Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror Read online

  Perhaps what the house had got from Susan had worn off; perhaps it had never really worked in the first place. But just a tooth from my child had given it the ability to bite. A toe had let it kick my daughter down stairs. No wonder it wanted more.

  Love Hurts

  Jan Goldie

  Ingrid and Toby bound into the kitchen. They’ve been hanging out in Ingrid’s room. I suspect she’s been showing off again.

  Since the takeover, they stay close. They don’t fight like they used to. It’s as if they’ve realised each other’s value. Now, one month later, it’s just as well because we spend a lot more time together. Locked inside.

  They’re excited today. It’s Ingrid’s birthday. Their faces light up at the sight of the feast I’ve spread out for lunch.

  ‘Cupcakes?’ says Ingrid. I hold her tight for a few seconds. Her lanky ten-year-old limbs wrap around me, squeezing my bones in a fierce hug.

  ‘Oh,’ I groan. ‘You don’t know your own strength.’

  She pulls away in a rush. ‘Sorry, Mum. I always forget.’

  ‘Honey, it’s fine!’ I rub my ribs. They’re bruised badly. I ignore the impulse to check. I’d rather Ingrid didn’t worry. I don’t mind. As they say, love hurts.

  The kids sniff the cupcakes and look longingly at the bowl holding the last of the maple syrup.

  ‘Just a minute while the water boils for a hot drink,’ I say.

  ‘You should get Ingrid to show you how fast she can move now!’ says Toby excitedly.

  I realise it’s more than the birthday that’s keyed them up. I throw Ingrid a stern look.

  ‘It’s nothing, Mum. How did you manage to make cupcakes?’ she asks, playing it down.

  ‘I had some sugar saved, especially for birthdays.’

  ‘Will I have cupcakes on my next birthday?’ Toby asks.

  A lump sticks in my throat like a river stone wedged in a pipe.

  ‘Toby, I don’t know if we’ll have any sugar left by winter ...’ If only I’d done a big shop the week of the takeover. If only – my guilty mantra. Like a bell tolling on and on.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ he says.

  Ingrid changes the subject. She’s become adept at this. She takes cues from my downturned mouth, jumps into the abyss of my unfinished sentences.

  ‘Toby, this can be your birthday lunch, too!’ she laughs and takes Toby’s little hands, whirling him around like a human airplane. He giggles and squeals and she spins him higher. His toes nearly touch the ceiling, as she too hovers above the ground. Carefully, she slows the circles down and plops him, laughing, in his seat. He puts on a party hat.

  I watch it from a distance. Like most days, I feel fuzzy and indistinct. It’s as if the world is a movie and I’m an unwilling extra. My neighbour Pete says it’s a reaction to the takeover, a kind of long-term shock. He says it was like that in the last war, too. To me, it feels more like grief.

  Ingrid pushes the gas barbecue closer to the table so we can benefit from the heat. The water’s almost boiled.

  I peer at the tiny blue flames. At first barbecue food was a novelty. No power, candles, watching the stars while we ate outside, using up everything from the freezer. Now finding gas is a constant stress. I might have to swap to wood. I don’t like to take the kids outside too often, though.

  ‘Mum?’ Ingrid draws close, whispers in my ear. ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, honey?’

  ‘Mum, I can hear things now,’ she says in a low voice.

  I reach for the Milo, trying to keep calm. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘People fighting.’ Sometimes we hear our neighbours arguing. Most people are good: in our neighbourhood they even share vegetable gardens. But over the main road, it’s a different story. There are people who’ve lost everything. Desperate people.

  ‘OK.’ I put a quarter teaspoon of Milo in each cup.

  ‘Mum, please let me help. I think the fighting is getting closer. We need more food. We need gas. I can look after myself.’ She grips my shoulders, hard.

  ‘I won’t put you in danger,’ I tell her.

  ‘But I can see in the dark, now,’ she says, pride in her voice. She gives me a little shake to emphasise her point. Her grip tightens. She’s hurting me. Her hair floats around her head, as if it’s full of static electricity.

  ‘That’s handy,’ I keep my voice casual. In a flash she’s behind me. As her hand grasps my arm, she gives me a shock.

  ‘I can do things really fast,’ she whispers in my ear. ‘And I’m very strong.’

