Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror Read online

  Susan sat back down again. Maria’s door slammed shut.

  ‘Who’s Bobby?’

  ‘Her imaginary friend. Soon as she comes home from kindy she runs straight out to the tree. Even yesterday, in the rain. I took a coat out to her, but she was already soaked. Ran her a warm bath when she finally came in.’

  ‘She does this a lot?’

  ‘Every day for the past three weeks.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘I should have known that.’

  Well, if you’d come home on time once in a while. Paul looked at his plate. He wasn’t hungry either.

  Maria screamed again. Susan put down her knife and fork and stood up.

  ‘Honey,’ Paul said. ‘The book—’

  Susan was already halfway across the room. ‘Fuck the book!’

  *

  ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Bobby.’ Susan leaned in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hands.

  Paul considered the tree. It was a big pine, maybe twenty years old. Pine wasn’t protected. He didn’t have to worry about a neighbour dobbing him in to the council like he’d get with a pōhutukawa. Sticky sap, needles all over the grass. Nobody gave a shit about pine trees in the suburbs.

  He tried to imagine what the section would look like, when they were all done. The original house would stay where it was. He’d bowl the fence on the other side, run a thin driveway all the way to the back. Neither of the houses would have much garden but people didn’t care about that any more. The tree was right where the living room would be. Or was it the tiny bathroom they’d sneaked in on the ground floor? Whatever. Build another house, sell both, buy a third. The Auckland guide to climbing the property ladder. They’d been lucky enough to buy one of the last houses in the street with a decent-sized section. The back lawn was so valuable it might as well have gold buried under it.

  Maria peered around the back door.

  ‘Hey baby,’ Paul said. ‘Come and sit on the grass with me.’

  Maria shook her head and hugged her Care Bear.

  ‘I was just talking to Bobby.’

  Maria looked up. ‘You were?’

  ‘Yes. We’ve been talking about the tree. I told Bobby that if he let us cut it down he can come and live with us in the house. And when we move to the new house, he can come too. Would you like that?’

  Maria stared for a long time. Paul kept up the smile until his cheeks hurt. You’re a bad man, lying to your own daughter. Even by your standards, this is shit. But it wasn’t any worse than telling her about Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny, was it?

  ‘So, I’ll go get everything ready.’

  Maria didn’t move. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Come on, Peanut,’ Susan said. ‘Let’s go back into the house. It’s going to get pretty noisy.’

  Paul put on the safety goggles and the earmuffs and the ridiculous arm and leg protection the man at the hire shop had insisted on. The chainsaw started on the first pull. Even with the earmuffs, it was incredibly loud. He revved the chainsaw a couple of times and walked towards the tree.

  Something hit him low in the back. Paul stumbled forward. The chainsaw hit the side of the tree and glanced away, barely missing his foot. He slipped on the wet grass and fell to his knees before the tree.

  Something hit him again, high on his back this time, strong enough to knock him over.

  ‘Maria!’ Susan ran from the back step, but she too slipped on the grass.

  ‘Liar!’ Paul rolled onto his back. Maria aimed another kick. ‘Liar!’

  Susan climbed to her feet and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Maria kicked out backwards, catching Susan on the shin. ‘Liar!’

  Maria’s heels dug twin gouges from the lawn as Susan dragged her away.

  ‘Sorry,’ Susan called. ‘She got away. I’ll lock the door.’

  Paul didn’t get up from the grass until he heard the click of the lock. Even when he put his earmuffs back on he could still hear his daughter’s screams.

  *

  The original plan was to cut the wood up as he went and create a tidy pile. Paul still knew a few people with burners who would pay for a winter’s worth of firewood. But either the chain was blunt or the tree was tougher than it looked. He found himself pushing the blade down, which the man in the hire shop had specifically told him not to do. The branches didn’t cut clean; they broke away in ragged chunks with dangerous edges that would have sliced him if he hadn’t been wearing the gloves.

  And all the time Maria looking at him through the window like a ghost.

  Four hours later he stood, trembling. The shattered remnants of the tree covered the whole back yard.

  He went to the shed for the shovel, slipping on pine needles as he went. He’d cut the trunk as low as he could. Now he had to dig out the roots.

