Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror Read online

  Xin practically skipped out the school gates on the way to Mr Leung’s that afternoon. Mr Zhuang said she’d played well. She wouldn’t hear straight away, he said, but she might expect some excellent news very soon. Xin’s porcelain skin glowed with excitement. She swung her violin case jauntily, flicking her hair and going on about college and the wonderful opportunities it would offer. This time, she made no mention of the shared apartment in the city.

  Afternoon shadows cast by the trees flashed across the path, like my mother’s knife slicing through roast pork, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. When I saw the plastic shopping bag on the side of the path, I realised fate intended it too. It wasn’t even that difficult. I was a few paces behind her. I used my death grip. It was quick, a staccato moment, her frantic breaths dying away softly, a nessuna cosa, against the plastic. Afterwards, the body tumbled conveniently down the slope and into the ditch. I left her violin case where it was, hidden amongst the trees.

  ‘Where is Xin?’ Mr Leung asks when I arrive at his studio.

  ‘She went home,’ I tell Mr Leung as I remove my violin from its case. ‘She said she’s too excited to practise today. The college is going to offer her a scholarship.’

  Mr Leung claps his hands in delight, then remembers himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘Xin played better. She deserved to win.’

  ‘Well, maybe one day in the future ...’ Mr Leung says kindly, and I nod.

  I rosin my bow. We begin the lesson. As I go through the warm-up exercises, I consider Mr Leung’s comment about it being my turn one day.

  The bow dancing in my hand, I smile.

  Giant

  Jack Newhouse

  They met in the park, of course.

  John was careful when he lifted Kathy. She seemed so fragile to him, his hands wrapping around her ribcage as he lifted her to shoulder height.

  ‘Weehehehehee!’ she whooped, grabbing his hair with chubby fingers. He didn’t mind.

  ‘Wow!’ his sister said, smiling up at her daughter. ‘You’re up high! Can you see a long way?’

  ‘Yeeeah,’ Kathy said. ‘Uncle John, will you push me on the swings?’ He smiled at her, happy to help, fitting the chain in front of her for safety. Erin fretted, but he gave his sister a comforting smile.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not that clumsy.’

  He pushed with two fingers, almost idly, as his niece swung higher and higher. He might have worried that she’d be scared by the height, if he couldn’t hear her high-pitched laughter.

  ‘How are you?’ his sister asked him, distractedly.

  ‘Well enough,’ he rumbled, giving Kathy another light push. There seemed to be hardly any weight to her at all. ‘I haven’t found work yet, but I get by.’

  ‘That’s good ... Not so high!’

  He obliged, using his hand to absorb momentum rather than impart it, keeping his niece below chest height.

  ‘She’s growing fast,’ he said, smiling at the little girl.

  ‘Don’t say it like that. She’s growing at just the right rate for a girl her age.’

  ‘You don’t have to use that tone.’

  ‘Sorry.’ And she was. She was still his sister, after all. It didn’t stop her from taking things the wrong way.

  ‘Things are well with you?’ he asked out of politeness, and so she told him how her life was going, pleased to move on to a less painful subject. He smiled and nodded in all the right places. It hadn’t been so long since it had happened that he’d forgotten what those were.

  Tired of the swing, Kathy wanted to play on the see-saw next, and he counterbalanced her with a light push, careful to lift her gently and lower her without a bump, though he threatened to forget a few times and was rewarded with that wild, high laugh. Kathy loved to be up high, and he loved to make her happy, but he couldn’t escape the uncomfortable look on his sister’s face.

  ‘Nearly nap time, Kathy. Do you want Fluffy Bunny?’

  ‘Is Uncle John coming?’

  ‘Uncle John has other things to do. Say goodbye, Kathy.’

  ‘Goodbye, Uncle John!’ John gave a little wave – well, a little wave for him. His niece gave him a big smile, taking her mother’s hand. As they went out the gate, he heard her speaking.

  ‘Uncle John’s very big. He looks like a giant!’

  ‘Yes, Kathy. Yes, he does.’ John sighed and went the other way, stepping over the low barrier between the park and the sidewalk. He had to bend nearly double to get under the branches of the pōhutukawa. He remembered when they had been above his head even when he stood, like everyone else.