  ‘But how?’ I say. I still my fear and turn to face her. I know it’s a question neither of us can answer.

  ‘I just can,’ she says, and releases me. My arm feels numb.

  ‘Mum, can we start?’ asks Toby.

  ‘Of course, honey.’

  I light a precious match and Ingrid blows out her candle. The kids tuck into their cupcakes. I try to smile. As Ingrid eats, she cocks her head to one side, listening.

  I think back to the first time I knew she was different. I’d woken at four a.m. Something felt wrong. In the glow from the nightlight, I could see she wasn’t in her cot. In a wild panic I ran my hands across the empty sheet, even checked under the bed. Then I switched on the overhead light and saw her. Above me.

  Still swaddled and murmuring in her sleep, my sweet baby was floating close to the ceiling. Fast asleep and unaware.

  My heart beating hard, I climbed the side of the cot and gently dragged her down. I was so scared she’d fall that I didn’t even consider how she’d got there in the first place. Her tiny eyelids flickered open at my touch. I rewrapped her blanket and put her back to bed.

  ‘Mum, these are so good!’ says Toby. ‘I wish we could have them every day. Can we—’

  A loud banging on the door startles us.

  ‘Open up!’

  Toby and I freeze. Ingrid leaps to her feet.

  ‘Open up or we’ll knock it down!’ yells a man. Glass shatters as a hammer breaks the stained-glass panels either side of our front door. Toby screams. I reach for Ingrid but she’s not there.

  ‘We’re coming in!’ shouts a woman.

  A hand appears through the narrow gap.

  ‘Get away from my house!’ Ingrid’s voice is loud and confident. She’s outside.

  ‘Ingrid? No!’ Toby and I rush to open the door.

  ‘Leave now!’ Ingrid yells, approaching the strangers. Her face is red but her eyes are emotionless. Her hair stands on end, surrounding her head in a blonde halo. The strangers hesitate.

  ‘Get lost, kid,’ says the man. He lifts the hammer.

  Ingrid comes at him so fast I have to squint to catch her movements. In a blur of kicks and jabs, he’s down on the ground. Blood drips from his nose. The woman runs to her husband, screaming.

  ‘Brian! Brian! Oh my God! What did you do?’ she yells at Ingrid.

  Ingrid stares at the blood, stunned. She raises her eyes to meet mine. She’s back. ‘Mum,’ she mouths, tears welling.

  I leave the woman to tend to her husband and take the kids inside. We close the door on their mutterings and keep watch as they limp away.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Ingrid.

  ‘I know.’

  Toby leans over and whispers something in Ingrid’s ear. She gives a sad smile.

  ‘What did you say, honey?’ I ask.

  Ingrid straightens. ‘He said I kicked arse.’

  ‘Toby!’ I find a brush and shovel to sweep up the glass, finding comfort in the mundane job. How would we defend ourselves from the weather – and worse?

  ‘I did help, didn’t I?’ Ingrid pleads with me. Why isn’t she terrified, like I am?

  I shake my head, but deep inside, I know she’s right. She could be useful, to us and many others. ‘Ingrid,’ I say, rising to my feet.

  She turns her tear-stained face to meet my gaze. Her bottom lip quivers.

  ‘Come here.’

  I pull my strong, fast, ten-year-old dau
ghter towards me and kiss the top of her head. Toby hovers nearby and I draw them both in for a group hug.

  Something warm and unfamiliar surges through my veins. It stings as it reaches my heart, but I like the feel of it.

  If love hurts, then hope burns.

  Dark Night

  Jenni Sands

  It’s like this, isn’t it? You assume your child will be good and kind and compliant and eat vegetables because you kind of, you figure you know better than anyone else; you’ve seen where other people were making mistakes, you’ve watched Super Nanny and all that. But the thing is, children are their own little people and they don’t care what you’ve read or what you think you know.

  Ali didn’t want to eat vegetables, and I had no idea how to coax and wheedle and talk it up when Ali’s little mouth was clamped shut like it would never open again. There’s no magical website which has the answers when your specific little angel is being a little terror.