  The spade cut through the soil with a satisfying thunk. There’d been rain nearly every day the past couple of weeks. Hopefully, the soil had softened a little. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be as hard as he’d thought.

  He heard the click of the lock on the back door.

  ‘Come in and have something to eat,’ Susan said. ‘It’s been hours.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Paul panted. ‘Nearly done here.’ His arms and back complained with every spade of dirt. He’d be sore for days but if he stopped now he’d never get started again. Nothing to do but tough it out.

  He glanced back at the house. Maria was out now too, sitting on the steps. Her cheeks were wet. Had she been crying all this time?

  Something broke under the shovel with a crunch. Maria screamed at the same moment, a long, high howl.

  Paul peered into the hole. There was something white shining there in the dirt. He reached for it. An old teapot, perhaps, or ...

  He scrambled back, heels slipping, until his boots lost purchase altogether. As he fell he felt a branch leave a long scratch on his side, but it was a faraway feeling, as if it were happening to someone else.

  Paul lay on the ground, looking at what he’d pulled up, what had been beneath the tree for so long. It grinned at him. It was a small thing, white against the sodden earth. The child couldn’t have been more than five or six. The skull sat at an angle, its top shorn off by the spade. There were no other sounds in the world but his ragged breathing and the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

  That, and the sound of Maria, curled up on the back step, howling like a dog.

  Burying Baby

  Paul Mannering

  Momma slept a lot in the nights before the baby came, leaving Essie to pace the dark and empty house alone, Daddy out doing his job.

  Essie would be asleep when he came home before dawn. She always woke up enough to feel his hairy face press against her cheek to give her a kiss, his hot breath wafting into her blanket nest, making her feel warm and safe.

  ‘I love you, Daddy,’ Essie would mumble as Daddy tucked her deeper into her warm bed. Then Essie would sleep until it was time to get up and have breakfast.

  When Momma emerged, she looked tired and grumpy. Daddy got her settled in the comfy chair and made a fuss, fetching a warm drink and something to eat. Essie had to sit at the table alone, Daddy’s breakfast forgotten on his plate. Those precious few minutes of just them time, and of feeling truly loved, were over. Essie’s breakfast curdled in her stomach.

  Daddy rested his big hands on Momma’s swollen stomach while Essie regarded the bulge with suspicion from the shadow of the kitchen door. Daddy spoke softly to Momma and they smiled at each other. Essie didn’t feel jealous of the way her parents loved each other. She knew, deep inside, that their love was different and somehow sacred in a mysterious way.

  The baby made Essie frown. The thing hadn’t even been born yet and already it was taking them both away from her.

  Soon enough Daddy had to go. He kissed Momma and stroked Essie’s head. ‘Be a good girl,’ he growled with mock seriousness. Essie beamed up at him and hugged his leg.

  Then Essie and Momma
were alone for another long night: Momma watching TV and Essie bringing a blanket and books from her room to the sofa and hiding from the bright light of the screen while reading the stories in her books.

  ‘Essie—’ Momma moaned. Essie slithered out from under her blanket. The air had a scent of fear and sweat, tinged with blood. Essie licked her lips.

  ‘Momma?’

  ‘It’s time, sweetheart ... It’s – ooh – it’s time ...’ Momma squirmed in her seat, illuminated by the glow of the TV. Essie cinched her eyes shut and jabbed at the power button, shutting off the noise and the searing glow.

  ‘Essie. I need you to ... ohhh ... I need you to be a big girl. You gotta help Momma, honey.’

  Essie nodded and stepped closer. The fabric of Momma’s comfy chair was stained dark, and fluid dripped through the wicker frame, splattering on the floor in thick, viscous drops.

  ‘I’m here, Momma. Should I call Daddy?’ Daddy had a cellphone. The number for it was on the fridge.

  ‘Daddy’s working, baby. Leave him be – ohh ...’ Momma shivered, her legs spreading, her knees drawing up. ‘Help me get my pants off, sweetie.’ She spoke in rasping breaths. Essie leaned forward, plunging her face into the deep musk emanating from her mother’s core. She pulled the soft fabric of the pants down, startled to realise that Momma had wet herself like a little kid.

