Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror (11 page)

I pull off her sock. It takes me a few seconds to work out what is wrong, and when I do I cannot stop myself recoiling in horror.

I look at her foot.

At the space where her toe should be.

‘What happened to you?' I'm trying to stay calm, but my voice is shaking, tears of worry growing. ‘You need to tell me what happened.'

Emmy looks at me blankly. ‘It doesn't hurt,' she reassures me.

Denny picks up the blood-encrusted sock, turning it inside out. I suddenly realise what he's looking for.

‘I'm calling an ambulance,' I say, grabbing my phone, but he stops me.

‘No, don't. She's fine – look, the blood's already clotted. We just need to clean it out. She's not even in pain.'

Mia's started howling and I'm fighting to think through the noise.

‘They won't believe us,' he says, and I can tell he is fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘We can't go through that crap.'

He grew up in foster care and still resents it. I only wish I had. His hand on my shoulder is firm.

Fighting back tears, I hoist Emmy over my shoulder and carry her up to the bath while Denny calms Mia down. All that night, I fight back feelings of failure. I was going to be a good mother who fed her children and put them to bed on time and took them to the doctor when they got sick. And now I have been tested, and have failed.

In the light of day, I rationalise things. Mia seems withdrawn, but Emmy is fine. And will it really ruin her life to grow up without a toe?

Two days later, Emmy loses a tooth.

‘A bit young, isn't she?' Denny comments. He's right, but the spread of leaflets I pored over in her early months told me not to worry too much if things happen a bit earlier or later than expected. And she's
almost
five. Instead, I'm buoyed by this most normal of incidents. I tell her how she can put it under her pillow for the tooth fairy, and the fairy will leave her money.

Emmy's face crumples as she tells me she doesn't know where the tooth is. I think quickly. ‘How about we write a letter to the tooth fairy, together? We can tell her it's somewhere here. She's good at finding teeth – it's her job, after all. And I'm sure she'll leave you some money for telling her about it.'

We write a note – I write, and Emmy traces over her name and sticks glittery dinosaur stickers around the words, whilst Mia, her hair in pigtails, crunches down on a dry Weet-Bix, kicking her legs against the underside of the table. My family. Sometimes, I feel as if the happiness, the knowledge that I have managed to create this against all the odds, is too much to bear.

The night brings autumn thunderstorms and nightmares. The old house creaks in the wind – it's enough to scare
me
, so no wonder the girls are restless. Mia crawls into our bed, tearfully babbling about being eaten alive. We hold her between us and I doze, not entirely peacefully. I'm woken by a crash.

Denny is already out of bed. ‘What the hell was that?' I yell.

‘She'll be sleepwalking again. I'll go.'

The crying that follows brings relief. Denny returns with Emmy scooped in his arms. ‘She tripped on the stairs, I think. Nothing broken.'

‘I didn't fall!' she insists indignantly. ‘It kicked me down the stairs.'

‘Sweetie,
who
kicked you? We were all in here. I think you've been having a bad dream.'

‘The
house
kicked me. The house kicked me because it doesn't want to be a house, it wants to be a person, and it wants me in the wall.'

I don't sleep anymore.

*

T
he public library has a database of old newspapers. I take the girls to story-time, the laptop in my shoulder bag, and connect to their on-site wi-fi. I search for James Street. Thousands of results, most of them real estate listings. More relating to the school at the other end of the road. A few completely irrelevant, about people named ‘James Street'. I panic, momentarily – I had been so sure this would help me work it all out.

I don't dare enter any type of word that would narrow it down by subject – I can't bring myself to acknowledge the way my thoughts are heading. I try the full address in quotes and find only the listing from when we bought the house ...

... when we bought the house. It was being sold from the estate of an elderly woman, who had lived there all her life. What was her name?

I search frantically back through my email. Combining the address and surname gives me the result I was looking for.

The result I feared.

I desperately scan the mothers – and occasional fathers – in the library, eventually finding one I recognise. Joanna, no, Joanne. Her son is at the same kindy as Emmy, and I've seen her at a few events; we've chatted whilst waiting for the kids to get their shoes on. I don't really know her, but ... I touch her arm.

‘I'm so sorry to ask this,' I say, ‘but I have to go. I'll call their dad to come collect them, but I'm not sure how long he'll be. Would you – would you mind keeping an eye on them until he arrives?'

Her eyes are wide and all concern. ‘Of course. Is everything OK?'

I nod. ‘It will be. Just family stuff. Thank you so much.'

As soon as I'm out of sight, I run to the car, breaking every speed limit on the way home. Despite my promises, I don't call Denny. The past is creeping up like rising damp, and I don't want to expose him just yet. At home I tear at everything. Chairs are overturned. Pictures thrown from walls. Nothing found.

I find a weak corner and rip back the wallpaper. With it comes a cloud of dust and the cracking of old paste. Underneath are repeats of blue flowers and tiny green leaves. I scrape at it with my bare fingernails and see hints of a third layer underneath.

This was meant to be a new start for us. But there's nothing new about it. Only layers and layers of history.

I move upstairs, to the girls' bedroom with its coral and cream paint and carved headboards.

I'm starting to think that this is all me going crazy. That our family has just had a bit of upheaval, and I'm getting creeped out by nothing.

But I have to finish this. I grab a screwdriver and undo the screws we'd used to fix the heavy drawers to the wall. Behind it, a hole. Not very big. About the size of a mouse hole, though higher up.

I tear at the plasterboard with my bare hands. My nails are shot, my fingers bleeding. I don't even go to look for a hammer or a crowbar, just keep ripping at the wall until the hole gets bigger and bigger and I'm choking on the white dust and my eyes are watering. I don't stop.

I find, first, a collection of teeth.

Then, what can only be a decomposing toe.

Further down the wall, I find a collection of bones.

Bones that can only be the remains of Susan Mullins, who disappeared aged seven from this very house, her parents staying until their deaths, trapped in a past that stopped moving the day she disappeared, perhaps always convinced that one day the bell would ring and she'd be standing on the step, home.

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.

Jan Goldie

I
ngrid 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.