Dead Roots (The Analyst) Read Online Free PDF

Mopsie woke his parents. He crawled back over the couch, sneaking a peek over his shoulder at Mopsie.
    “Bad dog,” he growled. Mopsie, silent now, stared back at him. Their eyes locked together for a long moment before Mopsie turned around and left the living room in silence.
    “Tommy? Is that you?”
    Busted. Tommy resisted the urge to say a bad word under his breath.
    “Yeah, Mom,” Tommy called back up in defeat. “I was thirsty. I'm sorry I woke you up.”
    “Come upstairs, Tommy.”
    “Is Dad angry?”
    There was a long pause.
    “Come upstairs, Tommy.”
     Tommy ascended the stairs with one hand on the bannister. By the time he reached the second floor, he realized something was off.
    “Come in here, Tommy.”
    The voice was coming from the left side of the stairs, behind the door to his room, instead of the right, down the hallway to his parents' bedroom.
    “Mom? Are you in my room?”
    “Yes,” her voice rang back. It was reserved and unusually low, like she wasn't feeling good—like she had one of her migraines.
    “Are you okay, Mom? Why are you in my room?”
    The door to Tommy's room was closed.
    “I'm okay, Tommy. Come here.”
    Why does she keep saying that?
    Tommy turned the doorknob and stepped into his room. There was nobody there.
    “Mom? Where are you?”
    “In here.”
    The voice came from his closet. He shut his creaky door behind him.
    “...Are you in the closet? ”
    “Come here, Tommy.”
    He flipped the light switch, and found it didn't work. The room remained in darkness. His breathing quickened with anxiety. He heard his mother's familiar groan from behind the closet door on the other side of the room.
    “Turn the light off, Tommy. Mommy has a headache.”
    “The light's not working, Mom.”
    “Turn it off... turn it off, Tommy.”
    “The light's out, Mom.”
    He approached the closet. He wasn't very tall, and the door loomed over him like a skyscraper. He looked down vainly at the floor under his feet. It felt cool and slightly damp, like clay, like the tiles in the kitchen had felt.
    “Mom, what's going on?”
    “Come in here, Tommy,” her voice repeated from behind the closet door. As scared as he was, his mom would be able to explain everything. He reached for the door handle.
    “Turn the light off, Tommy. Mommy has a headache.”
    “It is off,” Tommy insisted in frustration. He wrenched the closet door open.
    Tommy dropped his glass onto the floor. It cracked and shattered. Stepping back from the closet, he cried out and fell onto the ground, holding his cut foot in pain.
    Even though it was dark, he saw it. A great, thick, mottled thing filled up his closet, and with how tall the closet door was, he could see almost the whole thing. The ground underneath him was cold and wet, not like clay, he now realized, but like soil. A tree had taken root in his closet—a huge tree with red, ugly bark, like raw muscle or irritated skin. Through the open door, branches now grew out and up against the door frame, spreading like veins across the ceiling of his room. He crawled backwards, staring up, and seeing that the trunk of the tree expanded and shrunk as if it was breathing.
    “Tommy, turn off the light... ”
    “ Mom… ”
    “Tommy, Mommy has a headache.”
    His heart sunk into his chest, and he grabbed at it to make sure it was still there. From one of the branches extending from the closet, a head hung upside down on a red rope, the hair reaching down to the floor. It was his mother's. Her mouth hung open, groaning loudly. It floated down towards him as the thick branch grew longer.
    “Mommy has a headache, Tommy! Turn off the light!”
     

2
    “Keda”
     
    Tom awoke, less with a start than at top speed, clumsily shaking himself aware. The plane's engine around him was like a dull roar reverberating across all of existence. His hand flapped around as he came to and breathed in, hard.
     He stood up sharply. The other passengers were sleeping, making it a clean