  ‘What do I do, Momma?’ Essie’s senses tingled. The small amount of blood that had come from inside Momma made her teeth itch and her fingers flex.

  ‘Hold my hand! Ohh ...’ Momma’s back arched, her loose T-shirt sliding backwards off the pulsing lump of her belly. Essie gripped her mother’s hand, feeling her mother squeeze tighter as a contraction rippled through her.

  ‘Ohhh – shaka ... nyah ... rikaash ...’ Momma moaned. Essie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising at the old prayer. Essie watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust as more fluid wept from Momma down there.

  Her mother panted between the regular contractions. ‘Hold the baby’s head,’ she gasped. Essie pressed her hands against the trembling flesh of her mother’s thighs. The head emerged and she felt the weight of it resting in her palms.

  ‘I got the head, Momma,’ she whispered.

  ‘One – more – puuuushhhhh ...’ Momma bore down and Essie felt the small shape slide out into her hands. The cord that ran from the baby’s stomach to inside Momma glistened purple and pulsed with a steady beat. Essie frowned at the grey-skinned thing that had come from inside Momma.

  ‘Clear his mouth. Make sure he can breathe,’ Momma murmured in an exhausted whisper. The baby mewled a bubbling cry. Essie lifted it up and handed it to her mother, who pressed the naked thing against her bare breast and kissed its tiny head.

  When Daddy came home his feet pounded as he rushed into the room. Essie was still up and Momma had delivered the afterbirth, a blood-filled, membranous sac that made Essie’s nose twitch and her stomach rumble.

  Dropping to his knees, Daddy hugged Momma and peered at the tiny face wrapped in a soft towel, cradled against its mother’s breast.

  ‘He’s perfect,’ Momma whispered.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ Daddy beamed.

  ‘He’s not. He’s a monster. We should bury him,’ Essie said, emerging from the kitchen with a shovel in her hand. The fresh dirt clinging to it matched a dark streak on her cheek.

  ‘Of course,’ Daddy said and Momma smiled.

  ‘You two go on ahead. I need to rest.’ Momma let Daddy lift the tiny wrapped bundle. She sank back into her comfy chair.

  Essie followed Daddy outside. She had dug a hole about the size of a shoe box and as deep as her arm was long. Daddy crouched and sniffed the soil. ‘It’s good,’ he growled.

  Essie watched as he unwrapped the baby and laid him, naked and squirming under the pulsing sac of placenta, down into the cold, dark earth. Essie filled in the hole, the baby’s squalls fading as he vanished under the dirt.

  When the soil was packed down smooth with the flat of the shovel, Essie and her father stood looking at the small mound.

  ‘How long will it take, Daddy?’

  Daddy squatted next to her, his long arm curled around her shoulders, his razor-sharp claws caressing the rough skin of her throat. ‘Oh, a night or two. You were buried for three nights before you came up right.’

  Essie blinked her yellow eyes, the moonlight sparkling off the dark scales that ran down her face and rose into twin lines of curved studs on her neck.

  ‘Gramma says babies are like meat: you gotta bury it to get it to age right.’ Essie nodded solemnly.

  ‘Gramma knows the old ways are the best,’ Daddy said and grinned, the moonlight sparkling like diamonds on his jagged teeth.

  People Pleaser

  M Darusha Wehm

  ‘Samantha!’ Mum’s voice was loud in the small room and I knew I’d been caught again. I pulled back from Matthew and looked at his face. He was red in the cheeks and his eyes were screwed shut. I could see a single tear squeezing out. That made me smile.

  ‘That’s it,’ Mum said, grabbing me roughly by the arm and pulling me away from my little brother. ‘Time out for you and no TV for a week. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, young lady. How would you like it if you had an older sister who hit you all the time, hmm? Not very much, I’ll bet. Look at him, his arm’s all red. What did you do, Sam?’

  She went on, yelling at me and pointing at the ugly red welts on Matthew’s arm. I knew exactly what I’d done – hit him over and over, until my fist started to hurt and I could tell that he was biting his lip to keep from crying. I knew Mum might catch me, figured I’d get in trouble, but it was worth it.