  Bedtime is another example of a nightly battle. One evening, I took my precious little Ali in my arms, not a meek little lamb, gazing up at me – no, he was a squirming, whining little beast, trying everything he could to escape. I carried him like that up the stairs, clamping my hands down and snapping at him and feeling incredibly guilty.

  You’re not meant to harm your baby, this miraculous little person who is yours and who deserves all the love in the world. You mustn’t snap, or grip those little arms so hard that they might bruise, or break. You mustn’t.

  I repeated this in my head to convince myself to be kinder. You mustn’t. He’s yours. Be nice. But my nerves were frayed thin, and I couldn’t help but snap at him.

  In the bedroom, there was another struggle: forcing pyjamas onto the constantly moving limbs, the head that waved back and forth like a snake, avoiding the neck hole like it was a device of torture.

  ‘I don’t wanna!’ he yelled, crying and trying every trick he could. I wrestled the rocket print flannelette – which, for heaven’s sake, was actually getting too small already, meaning another trip around the shops for new ones – when suddenly my job got easier. Ali went still; not stiff or tense, but distracted. I didn’t ask why because if there’s one thing I’ve learned on my own, it’s how to push my advantage. So I slipped the last sleeve on, straightened everything up and lifted him to standing so I could pull up the pants and settle them around his hips. His pudgy toddler hands rested on my arms as he stood, submitting to the pyjamas.

  Finally, I was done. In triumph, I looked at his face. His expression was rapt, eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder. He noticed me looking after a couple of seconds and tore his gaze away, giving me a comfortable smile. His hands flexed on my arms.

  ‘That man said things will be all right in the end,’ he told me. I figure it was something he’d seen on TV, a Disney Junior show moral.

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, forcing a smile for my son’s benefit.

  ‘He said he’ll take care of you, put you to sleep like you put me to sleep. He said you’re sad, and that’s why you hurt me.’ I frowned, because this was surely not from a cartoon.

  ‘Who said that?’ I asked, and Ali smiled at me.

  ‘The man.’

  I shook my head slightly and lifted Ali, moving his bed-covers aside with one hand so I could set him down. ‘What man are you talking about?’ I asked, more to calm my nerves than anything. Ali was imaginative, yes, but it wasn’t like him to invent an imaginary friend at bedtime.

  ‘The man in there,’ he said, pointing behind me.

  I looked behind and saw his closet, the door closed as it normally was. I looked back at him, head tilted slightly. ‘There’s no man in your closet.’

  ‘Yes, there is.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ I asked, my heart thumping. It was so strange for Ali to talk like this.

  ‘He’s all dressed in black, a jacket like Daddy wore, and his eyes are strange. Orange, like in the fire.’

  ‘Now Ali, don’t be silly,’ I said, letting a hint of relief take the place of some of my fears. The similes he used were comforting, familiar images from his recent life. The suit his daddy wore at his funeral was something Ali had fixated on, so unfamiliar on the software developer’s frame. The strange glow of the fireplace, which Ali loved to stare at but knew he was forbidden to touch. This was probably one of those developmental steps that meant he was adjusting to his father’s death, making sense of it in his head. Or inventing something he thought would make me feel better.

  ‘I don’t like the man. I wish he would go away,’ Ali said, frowning at me with his big eyes, the pain of loss reflected back at me. But also something else. ‘Make him go away, Mummy.’

  ‘Ali,’ I said, feeling helpless. ‘He doesn’t exist. There’s no one there.’

  ‘There is. He’s behind you right now.’ Ali said it firmly but with a distinctive tone of distress. My heart thumped uncomfortably hard in my chest. I willed myself not to look behind me – don’t play into this creepy game – in case it encouraged him to invent more.

  ‘Ali, that’s enough. You have to go to sleep. Stop playing.’

  ‘But he’s there, Mummy. He is! It’s not a game!’ Ali’s eyes were wide. He really believed what he was saying. If nothing else, he’d bought into this story and it was scaring him now.

  My mind screamed at me not to do it, but I couldn’t help it. My head turned and I looked behind me. I desperately wanted to see nothing, but at the same time seeing something – it would be something.

  I saw the open door of the closet – had I left it like that? I couldn’t remember. The darkness inside the cupboard was eerie and I felt a thrill of fear. I turned back to Ali, whose eyes were as wide as I’d ever seen them, willing me to believe him.

