Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror Read online

  The cat only yowled for a short time. It was a horrible noise. I wouldn’t practise on a cat again unless I could keep it quiet. Pretty soon though I had covered it and you couldn’t hear anything. I took the shovel off Matt, in case. The cat didn’t come up. Matt ran away, but I watched the hole a long time to make sure the cat never dug its way out. Nothing happened and nobody noticed the hole. So that worked.

  Every Sunday we go to St Andrews Church. It’s hot this summer and that makes the church feel crowded even though there are only forty families in our church. The babies cry and the preacher talks and then they all do it some more. When church is finished, everyone stands outside looking tidy and uncomfortable in the heat.

  I’m always happy to get in the car. I’ve been hot, still, and bored long enough.

  ‘What now?’ my dad asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

  ‘I thought we might go see Granddad,’ Mom says.

  I smile. I like Grandfather’s place. It’s quiet and sunny and nobody bothers you. I get to be with him and hang out. He listens to the stuff I don’t tell anyone else and most often he agrees.

  We pull in at the gate and Dad opens the car doors and as usual everyone scatters. Matt heads off to look at the flowers. Dad trails after me to see Grandfather. Sometimes, after church, there are other grown-ups around the gate and he stops to talk with them. Today is one of those times. So I get to say hi to Grandfather on my own.

  ‘I did what you told me,’ I say, squatting on the grass beside him. Even though I don’t like the dirt, I dig my fingers into the ground like I can reach after him. I want to get closer to him.

  I lean against the stone that marks his place, shifting plastic flowers out of my way, and I can tell he approves. At the other end of the cemetery, Mom is still chasing after Matt.

  Little kids are so annoying.

  Blood Sisters

  Matt Cowens

  My step-mother’s cooking gave me a taste for human flesh. We dined on placenta for weeks after I was born, and she taught me to shave rashers off my family while they slept.

  I grew up fast, the first time.

  My step-mother collected me from the hospital the day I was born, swapping me for her own daughter, while my mother was asleep. My step-mother doesn’t want to teach me how to change size yet. All I know is that she shrunk me, twisted and grew her own baby to look just like me, and placed her in the incubator. The next day we left the hospital in my father’s coat pocket, the stolen placenta in a knapsack.

  I grew fast on my step-mother’s milk; nearly three inches in a week. I learned to walk and talk before my birth-mother was discharged from the hospital. When she got home my brother Timothy asked, ‘Mummy, where’s my sister?’

  ‘Right here, sweetie,’ my birth-mother replied, showing him the little changeling bundled in a pink blanket.

  ‘That’s not my sister! That’s a monster, like the little fairy woman who tried to kill me.’

  My birth-mother laughed, but it was true. My step-mother didn’t like Timothy. She’d tried to smother him once while he was sleeping, but he woke up.

  My step-sister nuzzles my real mother’s breast, growing at tedious human speed. It will be months before she can even roll over. My step-mother says we aren’t to shave rashers off her, as eating fairy-flesh is taboo. She smells odd anyway, milky and sweet and nectar-laced. It’s a wonder my real parents don’t notice.

  ‘Why did you swap us?’ I asked my step-mother one night, as we were scraping skin from my father’s arm. We were careful to only harvest a couple of layers of skin, though he was so tired from caring for the changeling we could have taken a finger without waking him.

  ‘Good girls don’t ask questions,’ my step-mother replied. ‘Bad girls never grow wings.’

  She was always like that.

  ‘Will I grow wings, Mother? Even though my parents were big people?’ I hoped calling her ‘mother’ would soften her up. It was an obvious ploy but it worked sometimes.

  ‘If you eat all your dinner, and help me arrange an accident for that oaf of a boy, then maybe. Mind what you’re doing, girl. You’ve got a bit of his arm hair in with the skin shavings.’

  I pretended it was an accident. I reached into the bag and plucked out the hair, then slipped it into my sleeve when mother wasn’t watching.

  The next day I stabbed it into the changeling’s eye.