  Winter Feast

  Elizabeth Gatens

  It’s my turn to feed the baby. Mam won’t, and Nanna, well, she says the weather is changing. Her bones always creak before the snow comes, and they crackle when there’s a storm on the way. We’ve got both tonight. A snowstorm. I hope Dad comes home soon.

  Mam made him go hunting, chasing him away from the fire with her tears and shrilling. There’s no hunting to be had though, and no poaching either, not since the long winter set in. He told me he’d try to look for food in the village, but it’s a bad place. I’m not allowed to go there in case the devil takes me. The villagers are all sick from their sins, bursting with brimstone boils and sweating from the damnation fires. Nanna got sick too, but Dad said it was head-sick, not the devil, and she’s nearly cured now.

  I’m so hungry.

  Outside, the snow wants to settle but the wind keeps scooping it up again, flinging flakes into the trees all around our home. Nanna stares into the storm, grinning at something I can’t see. I’d better bring her inside before she gets wet. I daren’t stay away from the fire for long, daren’t leave Mam alone with the baby. Dad says Mam is head-sick too, from the hunger, but she won’t eat. Nanna stopped eating long ago.

  I carry Nanna back inside, so easy since there’s hardly anything left of her. She used to have more meat on her bones, but now she’s mostly eyes and grin. She creaks as we pass through the doorway, stiff with the cold, and I gently lay her on the floor away from the fire, away from Mam. The baby watches me, balancing on his awkward, fat legs, and he smiles. I smile back. Dad will be home soon.

  The storm comes in with Dad, dressing him in white rags. His hands are empty, empty as my insides. Mam looks up at Dad, at those horrible, empty hands, and she cries. No wonder she can’t feed the baby when she’s weeping herself dry. I don’t cry, even though I’m starving, and the baby doesn’t cry either, only when Mam holds him too tight. Dad stands in front of the fire, but he won’t look at Mam. He looks at me, and I know.

  It’s my turn to feed the baby.

  I take his hunting knife, broken at the tip from chipping ice out of the river, and cut a thin slice of nearly-cured meat. There’s not much left, and it has to last us until the spring finally comes. Nanna stares at me, grinning, and I pop the meat into my mouth, chewing to soften it for the baby. Hunger bubbles up from inside me. My mouth weeps like Mam’s eyes, juices pooling on my tongue. I swallow the first mouthful. I can’t help myself, and Mam isn’t watching anyway. I steal a second bite, and chew slowly on the third.

  I pluck the moist morsel from my mouth and feed it to the baby. He sucks at my fingers, trying to bite me with his one tooth. Greedy little darling. I pull my finger free and, at a nod from Dad, cut another slice of meat. As baby grows, Nanna shrinks. There’ll be nothing left soon.

  Dad hasn’t eaten tonight, and I think he’s getting head-sick, too. He won’t talk to Mam, and he won’t look at me anymore. He takes the knife from me and says he’s going hunting, out into the snowstorm. I know he’s not coming back. He’ll get lost and freeze, or be eaten by wolves. I tell the baby not to worry, that we won’t starve without Dad. Spring can’t be far away now.

  Don’t worry, I say to him, we still have Mam.

  Nanna grins, and the baby smiles. I smile back. Mam cries.

  What’s the Story, Mother?


  Lewis Morgan

  Something rustled in the vacuum cleaners. It was uncoiling in the darkened space amongst the tubes. I would have looked to see what it was but I couldn’t stop watching. On the wall of screens before me the captain of the space freighter desperately tried to hold the thing off with his flame-thrower. I knew he was dead. They were all dead. Every last one of them. And now I knew the thing was out there coming for me. Everywhere I looked I saw it. In the vacuum cleaners, stalking the aisles of stereos and stoves. I wanted to get up and run back to Dad but if I even made a sound it would be upon me in a flash. I’d already seen it rip two men to pieces.

  Besides, I had to know what happened.

  *

  Mrs Fielder was droning on about healthy hearts. I leaned over to Scott.

  ‘Dad’s taking me to the fishing meeting tonight. It’s in town at the TV shop.’

