out several cigarettes. They were bundled in a paper towel and were a little squished and bent. He had a lighter and kept flicking it until he finally gave up. “I don’t get why my lighters never work up here.” “Maybe it’s out,” I said. “I just got it.” He sighed and went to the hatch door. “Light one for me,” Jake said. “Me too.” Randy flipped us the bird as he descended the ladder. This took about half a minute. Then he shouted, “Hey, guys!” We went to the door and looked down. Randy was small on the ground, but I could see him grinning and holding up the lighter. The flame flickered. “See? Fucking weird.” He put all three cigarettes into his mouth, passed the fire across them and inhaled. “Don’t get the filter wet with your spit,” Jake said. He pulled back and I followed. “I fucking hate a wet filter. It’s like I’m kissing him or something.” We sat with our backs to the wall as Randy poked through and climbed inside, billows of smoke around his head. He plucked two cigarettes from his lips and handed them to us. Mine was damp, but I didn’t mind. I smoked and thought how I’d like to take David up here. David and Chet, of course, but more David. I thought he’d love the treehouse. They both would. Both brothers screamed, and Randy and Jake giggled and fell against each other. “Guess they found the skulls,” Jake said. “Those pussies are too freaked out to even realize they’re fake.” Randy ran to the base of the tree and hollered, “Get to it, girls! Carve a face in the pumpkins and put the skulls and candles inside. The brothers want their new heads!” They screamed again. “I’m going up there,” I said. “This needs to stop.” Their flashlight beams lanced at me. “It really is true, isn’t it?” “Chet was just lashing out because you were bullying his brother and he knows me. He was trying to get me to stop you. They’re just desperate for friends. They wouldn’t be out here if they weren’t.” The brothers screamed again. Randy stormed back to the tree, climbed up three rungs and shouted at them to shut up and start carving. “Dude,” Jake said, his voice softer. “I don’t know what to think.” I didn’t either. Memories of the end of summer and the start of the school year flooded me. David and I playing Atari as we sat on the edge of the mattress, with Chet asleep behind us like a little kid. David flexed his calf against mine. I flexed back. “Look,” I said. The candles had gone out in the treehouse. We listened. Silence. We waited. Several minutes passed. “Let’s go up there,” I said. “You can.” “They’re up there in the dark. They’re probably too scared to move.” Jake and I were about to argue when Randy shouted, “Gross, what No. 130 the fuck?” He dropped his flashlight and fell off the third rung and landed on his side, holding his hands up. His fingers glistened wet and red in our flashlight beams. “Dude, did you cut yourself?” “No, man, it just started dripping on me.” Randy got on his knees and began scraping his palms against the dirt. Jake and I stood next to him, pivoting our lights up the length of the tree. The rungs were wet, and the dripping became a steady pour. “David?” I shouted. “David, are you up there?” Jake got Randy to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I grabbed Jake’s arm. “How much red paint did you put up there?” “What?” “You had a can rigged to fall on them like pig’s blood, right?” Jake pulled his arm away. “I didn’t have any paint, Mark.” His voice was hoarse, every word like straw. “Randy, did you have paint— ” “I’m out of here, man. I don’t even care.” They took off. I followed them a few steps, begging them not to go. Then I made a helpless pivot and ran back to the tree. “David? David, it’s okay. Jake and Randy left. It’s just me.” A minute of silence lasted longer than an hour of noise. “Come on, guys! Chet?” You’ve got to go up there, I told myself. I put my foot on the first rung and my sole slipped off. I whimpered. There was no way I could make it up without falling. “Please, David.” A whisper came from the opening. David? Chet? Both? Then something appeared. Thank God, I thought. The prank had gone on long enough. I pointed the flashlight for a better view and only just dove out of the way of the pumpkins as they fell. But it wasn’t the pumpkins. It was David and Chet’s decapitated heads. I ran into the darkness. The huge maple tree shook behind me. It sounded like a roar. I tripped and scrambled to keep going. The whispers became more distinct. Chet and David. But how could it be — when their heads were — I turned. The Somerset brothers were there, but not on the ground. Their forms hung suspended in the air, substanceless. Boneless. It took a moment to comprehend just what I was seeing. Their skins had been peeled away and seemed draped like sheets. But what were their skins draped over, and who did the draping? The pumpkins were there in place of their heads, and each bore the face of one brother, carved with the exacting detail of a photograph, and lit from within by the very candles they’d been forced to carry. We stared at each other, and I couldn’t help but remember what they’d said to me outside of the drug store. Be our friend, Mark. A real friend. David floated toward me. “The story was wrong, Mark,” he said. “The brothers were never twins,” Chet added. They hovered over me as I fell to my knees. “Then — then — what were they?” “Triplets.” TO READ THE FULL STORY OF THE CLIMB UP TO HELL, HEAD TO OUR SITE: BIRDYMAGAZINE.COM/FEATURED/THE-CLIMB-UP-TO-HELL-BY-SEANEADS-AND-JOSHUA-VIOLA.
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