No, really, my tree house eats girls. At least, that is what the innocence in my childhood mind told me.

The oak tree in our backyard towered over its kind in my neighborhood, kissing the blue sky with its large leaves that seemed rather large in my little palms. Awestruck, I watched as it turned warm colors in the cold fall. As winter began, the leaves piled up, the perfect jumping cushions. Spring and summer saw a little boy climbing the oak tree's branches much to his parents' dismay. As an outgoing child, I had many friends, but nothing quite compared to the strange love I harbored for that tree.

The second-largest tree in the neighborhood belonged to my friend, Ashton. Its grandeur could not compare to that of my tree, but, one day, when I went over to his house after school, wood was constructed in the folds of Ashton's tree, hugging it like a child. A tree in a tree. Ashton and I climbed the ladder to the tree house, and we played with our matchbox cars for hours. My eyes kept drifting to the tops of the houses and the clouds as they lulled by. Sparrows and squirrels peeked curiously through the windows and flew off in a panic when Ashton threw his cars at them. We both laughed. It was a boyish thing to do.

I practically fell onto my knees in an attempt to beg my working father for a tree house of my own. To live in my oak tree . . . it seemed so magnificent, so surreal, I had to have it. My heart soared at my luck when my dad did not hesitate to take time off of work to build. I watched him with curiosity. He even let me use a power drill for a very brief moment before he laughed and took it back into his calloused, rough hands. Mine were too soft.

My father's finished product was the envy of all the neighborhood kids. Ashton included. The tree house towered over the neighborhood like a god, and it screamed at the children to come play. I spent hours every day in that tree, and my parents would even sometimes let my friends and I camp out in it with flashlights and comic books to keep the darkness from creeping in. The tree house was safe, a fort, the beacon of light in the neighborhood.

Why did that have to change?

Ashton came up with the idea for a "no girls allowed" poster. I wrote the words with red markers with the sloppy hand writing of a seven-year-old, careless boy. Girls had cooties; that's what Ashton said, and I did not want anything to taint my fortress. We hung the poster up with a whole roll of heavy-duty tape so it would not fall off. Indelible like the walls of the tree house itself. Ashton found it amusing. I merely thought it as practical.

But the fear of imaginary childhood disease seemed almost silly when I met Crystal. She moved in next door and greeted me with a friendly, cherry smile.

"I like your tree!" she exclaimed.

Who didn't. "How old are you?" I asked.

"Seven. Seven and one half. My name is Crystal, what's yours?"

I mumbled my name to her. Why did my words come out as awkward? I was not a shy boy. But all I could think of that night was her dark hair and emerald-green eyes like the leaves of my oak tree. I invited her over to play the next day and was delighted when she pulled out my race cars and helped me set up a track.

"I have a little brother," Crystal explained to my bemused look. "I play with him. I like his cars."

I smiled at her, a rush of confidence telling me to appear impressive. She smiled back.

It was only a few hours later that she asked to see my tree house, and, of course, I obliged. My heart fluttered strangely (was there something wrong?) when she lit up like the sun after a night of camping outside. We climbed the sturdy rope ladder, and she just giggled at my poster. I then watched dumbly as she danced about the tree house.

"I love it! I love it!" she chimed. I showed her my comic books that were strewn across the floor, and we sat, close enough to touch, and leafed through the colorful pages. She liked Thor. I did, too.

I will regret this decision until the day I can no longer feel, but nature called. Why did I drink all of that Sunny D? I blame my sugar tooth which I lost in adulthood. Damn, did I have to piss.

I left Crystal to skim through the comics on her own, and I descended the ladder and rushed inside. I did my business quickly, shook twice, and sprinted back to the oak tree. The earthy smell permeated the warm, summer air. Break from school had me completely relaxed. The sun shone brightly, nice since I was afraid of the dark (more so now. Don't tell Ashton). It was such a pretty day.

But the world seemed significantly less beautiful when Crystal vanished from my tree house.

