Thomas woke to the sound of gentle birdsong and lazy sunlight drifting through his window. He groaned, bringing a hand to his head, which throbbed relentlessly. Sitting up, he furrowed his brow. He had no memory of going to bed last night. In fact, the last thing he remembered had been standing in Jenna's room. A chill came over him with the memory. Had any of that been real? Or had he dreamed the whole thing?

  But he had the butterflies. The thought nagged at him. The one at school, and the one in his backyard. And the strange, dream-like, maybe-real-maybe-not-real interaction he had with Jenna last night, while leaving him confused and scared, made one thing for sure: real or imaginary, the Butterfly Maiden was dangerous.

  If Jenna had it in her head that the Maiden was real, she would do anything for her. But was she real? And if she was, who was she? What did she want?

  And why is today the last day?

  He reached under his pillow for his Switch, but it wasn’t there. Nor was it on the dock. Did he leave it outside last night? Without so much as getting dressed or even using the bathroom, Thomas ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst through the front door and onto the porch, but his Switch was nowhere to be seen.

  And neither was his mom’s car. The driveway stood empty, and as he looked at it a shiver ran down his spine. A flashback of Jenna's pale face boiled up, and the last thing he remembered her saying last night: Tomorrow's the last day.

  What did that even mean? The last day for what?

  He puzzled over it for a few moments, checking around the porch, in the shrubs, and even under the porch, but had no luck. Thomas sat down, the birdsong loud around him, and held back tears. The Switch was the last gift his father had given him; it was something they did together. When he played it, he felt close to his dad, as if he were right there, playing it with him. But one mistake and it was gone.

  !

  A noise ahead of him startled Thomas out if his thoughts. He hastily wiped his tears and looked up.

  !

  It was coming from the treehouse.

  As Thomas turned his gaze towards the treehouse, he could see the door creaking open and then slamming shut, over and over again. He furrowed his brow in confusion as he realized there was no wind to cause this motion. In fact, the whole world seemed to have fallen silent. The chirping of birds and rustling of leaves were conspicuously absent, leaving an eerie stillness in their wake. Just like in his nightmare where all sound disappeared. The only exception was the haunting creak of the treehouse door.

  He stared at the door for a long moment, unsure what to do. Jenna was probably up there, and while he wanted to know what she was doing, he also wasn’t quite sure he was ready to see her. Even though it was just a nightmare, it had scared him more than anything else has ever scared him before. In fact, Thomas wasn’t sure anything even came close. Just the thought of talking to Jenna made his stomach flip.

  The sudden, tinny noise of a phone ringing startled Thomas out of his thoughts. He flinched back, the treehouse door coming to a slow stop just before closing. He turned, trying to put it, and everything else, out of his mind. He made his way to the kitchen and pulled the corded phone from the receiver.

  “Hello?” Thomas said.

  There was only the crinkling of static.

  “Hello?” Thomas tried again.

  “Thom-,” the voice was broken up, full of static. “ -hear me?”

  “Mom?” a wave of relief washed over him at the sound of his mom’s voice. “Mom can you come home? Jenna's acting weird and Mrs. Montgomery left and-"

  “Can’t- you- home- night,” she interrupted. Then the phone line went dead.

  She didn’t hear him. Thomas dialed her number back, but just got the busy tone. He slammed the phone on the receiver.

  “Did you know that some Monarch butterflies travel over 3,000 miles when they migrate?”

  Thomas nearly peed his pants. Flinching, he pivoted to see Jenna standing there, unsmiling, her wide, baby blue eyes looking up at him expectantly.

  “Hi…Jenna,” Thomas replied, looking away from his sisters' face.

  Jenna stared at him only a second longer before she climbed into a kitchen chair. “I want waffles.”

  “Jenna…where is Mrs. Montgomery?”

  Jenna didn’t even look at him as she surprisingly responded. “She left.”

  Thomas furrowed his brow. That wasn’t like the strict, old-school woman. Yeah, she’d kick them out of the house from breakfast ‘til dinner, barring bathroom breaks and lunch, but she’s never left them completely alone before. “Okay….do you know why?”