  ‘He’s there, don’t you see him?’

  I opened my mouth but the chastisement died on my tongue. ‘How about you sleep in the big bed with me tonight?’ I said instead. Ali made a joyful nose and buried his little body against mine, making my heart twist.

  I picked him up, closed the closet door and carried him through to my room.

  Comforted, his body nestled in against me on the side of the bed that had been empty for several days now. Ali fell asleep almost immediately while I lay awake most of the night, jumping at every little noise and shadow.

  The next day Ali was more like his normal self again, although he chose to play in the lounge rather than in his room. I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye. Just nervous imagination, I kept telling myself sternly. I focussed on cleaning and cooking, normal housekeeping things. When I saw the orange eyes watching me from the darkness of the walk-in pantry, it was almost a relief.

  Friends

  AJ Ponder

  Vanessa jumped up and down with excitement. ‘Andy, look, it’s Mummy,’ she yelled, trying to pull away from my hand. ‘Mummy, Mummy, today at kindy I learnt rain makes the flowers grow. That’s why it’s no good being hot all the time. Mummy, Mummy, where’s Sookie? Did the vet make her better?’

  Mum looked over to a cardboard box on the passenger seat.

  I knew what it was. I truly did. But I asked anyway. ‘Where’s Sookie?’

  ‘Mummy, did the vet make her better?’ Vanessa repeated.

  Mum sat in the car, tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes flicked over to the cardboard coffin. ‘No, dear. Sookie, she’s gone away. She’s – not with us anymore.’

  ‘Like Daddy?’

  ‘No, she’s gone – she’s dead. You need to say goodbye.’ With a great effort she got up and reached over to the passenger seat.

  ‘It’s OK, Mum,’ I said, taking the box and almost dropping it. It felt weird, like Sookie was alive and sliding around on the inside.

  ‘Andy, just put it on the steps for now,’ Mum said.

  I had hardly put it down before Vanessa rushed over to flip the lid open, as if this was a special present just for her. Not quite ready to look yet, I turned away.

  ‘But Mummy, Sook
ie’s not gone. She’s right here.’

  I adjusted my glasses and peeked in. Sure enough, there she was. Silver-grey fur. Cold nose. Eyes closed as if in sleep.

  ‘Mum? Is she really dead?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, Andy. We’ll have a funeral and bury her in the backyard, but first you really should say goodbye.’ Mum stroked Sookie’s head and murmured something I didn’t hear, because – and I admit it – I was crying. A little.

  But not Vanessa. She just nodded. ‘OK, Mummy.’ Her little three-year-old hand reached out to caress Sookie’s shoulder, ruffling the sleek fur. ‘Goodbye Sookie. Can I go now?’ she demanded before I’d gathered the nerve to say a final goodbye. I didn’t think I was going to. Only the ruffled fur was – wrong. Carefully, I stroked it back into place.

  ‘Can I go now?’ Vanessa kept on repeating.

  At last Mum sighed. ‘I’m going to go and dig the grave. Andy, you could help or look after Vess. Your choice.’

  ‘I can dig, too,’ Vanessa said. ‘I’m a big girl. I’m almost four.’

  Just great. She was useless. Hardly able to pick the spade off the ground, she cheerfully cried, ‘I’m digging. I’m digging a hole all the way though the garden and out the other side.’

  Ten seconds later she reviewed her progress, chubby fingers poking at the broken dirt. Satisfied it was sufficiently scratched, she wandered off.

  ‘I know Sookie will want some flowers,’ Mum said, taking the spade.

  ‘Why?’ Vanessa asked, face screwed up as if she was doing extremely difficult maths.

  ‘Because that’s what you do when people – best friends – die. Sookie was your best friend wasn’t she?’

  A solemn nod. Then she began picking daisies and buttercups, while I trailed behind. ‘Do you like milk, Sookie?’ she said, twirling a buttercup under Sookie’s chin.

  Where’d she heard that? Not me. I would have asked, ‘Do you like butter?’ That’s much more sensible. Well, it is with people anyway.

  Mum called me over. ‘Your turn.’ She was wiping sweat away from her eyes. I couldn’t help but notice she was digging close to the retaining wall, a fair way away from where Vanessa had started.