My father was out the door in a matter of seconds, my mother following closely. I was not worried, just peeved that Crystal left without saying good-bye. At least, the fright did not set in until my mother called 911, that number I knew never to dial unless it was an emergency. Did my voice shake when the police asked me questions and scratched at their notepads? Did I cry a few weeks later when my father told me that Crystal was gone? I do not recall, but I do know that I sobbed when my father said that tree house must have eaten her because of that stupid, childish sign I hung up. Too much tape. Forever there, even when I tried in vain to peel it off. Ashton wondered at my distress and even called it ridiculous. But it was my fault Crystal was dead; I had let her into that tree house.

A year later, a little bit older, Ashton refused to believe that he had ever made fun of my affection for a girl. Her name was Allison. She was not really my type since she was at least a head taller than me and let me know it, but Ashton was enamored. Despite her joked directed at my stunted size, she was nice enough, and we spent our days hanging out together, the three of us, me that awkward extra wheel. It was fine, though. I liked her because Ashton liked her. I was a good best friend, at least, that was until Ashton wanted to show her my tree house.

I freaked.

"Absolutely not!" I yelled, causing my friend to flare up with anger. He was bigger than me, too, and I knew he could easily push me down. He twisted a fist into my hair and yanked my head back. Allison wanted to see the tree house, and whatever Allison wanted she got from Ashton. Tears flowed from my eyes from the pain, both physical and emotional. All I could think of was that pretty girl with the dark hair and green eyes as Allison climbed into the tree house.

I twitched with nerves as Ashton and Allison cuddled up together by one of the windows. Allison smiled at the birds that flew by, and Ashton grinned at her. I was scowling. The "no girls allowed" poster stared at me from the door. The wooden walls creaked and the oak's branches swayed, and, for the first time, I found it all somewhat frightening. I excused myself from their company when they began to kiss. What else could I do? But, if I had stayed, maybe I could have prevented yet another disaster.

I swelled with anger when Ashton came inside, Allison not in tow, to get two cups of my knock-off orange juice I refused to drink (my dad liked it and kept it in the house). I punched my friend and, for the first time, I meant the abuse. How dare he leave a girl alone in that tree house! Did he not know? Did he not remember Crystal?

My tree house eats girls, and Ashton learned that the hard way.

The police never found a body. My dad's past words haunting my mind, Ashton and I concluded with tears and disbelief that my tree house did, in fact, gobble up two girls. We hugged it out and promised, pinkies hooked together, never to set foot up my oak ever again.

But, like I previously detailed, my tree house attracted the neighborhood children like lemmings to a cliff. New kids would start up that rope ladder despite my desperate warnings. Not a single boy went missing, but sisters, daughters, did. Five-year-old Serena was eaten the same summer Allison was, along with her slightly younger sister and a few of her daycare friends. Why did my father throw that damn barbecue? Why did he actually encourage the girls to enter that tree house?

My oak tree was no longer the symbol of childhood fascination. No, it was the epitome of terror. The branches moved up and down like teeth chewing on a piece of meat. The wood groaned in the night wind outside my window with the voices of the ten missing girls. Crystal. Allison. Serena. Vail. Gabriela. So many more that I cannot recall the names of.

As the years grew, so did I and my hatred for that tree house. I refused to climb the oak branches, and the tree house became decrepit and somewhat moldy from the lack of care. Not that I minded. I wanted it to rot, decay, fall apart into the hell it was built from. When the branches brushed my window at night, I would wake up screaming. My mother must have known how much that tree house terrified me, for she brought a sledgehammer with her outside one day. She disappeared promptly after.

I turned sixteen. It was a bittersweet day; my mom had been missing for three years that date, and my dad bought me power tools that just reminded me of him building that God-awful tree house and my mom vanishing from within the maws of that beast with only a hammer to protect her. Ashton bought me a video game. I invited a new kid from school over named Kieran, and he watched with boredom. He was some sort of anarchist punk kid, obviously going through an awkward phase, and he put on a mask of indifference when we handed him a controller. I invited the kid only because I felt sorry he had no friends. My mistake.

Our casual conversation took a darker turn.

"Isn't this the place where all those girls went missing?" Kieran asked.

Ashton and I exchanged nervous glances. "Fuck off, man. Leave it be," Ashton said, engrossed in the game.