  She cried, and rubbed at it, but I twisted it and pushed hard, wedging it into the creamy white orb. It wouldn’t blind her, but it would bring my parents running. My step-mother was asleep, hiding from the daylight. I didn’t have long.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  My brother’s voice. He’d been shifted out of the nursery when the changeling arrived, though he still seemed drawn to the room. I was sure he’d been out in the garden when I came in.

  My step-mother had taught me to make myself unseen, by humans or animals. It was a basic survival skill for the wee folk. But my guard was down, I was too intent on getting the changeling upset.

  Ah well.

  ‘Timothy, do you know who I am?’ I asked.

  He leaned in close, screwing up his pudgy face and staring at me.

  ‘You’re not the one who tried to kill me. You’re another one,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right, I’m your sister. And I need your help.’ I could hear my birth-mother’s footsteps in the hall. ‘Tell them to check her eyes,’ I blurted.

  I had to hide then. My birth-mother would lose her mind if she saw me. She’s been fragile ever since the birth. She probably knows, deep down, that the thing which is drawing life from her isn’t human, isn’t hers. And that knowledge must turn in her like a knife in a gut-wound. What kind of monster must she think she is?

  I know who the real monster is. Before I climbed down from the cot and back behind the walls, I took a chunk of skin from the changeling’s heel.

  I cooked dinner, then climbed into the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink. I knew my birth-mother would be visiting it for painkillers. The changeling had been crying. My mother looked even more tired than usual when she opened the cabinet.

  ‘She’s not yours,’ I whispered as she reached for the open box of pills.

  I think she heard. She couldn’t see me but I was learning the trick of casting my voice on the wind.

  ‘She’s not yours, and she’s not human.’

  My mother’s hand paused over the box. Her left eyelid twitched. I wished I didn’t have to hurt her, but I couldn’t see another way.

  ‘You’re being eaten alive. And Timothy isn’t safe.’

  My mother burst into tears.

  I went to see my brother. He was playing with his toy cars in his bedroom. My father was lying on Timothy’s bed, his feet dangling over the end, mumbling encouragements and making car noises. He was almost asleep.

  ‘Timothy, did you tell them about her eyes?’ I asked. It took him a moment to find me, sitting on top of his toy garage. The cars were too small for me to climb into, but the garage, from a different set of cars, was just about the right size.

  ‘Her eyes change colour and when she sneezes there’s another eye inside,’ he replied, nodding.

  ‘That’s right. And we have to put her in the mushroom ring in the garden to make things right.’

  ‘What did you say?’ my father asked, half-raising his head.

  ‘My big sister is a monster,’ Timothy replied. ‘You can tell from her eyes.’

  ‘You don’t have a big sister, son. Just a little sister.’

  I thought I might have to hide but my father had spoken without opening his eyes. There was drool on the blankets next to his mouth.

  Timothy tried to explain. ‘I have a little, little sister and a big little sister. The little one says the big one isn’t human and we should put her in the garden.’

  It didn’t sound any better to me than it did to my father, but it was my only chance. I decided to give my father a little push. I climbed onto the
bed and whispered into his ear.

  ‘Fresh air would help her sleep better. Maybe even sleep through the night. And a photo of her in a mushroom ring would be cute.’

  He rubbed his eyes and sat up. I jumped off the bed and ducked back through the skirting into the walls. I still had my step-mother to deal with.

  She was just waking when I returned to our little nest in the attic. I climbed into my bed and pretended to sleep. I heard her get up, use the chamber pot and empty it, and walk into the part of the attic we used as our kitchen. I caught a whiff of stew as she lifted the lid from the pot.

  ‘It should be nearly ready,’ I said, sitting up. ‘I worked extra hard on it while you were sleeping.’

  ‘Good girl,’ my step-mother replied. ‘It smells delicious.’

  ‘I added garlic, and mint,’ I said, climbing back out of my bed and walking to the kitchen. I don’t know how my step-mother hid our dwelling from the family, even when they came up to the attic, or how she made our toy oven produce real heat, but we had a comfortable set-up. Almost a happy home.

  ‘Sit down. I’ll get you a bowl.’