  Matthew caught my eye and while Mum wasn’t watching I saw him mouth ‘Thank you.’

  This time he’d promised me his comic book collection, but I would have done it for nothing. I love my little brother, and even though I don’t really like hitting him, it makes him happy. And I love making him happy.

  Con Somma Passione

  Lee Murray

  Best friends since we were four, Xin and I have a lot in common: our music teacher, Mr Leung, for example. Every day after school, Xin and I walk fifteen minutes along the edge of the sports fields, cutting across the deep shadows of the trees on the eastern boundary to Mr Leung’s studio where we have our violin lessons. Xin was a violinist before me, starting at just three years old. When I met her, the instrument’s chin-rest was so bulky that it forced her tiny head back so the black silk of her hair fell to her waist.

  ‘It was just a little head start, Liu,’ my mother says one day. ‘No more than six months. Over eight years, that’s not so much. If you practised hard, if you set your mind to it, you could catch up to Xin. Then you could both play first violin and you and Xin could sit together in the orchestra.’ Her teeth are on edge when she says this. I think practising my trills may have caused her a headache because she puts her fingers to her temples. Perhaps it’s the smell of the yellow pine-tree rosin I rub on my bow to grip the strings.

  My mother is right: it would be nice to sit by my friend. Xin sits on the left of the conductor, and I sit on the right. Since our orchestra is arranged in a semi-circle, if the piece is not too difficult, I can see her out of the corner of my eye while I play, her bow gliding up and down gracefully, like a swing in a playground if the piece is lilting, or agitating furiously, if the piece is to be played con somma passione. Xin is especially beautiful when she plays. I’ve heard it said that she has the sun-shy complexion of a courtesan, her face so expressive that it alone could tell the story of the music. They say she embodies the melody. Certainly when Xin plays, the strings captured under her fingers and the bow dancing in her hand, she doesn’t care to glance across at me.

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful, Xin,’ Mr Zhuang, our conductor, will say proudly. He keeps his eyes closed when he says this, reminding me of a cat waking from a long sleep on a warm windowsill.

  When she grows up, Xin plans to play solo violinist fo
r the National Orchestra. It’s not just a dream; she’s very determined.

  ‘You’ll come with me, Liu,’ she says with fervour as we walk to Mr Leung’s. ‘We’ll study music performance at the university and share an apartment in the city. After we graduate, we’ll both play for the National Orchestra. I’ll be the soloist and you can be my understudy.’ I giggle at that. After all, it makes sense. She’s been playing longer than me.

  Then one day, the music master from the college came to hear our school orchestra perform at a matinee recital. We knew he was coming, as Mr Zhuang had been telling us for weeks. If he liked what he heard, the music master might offer a scholarship to the most promising and deserving amongst us. It was the kind of opportunity that could launch a young musician’s career, Mr Zhuang said.

  ‘Don’t let me down,’ he said. ‘And more importantly, don’t let yourselves down.’

  We were playing ‘Czardas’ by Monti. It wasn’t my favourite piece and the bowing was technical. In the days leading up to the performance, I practised hard. I practised and practised. I worked with the orchestra. I worked with Mr Leung. I worked so long and with such zeal that the music began to blur before my eyes. It was as if a beetle had knocked over an inkpot and then scurried away, leaving blotchy footprints on the stave. Worse than that, my arm froze into a death grip, so that near the end, I couldn’t practise at all.

  The school invited our families to see the performance – what better way to ensure an appreciative audience? As usual, Xin sat opposite me. I could see that she’d been practising too, because her eyes were tired. Laying her violin across her lap, she kneaded the muscles at her neck, warming them for what was to come. She gave me a quick smile and nodded in the direction of my parents seated alongside her own. Then the recital started.

  I was like a toy soldier, jerky and tense. The more I tried to relax, the more my arm clenched, my jaw set and my thumb cramped. By the time we got to the recap, the death grip had overcome me and I stuffed up the sautille. It was relief to finish. I stood with the others and took a bow, knowing that for me the scholarship had slipped away. It wasn’t the worst performance, but it wasn’t as good as Xin’s. In the audience, my mother massaged the pressure point between her thumb and forefinger, a sign her headache was back.