  Jenna just shrugged her shoulders. “Can I have waffles now?”

  A few minutes later, Thomas had managed to find some frozen waffles in the back of the freezer. Jenna had wanted real waffles, but Thomas didn’t know how to make them, or how to work the waffle iron. So, with a huff from his sister, she begrudgingly accepted his toasted, slightly freezer burnt “waffles", with microwaved syrup, and maybe a touch too much butter.

  After breakfast, Jenna ran outside to play in her favorite patch of flowers near the swing set. Thomas, however, was still bent on finding his missing Switch, tearing apart every room in the house with no success.

  Not wanting to accept that the console was gone, he decided to retrace his steps. The last place Thomas remembered having it was outside on the porch.

  Sliding the glass door open, Thomas stepped out into the warm September air. It smelled of fallen leaves mingled with the heavy scent of rain, and looking up, the sky was overcast.

  Thomas scanned the porch but again, he saw no sign of his Switch. The only thing that caught his attention was the rhythmic creaking of the treehouse door, still opening and slamming shut in the windless air. He shuddered, recalling his haunting nightmare. Despite his unease, he felt an inexplicable pull toward the treehouse, as if it held the answers he sought.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  Steeling himself, Thomas approached the large oak tree. Each step felt heavier, his heart pounding against his ribs. The ladder rungs were rough under his clammy palms as he climbed, the weathered wood groaning under his weight. At the top, he hesitated, hand outstretched toward the door that now hung motionless and slightly ajar.

  With a deep breath, Thomas pushed it open. The hinges shrieked in protest, the sound harsh in the oppressive silence.

  The interior looked as it always did. Dusty, Cluttered, the smell of mildew and must permeating the air. A few spider webs clung to old toys and dark corners, most just collecting dust. Thomas hadn’t really been up here in awhile; not since his dad died. They’d built this together, when his mom was pregnant with Jenna. He’d been afraid, when he learned of her, that his parents wouldn’t have time for him anymore. Though the memories were hazy, he remembered crying a lot, especially when his sister was brought up. After a summer break filled with anxiety, he asked his dad if they would still love him when Jenna is born. His dad had pulled him into a hug then, and told Thomas that he would always love him, and that his heart was getting bigger, not making room.

  Thomas dismissed the memory, faint as it was, brushing a tear from his eye before it had the chance to fall. He didn’t want to think of his dad. He didn’t want to think of anything. He just wanted to be left alone.

  Thomas sat down. The flooring creaked under his weight as he drew his knees up to his chest, his head resting on his arms. Being in the treehouse felt like a house had settled on his chest. A house full of people that went on about their own lives, unaware of the hurt that each movement brought. Unaware that he even existed.

  After some time, Thomas lifted his head. He was surprised to find his cheeks wet with tears, and quickly wiped them away. Crying wasn’t for boys, he reminded himself. It’s not something his dad had taught him; moreover, something he just knew. The men in his action movies didn’t cry. His friends at school didn’t cry, either. In fact, they made fun of others for crying. Thomas wasn’t a crybaby; he was tough. Basically a man at this point. And men. Don't. Cry.

  Something reflecting sunlight caught his attention, pulling his gaze to it like a magnet. And there, on the floor, directly in the middle of the treehouse, sat Thomas's Switch. Only, the more he looked at it, the more wrong it looked. He stood, approaching it slowly, one tentative step after another.

  The joy-cons were cracked, pieces of the colored plastic missing and showing its wiry, metal lined innards. Its screen was destroyed; with thin, jagged cracks spider-webbing through it, spiraling from dead center out. It looked like someone had hit it with a hammer.

  Thomas picked it up, cradling it in his hands. The tears fell freely now; sliding down his cheeks and dropping to the floor, disturbing the dust from its slumber.

  And that’s when he noticed. In the shattered reflection of the glass, Thomas could see something hanging above him. Taking a few steps back, he looked up, squinting his eyes against the dim light.

  Tethered to the ceiling was some kind of wooden object. It was round at its top, with shapes dangling from string. Shapes that he couldn’t quite make out in the shadows of the treehouse. Strangely enough, it appeared to sway gently, as if caught in a breeze; but the air around Thomas was still.