  I pushed in front of my step-mother and began ladling the food into two bowls. Flakes of father-skin floated in the stew, along with pollen and leaves. When my step-mother turned to sit at the table I slipped a chunk of changeling flesh into her bowl and gave it a quick stir. Curious, I added some to my own bowl too.

  ‘You’re a good child,’ she repeated, stretching her wings and scratching her head. ‘I know I give you a hard time, but it’s only to save you from yourself. You can’t help the way you were born.’

  ‘Why did you take me, Mother? When you had a daughter of your own?’

  She shook her head and I feared she wouldn’t answer, but eventually she spoke.

  ‘It’s our way. Your brother wasn’t conceived under this roof but you were. I saw an opportunity for me to have a child of my own, too. But she has to spend time with her father before I take her. That’s our way.’

  ‘Her father?’ I didn’t want to ask, but I knew I might not have another chance. ‘My father?’

  ‘She’s your half-sister, girl. What did you think that meant?’

  She ate a spoonful of stew, chewing on a hunk of skin. I sniffed my spoon before swallowing a bite of my father’s flesh. I hoped it was a taste I’d grow to miss.

  ‘It’s different,’ my step-mother said, her spoon half-way between her mouth and bowl. ‘But it’s still a family. We’ll have her soon enough, all to ourselves.’

  She ate another mouthful.

  ‘You’ll keep me, when we get her back?’ I asked.

  ‘Keep you and teach you and raise you as my own, if you’re good.’

  Her cheeks were red and her breath shallow. She tried to smile at me but the muscles of her mouth were loose, lop-sided. She took another spoonful of stew and drooled half of it back onto the table.

  I ate a piece of changeling flesh. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted.

  ‘You look tired, Mother. Shall I help you back to bed?’

  She slumped forward, elbows on the table, and sighed. ‘Tired? I just woke – woah – w ...’

  I dug around in my bowl, found the last chunk of changeling flesh, and scooped it out. I walked around the table, grabbed a handful of my step-mother’s hair and pulled her head back. I thought she might choke when I shoved the meat into her mouth but after a few weak coughs she managed to swallow it. Angry red blotches covered her throat and heat was pouring off her. I felt fantastic.

  ‘Bedtime, Mother. You have important things to tell me.’

  ‘Important,’ my step-mother repeated. She was unconscious, close enough to sleep to fall into her suggestible state. I dragged her to her bed and bound her wrists and ankles with human hair. She squirmed, but settled when I told her to hush.

  ‘Tell me again, Mother, the words which will bind a fairy.’

  She spoke, her voice sing-song and innocent as it always was when she was asleep, and I wrote the contract that would keep my family safe when I was gone. When it was done, I sliced the tip off my step-mother’s forefinger and smeared her signature in blood on the document. I was pretty sure no human court would see such a contract as binding, but as Mother had told me a hundred times, fairy law is cruel.

  I left her asleep, or comatose, or dying, and went to kidnap my sister.

  ‘Timothy. Time to wake up.’

  I poked him in the cheek and he stirred, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. He didn’t look surprised to see me.

  ‘We have to put the other sister in the garden, in the mushrooms. And we have to do it quietly.’

  Timothy wasn’t really up to the task, but he was willing. He took a full five minutes to find his pirate raincoat and boots, and he made a hell of a noise as he snuck down the hall dragging a wind-up lantern in a backpack, but he made it to the nursery unchallenged. The changeling – my half-sister – was wide awake in her cot. She was quiet, no doubt saving her energy for her two a.m. screaming fit.

  ‘We’re going to the garden and you’re going to eat mushrooms,’ Timothy told her. He undid the wobbly latch on the side of the cot and lowered the bar. My half-sister burbled. Timothy slipped his backpack over his shoulders and lifted the little changeling out of the cot. I thought he was going to hit her head on the door frame and bring my birth-mother and father running, but he righted himself at the last moment.

  The back door was locked but I knew how to open it. The mushroom ring at the bottom of the garden called to me, its fairy power singing in my veins. It could sense the changeling meat in my system, and my step-mother’s nectar. And the changeling, of course.