  ‘You mean the one with the wall of TVs?’ Scott was impressed.

  ‘Boys!’ The wheezy shout chilled our blood. ‘Do you want to have a heart attack like Mr Reichenbach?’

  Us boys didn’t even know what a heart attack was. How I cherish that time now.

  Mr Reichenbach was our principal. He smoked like a train and never moved faster than a slow rolling stroll on the rare occasions when he did leave his office. After his heart attack he had a machine that was connected to a face mask. It sat beside his desk.

  Once Mrs Fielder had sent me to the office with a message and I saw it on his face. It seemed stuck to him like some sort of parasite.

  Dutifully we listened to the droning lecture on healthy eating and exercise. We made jokes about ‘fart attacks’ and coloured our healthy food pyramids.

  *

  I’d pestered my Dad for ages to go to the fishing meeting. I’m not sure I even knew what went on at a fishing meeting but I was mad on fishing. If Dad was going there, I wanted to be in on it too.

  The meeting was held at the appliance and sporting goods shop. Half the shop was devoted to fishing rods, guns, rugby balls and tents. The other half was jammed full of washing machines, vacuum cleaners, stoves and a huge wall of TVs. It was hard to see that half as the lights were off. I was excited, especially to be in a shop after it had closed. However, the meeting proved to be lots of tall men standing around talking about things I couldn’t see. Dad ignored me until I annoyed him into action.

  ‘Look son, you wanted to come along. Now stand still and be good.’

  At eight years old I had no intention of being good.

  Dad’s mate Anthony ran the shop. Seeing me getting bored he offered to put on a video. We left the meeting and went to the appliance side of the shop. The side where the lights were off.

  *

  The next day I called a meeting of the boys. We assembled at playtime, down the back of the field, and I dropped the truth bomb. I shook and cried as I told them.

  ‘The thing grabbed his face! Then it dropped off.’ I couldn’t go on. But the boys’ shocked faces knew this was the truth. Not just one of those ghost stories we’d tell each other. They had to know!

  ‘He had a heart attack! The thing burst out of his chest!’ Grey faces. Stewart fell back against a tree. Grant was shaking. Scott looked like he was going to throw up. I had to tell them the worst part.

  ‘Then, it killed all his friends.’

  Scott began to vomit.

  *

  ‘We can run it through all the TVs at the same time.’

  Anthony produced a VHS cassette and the wall of showroom televisions flashed into life.

  ‘We just got this in. Some space thing. Documentary or some shit. Kids love that sort of stuff.’

  He was right. Me and all my friends had seen Star Wars and were space mad. This was going to be awesome!

  The word ‘ALIEN’ slowly appeared on the screen as Dad and Anthony left me in the darkened half of the shop and returned to their meeting.

  *

  After that we took all the chips and lollies out of our lunch boxes and gave them to the school bullies. That was our revenge.

  We looked for the heart tick on everything we ate. Lunchtimes would see us endlessly running circuits of the back field.

  We would have healthy hearts.

  Still, for weeks afterward we all walked around with our arms folded across our chests, like the cross-your-heart bras our mothers wore.

  Blonde Obsession

  Jean Gilbert

  The puppy was dead. Crouching next to the birthing box, Carol Bennett could see it off to one corner, half-tucked under the edge of an old blanket she’d put down for bedding. It was the second of a litter of ten to die, another blonde.

  Molly, the black Labrador, raised her head from the remaining eight puppies sleeping at her teats, and wagged her thick tail against the edge of the box.

  ‘Sorry, girl,’ Carol said as she leaned over and scooped the dead puppy into a tea towel. ‘These things happen.’

  At two days old, it just fit in her hand. It was still soft, its belly fat with milk. Maybe Molly had sat on it. There were so many squirming bodies fighting to feed: black, brown, and blonde. The vet had said yesterday when she’d called about the first puppy that it sometimes happened with new mothers, especially those with large litters.

  ‘What are you doing, Mommy? Are you playing with the puppies? I want to play with a puppy.’

  Five-year-old Jamie leaned over her shoulder to peer down at the bundle in her hand. She flipped the towel over the little blonde pup before he could see.