  He’s not sure why, but the strange charm filled him with a sense of dread. Even more frightening was the repulsion that almost felt like a physical force; like it was pushing him away, activating his fight or flight as if it were a predator, and Thomas the prey.

  Backing away from the strand twiggy charm, Thomas left the treehouse, climbing down the ladder and running to the safety of the house. Once he reached the driveway, he paused.

  The sun was setting.

  How was the sun setting?

  There’s no way he was in the treehouse that long, right? I mean, he’s only been awake for a few hours. It just wasn’t possible.

  But it didn’t matter if it were possible, because the sun was setting. The orange glow cascading over him was proof enough. Somehow, he had spent all day in the treehouse. But to him, it felt like only minutes.

  Against the dying light of the horizon, he could see a small silhouette painted against the line of trees. “Jenna?” he called out. The tiny shadow was skipping forward, and Jenna's words from last night bubbled up, bursting in his brain over and over.

  Tomorrow is the last day.

  He didn’t even realize he was running until he was slipping through the tree line and into the shadows of the woods. A faint humming drifted through the air and he followed if, pushing through tree branches and brambles that tore at his clothes and his skin.

  The trees seemed to bend inwards the further he chased the hum, their branches braiding together, becoming something of a tunnel. He could see Jenna now, standing near the end, her arms stretched out, giggles bursting through her lips, the rainbow glow of dozens of butterflies enveloping her as the danced around her like a whirlwind. Then, before he reached her, she walked forward and through the end of the tunnel, and disappeared.

  And that’s when Thomas realized that Jenna hadn’t been the one humming. He stopped in his tracks, the weight of his current predicament freezing him in place. Where even was he? Where was Jenna now? He was scared, so, so, so scared. He needed to go back home, call the police. But his feet wouldn’t listen to him anymore; it was as if he were rooted to the spot. Then the humming turned to singing.

  It was a woman, her voice a deep alto. Thomas couldn’t understand her. It was like the words weren’t actually words; more like concepts of words. Too old to be words. They filled his ears with strange sound. Filled his mind, and made his thoughts feel sluggish, hard to reach.

  And then he found his feet moving of their own accord, and he was powerless to stop them. Terror coursed through his veins as he marched forward, towards the end of the tunnel, the words growing stronger, more beautiful, more horrible.

  As Thomas approached the end of the tree-tunnel, he noticed the lights of the rainbow butterflies fluttering down, coming towards him as they did with his sister.

  But they had lost the playful candor they had with her. In fact, the closer they came to Thomas, the less light they seemed to carry. And then, with absolute horror, he watched as the butterflies twisted, their forms mangling as they barreled towards him, taking on the appearance of wasps.

  He swatted the first insect as it came within reach, and it hit the ground with a weirdly audible plop. And then another flew into him, buzzing by his ear. Then another, and another. Thomas slapped at the air around him, hitting wildly, hands clashing into the wasps as they barreled into him, stinging, biting, crawling over him. There were too many to smack off, and it wasn’t until he felt the bristle of tiny legs on his tongue that he realized he’d been screaming.

  The wasps poured themselves down his throat, shoving his mouth open wider and wider. His jaw felt like it was going to break but he couldn’t close it, couldn’t stop the muffled scream that seeped through the onslaught of insects.

  And just as quickly as it started, it ended. Tears stung at his eyes as he cracked them open, his breath still coming in short gasping huffs.

  Thomas stood in a dark grove, surrounded on all sides by trees that seemed knotted and twisted together. The wasps were gone, replaced again by the butterflies that seemed to coalesce in the center of the grove.

  Thomas, though terrified, took a few steps forward. He knew deep down what he would find as he approached the growing mass of glowing, fluttering wings.

  The butterflies paid him little mind as he stepped through the ever-thickening cloud, towards the small, still form in the tiny, flowing sun dress that spilled across the ground. To Thomas's growing horror, nearly every inch of her body was cocooned in butterfly wings,

  He dropped to his knees, swatting away at the insects, but when one moved, many more crawled to fill the gap. His breaths came in little huffs as he worked to get them away, swatting, clawing, slapping at the insects. Finally, he lifted Jenna by her shoulders, her head slumping back, and gave her a violent shake.