Kieran scoffed, and I merely parried his annoyance. "It's fine. Yeah, a few girls went missing. My mom included." Ashton hung his head. Kieran glanced between the two of us.

"How? How did that happen? Did the police ever find out?"

"No, no one knows what happened to them," I said. I stared out my window at the tree house, silhouetted in the dusky sky like some sort of shadow monster. I was an easy guy to read, so Kieran began laughing at the look I was giving that tree.

"So that's why you guys don't get out much, huh? You're scared of a tree."

"Shut the fuck up," Ashton hissed. I remained silent.

Kieran cackled louder. "You guys suck. It's just a tree. Here, let's do something interesting. I dare you to go out there. Twenty bucks. Stay the night in that tree house."

"Leave him be," Ashton warned when I gave Kieran a panicked shake of my head.

Kieran leaned in close. His breath smelled like the garlic pizza crust we had just devoured. "I dared you, pussy. You aren't scared, are you?"

I know that I was stupid. Call it teenage hormones. The testosterone raging and screaming at me to man up and prove Kieran wrong. I was sixteen. Damn it, I was a man. And I was scared of a tree house.

"Fine," I said. I got up to leave, but Ashton grabbed the collar of my shirt.

"You're kidding, right? Don't do this, man." Ashton was begging.

I put on my bravest face, one I had not used since I was a fearless child and my tree house did not eat girls. "It's just a tree, Ashton."

"Twenty big ones," Kieran chortled. I did want that money. I think I wanted to buy some DLC for one of my games. It seems so ridiculous now. Had I really been that greedy, that stupidly fearless? I guess so. That's what carried my feet to my backyard.

I ran my fingers across the rope ladder. The rope was soft, fraying in places, and I feared it would not hold even my small frame. Kieran laughed from the door. Ashton was watching with fright clear in his brown eyes.

"One night," I told myself as I gripped the rope, testing it a couple of times. "Twenty easy dollars. Just a tree. It's just a tree."

The universe likes to prove me completely wrong.

The rope sagged under my feet but held, and I climbed for an eternity to the top. I hardly breathed as I pushed the door in and entered the tree house. "No girls allowed" glared at me as the door creaked in.

I blanched. I threw up. I screamed and fell backwards out of the tree house. Off the side. The shooting pain of a broken arm and a nasty concussion. I blacked out just a moment after I hit the ground.

I woke up in the hospital, thinking what I saw had been a nightmare. My head hurt enough for that to be true. But, looking at a bleary-eyed Ashton, a scared-shitless Kieran, and a horde of police officers, I knew better.

They asked me so many questions. It took me a while to remember everything I had seen, but they showed me the pictures. I watched the news from my hospital bed, the television showing my father in handcuffs, a few body bags, and emaciated women not even trying to smile for the cameras. I do not believe they remembered how to smile, especially that skinny, young teenage girl with dark hair and green eyes completely dead of light.

Three dead bodies. Allison was among the dead, lucky soul. Ashton found some comfort in that fact. Bodies mutilated, strung up on the ceiling with heavy-duty tape as a reminder. Skeletons with just a hint of decaying flesh after all those years to scare the girls into believing that there was no escape. My dad rigged the door of the tree house so that it only opened from the outside, after all.

A few more men were arrested and a few more young girls rescued when my father confessed to human trafficking. What could be a better place for illegal activity than the tree house that his son and friends avoided out of fear of imaginary teeth grinding bone? The police had checked the tree house after my mom went missing, but never found anything since my dad, at the time, ran his operation in an abandoned building outside of town. He moved it into the tree house shortly after, delighting in the twisted nature of the situation. Childhood stolen. An outgoing boy turned into an insomniac with severe depression. I was sent to the loony bin after attempted suicide, and there I ran into a familiar face.

Gone was the smile, but the dark hair was at least combed and the green eyes greeted me like a friend. I blamed myself, of course, but she had none of that. I began to feel a bit better when the doctors gave us permission to share a quick hug.

But that's when she showed me the scar and I began to sob. I lost all hope in that moment. That once-infected line that ran across her lower stomach. She told me with tears of her own that I was lucky my dad had created me, a son. After all, no girls, not even infants, were allowed in that tree house.