  ‘No. Just cleaning the box.’

  A waft of peanut butter reached her as she felt a faint movement in her hair.

  ‘Don’t touch my hair,’ she said, slapping his hand away. ‘You didn’t wash your hands like I asked you to, did you?’ She grabbed his right hand and held it up. ‘Look. There’s peanut butter all over your fingers, and now it’s in my hair. Go upstairs to the bathroom and wash it off, and wait in your room until I come get you. Now go.’

  Jamie crossed his arms over his thin chest and pushed his lower lip out before stomping out of the room. Carol looked at the covered bundle and sighed.

  Outside, Carol grabbed the shovel from the garden shed, and dug a hole under the rose hedge next to the small pile of freshly packed dirt. Picking up the bundle from the ground where she had set it, she peeled back the towel. The body felt cold in her hand. She shifted it a fraction. The head lolled back on a lifeless neck. Underneath the blonde fur was a smudge of pale brown. A familiar smell rose up from it.

  Peanut butter.

  Her eyes flew from the dead puppy’s neck to the upstairs window of Jamie’s bedroom. His head poked above the windowsill. Brown eyes stared down at her through the glass, cold and emotionless. A chill touched her heart. She looked at the puppy again, and then back to her son, but the window was empty.

  What did you do?

  She looked at the other grave, and frowned. Could he have ...?

  Dropping the puppy into the fresh hole, she covered it and went back into the house. Creases covered her forehead as she pondered how to approach the matter with her young son. Killing was wrong. She thought everyone was born with that instinctive understanding.

  Upstairs, toys littered the carpet where Jamie had been playing.

  ‘Jamie?’

  The room was silent. She checked the bathroom, and then the master suite.

  ‘Jamie? Are you hiding?’

  No one answered. She looked under the bed and in the walk-in closet, his favourite hiding places, but everything was neat and tidy. Jamie wasn’t there.

  The Wild Kratts theme song flowed up the stairwell from the living room. Jamie hated to miss it. She hadn’t thought to look for him there. She pursed her lips at his disobedience. If only she could find the right man, and not go through them like used matches, then maybe Jamie wouldn’t act up so much.

  In the living room, one of the cartoon characters on the TV transformed into a large cat to save a cornered lion from danger. Jam
ie loved this part, but he wasn’t in his usual spot on the couch.

  Then Carol heard the crying puppies. Her heart began to race as she followed the noise to the backroom. As she got closer, she heard her child’s voice.

  ‘Shhh. That’s better. See? Everything’s okay,’ Jamie said. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. ‘So pretty and soft. Like the others.’

  Her breath caught in her throat. At the doorway, she stopped. Next to the birthing box, Jamie sat cross-legged on the floor. In his hand, a blonde puppy lay limp as he petted the soft cream fur of its back.

  He stroked the puppy and said in a sing-song voice, ‘Like Mommy’s hair, so soft. But I like Mommy’s better. So soft. So soft. Like Mommy’s. Soft blonde hair.’

  Her hand flew to her throat in horror. From the box, Molly whimpered as puppies squirmed around her legs.

  ‘Jamie! What have you done?’

  Jamie jumped to his feet and dropped the puppy. It landed on the floor with a thunk and lay there unmoving, its tiny tongue hanging out of its mouth.

  ‘What have you done?’

  Jamie’s lower lip began to quiver. ‘Mommy?’

  He ran to her, arms outstretched. She caught him and wrapped her arms around his small body.

  ‘Jamie ...’ No other words came out. They couldn’t. Her mind only saw the dead puppies.

  His arms tightened around her neck as she carried him into the living room. His hand was on her hair. She could feel it ... It was as if he were petting her.

  And then she heard his whisper.

  ‘Pretty hair, soft hair. Soft hair. Blonde.’

  Simon Says

  Matthew Sanborn Smith

  With the old house came the nightmares.

  The air rippled the same blue-grey as the pond in which I stood, waist-deep. Echoes of the boys playing reverberated thick and heavy, like a fat, bouncing spring. Like being underwater. Cassie swam next to me, her bright red one-piece dulled to purple in the light. In the water. The water was everywhere. The air was the water.