Read Online A Hollow Dream of Summer's End by Andrew van Wey - Free Book Online
Authors: Andrew van Wey
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once, those paths led back to the same fact: that the two boys were stuck in a treehouse, trapped by a shambling creature below.
A grotesque.
A monster.
And at this realization Freddie's eyes turned to liquid, his battle posture folded in on itself, and the lanky boy collapsed to the ground.
It was not the first time Aiden had seen Freddie cry. That had been last year, when his dog Bruno had died during the height of the summer heat in August. They had found the bulldog outside, swarmed by flies and stiff, still tied to the run that had given him no shade to lie in. Yet on that day Freddie had shed only a few tears. Then he had gone inward, silent and brooding for days, until Kenny Baumbach had made a wayward diss at sports camp and found himself beneath a half dozen haymakers and Freak Out Freddie's wrath.
Now, in the dark treehouse lit only by their flashlight and candles, Freddie cried harder than Aiden knew possible. Clutching his scratched hand, that strong boy, always ready to pick a fight, whimpered, sobbed, and curled into a ball on the cold wood floor.
Aiden wanted to hug Freddie, to shield him and say: “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see. Everything is going to be fine.”
But he knew that maybe it wouldn’t be all right. That maybe it never would be. The doctors, they hadn’t been able to save Bruno. Nor would they be able to bring Brian back from the dead. The three best friends had played their last video game together, tossed their last disses at each other.
Now it was just the two of them in that treehouse.
The two survivors.
14.
THE RADIO DIDN'T WORK.
Or if it did, no broadcasts made their way this far out into the boonies. Both bands, AM and FM, were a void of emptiness. Nothing, not even static played as Aiden cycled from the bottom to the top and back again.
It was an old radio. Its dials were digital, made back when digital was as new augmented reality and glasses-free 3D. Exposed to the air and moisture up here for two decades or more, the old radio had probably stopped working ages ago.
And what had he been hoping for? A broadcast, a warning?
"We interrupt this evening’s performance of A Prairie Home Companion to bring you a breaking news report: a monster has been sighted in the foothills south of the city. He wears tattered clothes, has three legs, a taste for flesh, and goes by the name Mister Skitters. If sighted contact Animal Control."
Aiden let out a private chuckle at that thought: a dozen animal rescue officers all trying to wrangle Mister Skitters with doggie restraint poles. It seemed a little more serious than a rabid possum or a raccoon attack.
He turned the radio off, checked the iPad for the errant end of a signal but nothing came through. Not good, he thought to himself. They were in a treehouse, but they might as well be on an island in the middle of the ocean.
—
Time passed in a heavy slog, punctuated only by Freddie's faints sobs. Aiden sat there in numb detachment, replaying the events over and over. The thing from the woods, tattered rags and teeth. A mouth large enough to swallow a head. Those gnarled haunches. And that arm, that wretched arm with the double joints, the tentacled fingers, the eyes. Blinking berries and bitter acid. The smell was still thick in the air.
He rewound the events, again and again, yet the horror remained. It was, he thought, not unlike the first time he'd seen a horror movie. Not that different at all.
It had been at Brian’s house, three years ago, when Freddie was out of town, that Aiden and Brian had stumbled on to his sister’s DVD case. They’d scoured the discs until they found one, a gruesome image of six women, bodies forming a skull-like mask. The movie itself had been just as grim. It was a dark tale about a trip into a cave home to cannibal mutants. At first the monsters killed the women. Then the women killed the monsters. In the end one of the women killed the other, and by the time
A grotesque.
A monster.
And at this realization Freddie's eyes turned to liquid, his battle posture folded in on itself, and the lanky boy collapsed to the ground.
It was not the first time Aiden had seen Freddie cry. That had been last year, when his dog Bruno had died during the height of the summer heat in August. They had found the bulldog outside, swarmed by flies and stiff, still tied to the run that had given him no shade to lie in. Yet on that day Freddie had shed only a few tears. Then he had gone inward, silent and brooding for days, until Kenny Baumbach had made a wayward diss at sports camp and found himself beneath a half dozen haymakers and Freak Out Freddie's wrath.
Now, in the dark treehouse lit only by their flashlight and candles, Freddie cried harder than Aiden knew possible. Clutching his scratched hand, that strong boy, always ready to pick a fight, whimpered, sobbed, and curled into a ball on the cold wood floor.
Aiden wanted to hug Freddie, to shield him and say: “Everything is going to be all right. You’ll see. Everything is going to be fine.”
But he knew that maybe it wouldn’t be all right. That maybe it never would be. The doctors, they hadn’t been able to save Bruno. Nor would they be able to bring Brian back from the dead. The three best friends had played their last video game together, tossed their last disses at each other.
Now it was just the two of them in that treehouse.
The two survivors.
14.
THE RADIO DIDN'T WORK.
Or if it did, no broadcasts made their way this far out into the boonies. Both bands, AM and FM, were a void of emptiness. Nothing, not even static played as Aiden cycled from the bottom to the top and back again.
It was an old radio. Its dials were digital, made back when digital was as new augmented reality and glasses-free 3D. Exposed to the air and moisture up here for two decades or more, the old radio had probably stopped working ages ago.
And what had he been hoping for? A broadcast, a warning?
"We interrupt this evening’s performance of A Prairie Home Companion to bring you a breaking news report: a monster has been sighted in the foothills south of the city. He wears tattered clothes, has three legs, a taste for flesh, and goes by the name Mister Skitters. If sighted contact Animal Control."
Aiden let out a private chuckle at that thought: a dozen animal rescue officers all trying to wrangle Mister Skitters with doggie restraint poles. It seemed a little more serious than a rabid possum or a raccoon attack.
He turned the radio off, checked the iPad for the errant end of a signal but nothing came through. Not good, he thought to himself. They were in a treehouse, but they might as well be on an island in the middle of the ocean.
—
Time passed in a heavy slog, punctuated only by Freddie's faints sobs. Aiden sat there in numb detachment, replaying the events over and over. The thing from the woods, tattered rags and teeth. A mouth large enough to swallow a head. Those gnarled haunches. And that arm, that wretched arm with the double joints, the tentacled fingers, the eyes. Blinking berries and bitter acid. The smell was still thick in the air.
He rewound the events, again and again, yet the horror remained. It was, he thought, not unlike the first time he'd seen a horror movie. Not that different at all.
It had been at Brian’s house, three years ago, when Freddie was out of town, that Aiden and Brian had stumbled on to his sister’s DVD case. They’d scoured the discs until they found one, a gruesome image of six women, bodies forming a skull-like mask. The movie itself had been just as grim. It was a dark tale about a trip into a cave home to cannibal mutants. At first the monsters killed the women. Then the women killed the monsters. In the end one of the women killed the other, and by the time
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