  Some of the butterflies dislodged, falling to the ground with an indignant flap of their wings. Jenna’s eyes were revealed- only for a second- and they terrified Thomas. Rainbow prisms danced in her half-lidded irises, reflecting and refracting, pushing and pulling, swirling brilliantly like mini whirlpools in a sea of vibrancy.

  Thomas would find it beautiful had he not been so horrified.

  And then the insects crawled over them, covering her eyes once more, and giving a brief, but indignant flap of their wings. He stared at Jenna, the terror coursing through him now almost tangible, almost physical; seeping out of his eyes, blurring his vision with fear. What could he do? What could he do?

  Out of options and without letting go of Jenna, Thomas positioned the five-year-old against him. He could feel her warm, slow breath against his skin as he pulled her up against him, her head slumped against the crook of his neck and her chest against his. The insects crawled between them, and it felt to Thomas as if they were under his skin, slithering through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut. Slowly and with much struggle, Thomas pulled her away from the bed of flowers she had laid on.

  Suddenly, Jenna’s weight in his arms became exponential. His arms and legs shook and wobbled as he struggled to keep her upright, but he was determined. Jenna would go home with him, and their mom would be there, worried and upset, but then she would make them waffles, real waffles, and tuck them into bed even though Thomas is too old for that, and Jenna would be her normal annoying self, and all of this would just go away.

  Resolute, Thomas took a trembling step back, shifting his weight, praying, telling himself he could do it; no, that he had to do it. But no amount of willpower could prepare him for the weight. When he stepped back, his leg crumpled under him and he fell, Jenna’s weight landing on top of him like a knapsack filled with stones.

  His head hit the ground with an audible thunk, the breath forced from his lungs, his body pinned under Jenna’s impossible weight.

  “Open your eyes.”

  Jenna’s voice was soft and bubbly. She giggled as Thomas's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry and unfocused. The weight on his chest shifted, and for a moment he saw Jenna's face hovering above him, her eyes full of light and joy. But as his vision cleared, the image before him twisted, warping into a nightmare.

  Where Jenna's delicate features had just been, a grotesque visage emerged; a twisted form that barely resembled a woman. Its skin was a patchwork of knotted tree bark and iridescent butterfly wings, constantly shifting and rearranging, placing and displacing. Her face resembled a wooden mask, the glowing wings illuminating the hollow holes that served as eyes.

  He tried to scream, but no sound came out. The creature's mouth opened with a terrible, deep, yawning groan. A single butterfly crawled out, fluttering lazily in the air between them.

  "Thomas," the thing croaked, its voice the sound of the splintering, rotten wood.

  Thomas's heart thundered in his chest as he stared up at the monstrous creature, paralyzed with terror. The butterfly that had emerged from its mouth drifted lazily through the air, landing on his cheek. Its delicate legs tickling his skin, but he dared not move to brush it away.

  "Thomas," the thing rasped again, the words grating like dry leaves scraping against bark. The butterfly on Thomas’s cheek crawled up, its wing briefly blocking the vision of his left eye. "You've come so far. Don't you want to see your sister?"

  The creature's hollow eyes bore into him, two dark voids piercing through his soul. Reluctantly, Thomas nodded. The thing shifted its mouth in the approximation of a smile. With a gnarled finger that resembled more of a twisted tree branch, it drew a path down the side of his face. The bark was rough against his skin, and he whimpered. Then, with the nearly deafening sound of a dead tree cracking, the Butterfly Maiden opened its mouth, and against Thomas’s will, he mirrored the action.

  And then he felt the strangest sensation. It was as if he were being from himself. It wasn’t a physical feeling. It didn’t hurt in the traditional sense. It hurt like loss hurt. Like grief hurt. Like longing, and time, and fear, and missed opportunities. It hurt like loneliness.

  Before the world went dark, Thomas wondered briefly if heaven were real. Would his dad be there, waiting?