not even grabbing my coat. The air was chilly, whipping around my bare neck and arms. I stared at the light, golden and flickering, spilling out through the window. The only light in an otherwise pitch-black forest.
Leaves and sticks crunched under my boots. Good. Let them hear me. I stomped more forcefully, trying to sound bigger and stronger than the 5’ 8” fat guy I was. My hand gripped my phone, the white light of the flashlight jittering over the uneven terrain with each step.
I stopped a few feet from the tree house—and a hard knot formed in my stomach.
The rope ladder was swinging slowly in the darkness.
I stared up at the window—but I was too low to see inside. All I could see was the flickering light, illuminating the askew planks of wood on the shoddily-built ceiling.
At least there weren’t any broken beer bottles or used condoms on the ground. And I didn’t smell any pot.
“Hey!” I called up. “I know you’re up there. You have to leave. This is private property, and that’s my kids’ treehouse.”
Silence.
The light flickered.
“Hey! Do you hear me?” I shouted. “Get out or I’m calling the cops!”
The light, for a second, seemed to grow brighter.
Then it went out.
My heart plummeted. What kind of game are they playing here?
Why are they just… sitting up there… completely silent?
A few seconds went by, but no sound came from the treehouse. No voices, no thumps, no creaking boards. Whoever they were, they weren’t even moving. Those boards creak even when my skinny six year old takes a step.
At least I came prepared.
I dug deeper into my pocket and pulled out the can of mace. Holding it out in front of me, I stepped towards the rope ladder.
Then I peered up the ladder, at the square hole in the floor.
It was pitch black.
Am I really going to go up there?
I was at a clear disadvantage. They were teenagers, and I was a short, overweight, forty-year-old man. I was probably outnumbered. I did have the mace—but who’s to say they weren’t armed?
It was hard imagining them trashing the treehouse I’d spent so many hours building, that I’d poured blood, sweat, and tears into. But this was too weird.
I turned around, took a step—
Thunk!
Something hit the floor above me with incredible force.
I ran. I sprinted through the forest as fast as I could, the branches scraping my arms and legs. But I didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.
Didn’t do anything until there was a locked door between me and whatever was out there.
***
Two officers arrived ten minutes later. I followed them to the treehouse.
“Don’t think that ladder’s going to hold you, Rick,” the skinnier one laughed.
“Then you go up.”
“Sure will.”
They didn’t really seem to be taking me seriously, and it was annoying. I’d just risked my life against a bunch of drugged out teenagers in my treehouse and—what? They were cracking jokes?
The skinnier one, whose name was Bob I think, slowly stepped up the rope ladder.
“You build this?” Rick asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice. Wish I could build something like this for my girls. But I suck at this kind of stuff…”
I nodded, barely listening as he blabbed on about treehouses. I stared at Bob, watching him climb up the rope ladder. I held my breath as his head and shoulders disappeared into the square hole—
“Nothing there.”
Bob climbed down the ladder, smiling. “No one’s there, and the place looks fine. Except for the paint spilled in the middle of the floor. But I’m assuming that’s from your boys.”
I nodded.
But as the officers talked, I felt a horrible dread building up inside me. There was someone, or multiple someones, up there. There was no doubt about that.
So what, exactly, had they been doing?
***
I wasn’t going to let my kids play in the treehouse for a day or two, in case there was any residue of drugs or whatever that the police hadn’t caught. But they threw such tantrums I finally caved and let them in.
They’d only been up there ten minutes when I heard Kayden shout:
“Daddy! Daddy! Look what I found!”
“DON’T TOUCH IT!”
But when I ran over to the rope ladder, he was just holding a piece of paper.
No—a photograph.
I took it from him. And I recognized it immediately.
It was a photo of Cari and me. Smiling, arms around each other, at a bowling alley. From when we first started dating more than twenty years ago.
It was identical to the one that sat on our fireplace mantle—except for one big difference.
The eyes were blacked out with a Sharpie.
My throat went dry. I turned it over, and found two words, written in blocky handwriting:
I’M WATCHING