  ‘I have a pillow,’ Timothy said as we walked to the bottom of the garden. ‘I can smother it, like the other one tried to do to me.’

  ‘Timothy, why would you want to do that?’

  ‘They come out at night and they’re dirty, like rats. There’s one behind you now.’

  I fumbled in my belt for my knife and spun around, but there was nobody there. ‘What can you see, Timothy?’

  ‘A little man, with a stick. He’s catching a fish. He’s always there but sometimes he moves.’

  I spotted the garden gnome under the leaves of a hydrangea. It was an ugly piece of pottery, but surely no danger to us.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Timothy. We have work to do.’

  The LEDs of the wind-up lantern cast a pale light on the ring of mushrooms. The changeling smiled as Timothy dropped it into the wet grass in the middle of the ring. I climbed onto its chest and looked up at the stars. My skin tingled with the power of the ring.

  ‘Nearly midnight. You know what’s going to happen, Timothy?’

  He nodded and turned the crank on the lantern a few times. The light grew stronger for a moment, then eased to its regular trickle.

  I heard the door to the house open. A few more minutes and it would be done.

  Footsteps on the grass. A figure outside the light cast by the lantern. Slow breathing. The changeling laughed beneath me. I held my breath.

  A flash of light blinded me and the baby beneath me rolled and bucked. I held on tight and prayed that the stories my step-mother had told in her sleep were true. The light flashed again.

  ‘Lovely,’ my father said, leaning down and ruffling Tim-othy’s hair. ‘What a lovely picture. Mushrooms and moonlight and little Ellie lying there so happy. The fresh air will be doing her good.’

  My father lifted his camera, focussed, and unleashed the flash again. Blinded, I rolled over and buried my face in my half-sister’s cotton onesie. If he could only stay under my spell a minute longer, my father’s interference wouldn’t matter.

  ‘They’re going to switch places,’ Timothy said to our father.

  ‘Switch? Who?’ He sounded less dreamy now the photos were taken.

  ‘I’m going to take them back inside and you’re going to be much happier.’

  ‘It’s – it’s a bit cold out here, isn
’t it?’ my father asked. ‘And how did you get out?’

  I heard the door open again. One of my mothers was coming. I opened my eyes and saw a droplet of water floating up off a blade of grass. The mushrooms were singing and a mist was forming around my half-sister and me. Across the garden, a hysterical woman was running towards us.

  I hoped she’d forgive me. I hoped they both would.

  I closed my eyes and waited to become a baby again.

  Windows

  M Darusha Wehm

  Beatriz walked down the darkened corridor, one hand along the bulkhead as a guide. She cursed under her breath. This was the fifth outage in as many cycles – clearly someone had lost the plot down in power management. But, of course, she was the one who was woken and asked to crawl around in the dark to fit a new fuse. Typical. It was going to be a long night.

  There was one advantage to this recurring problem, though. She knew her way to the green sector power relay in her sleep. She strode purposefully down the hall, knowing that she’d reach the access panel in a few seconds. She felt the outline of the hatch and stopped, finding the release catch and popping open the recessed door. She carefully set the cover next to the now-exposed hatch and peered into the opening. She couldn’t see a thing.

  She knelt down and crawled into the service tube. This was the worst part. She could feel the walls of the small space closing in on her, even though she knew they were solid. She fought with herself not to turn on her headlamp, knowing there was only enough power in the cell to keep the light ablaze for fifteen minutes. She also knew that it could take that much time to switch out the fuse, so she had to conserve.

  Not for the first time, she cursed the poor planning that left her with such an underpowered light. ‘You can tap into the ship’s power from anywhere,’ they said. ‘There’s no need for portable lights,’ they said. She let her annoyance smother her fear as she crawled as quickly as she could to the fuse box.

  She palmed open the box and felt around in her pocket for the new fuse. Only when it was in her hand did she finally switch on her headlamp. She squinted at the sudden brightness, then began the task of determining which fuse had blown and replacing it.