Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror (17 page)

I feel like a bitch for doubting him. My younger brother is always loyal and his often clumsy gestures are well intentioned. Much like Ian, Al doesn't have a mean bone in his body.

‘I made it myself,' Al says hopefully.

I rub my thumb over the yellow zigzag meant to represent hair on the thing. ‘It is kinda cute,' I say, and he grins hugely. ‘We'll find a special spot for it.'

‘What happens if you disagree?' Al asks teasingly. He already knows the answer.

‘Ian and I
never
disagree.'

We eat and the food is good. But from that point on Mum and Dad are subdued. They agree to talk about Ian at any other time, but for some reason he's always been
persona non grata
at my birthdays. Not in a heavy way, yet I couldn't help but see it.

Finally, after the plates are cleared and we're sipping green tea, Mum bursts out:

‘Your father and I think there's something we should tell you. I've always
wanted
to tell you, but the counsellor at school said it wouldn't help you leave Ian behind.'

I am instantly furious. Any other talk like this has always resulted in me storming out and usually getting sick for a day or two afterwards. I hate it when people act like Ian isn't real,
especially
when they're supposed to be on my side.
Our
side.

I feel Ian tense. They won't hear him, but I expect an earful. Ian believes they've always hated him, no matter how they behave. I know what he means, yet sometimes Mum seems oddly attached to him, and Al can be positively fond of him.

Only the thought of learning something Mum and Dad have kept secret prevents me from bolting for my scooter. I raise my eyebrows, willing Ian to keep schtum so I can listen.

‘We've always wondered about Ian. Even when other people were questioning why you didn't grow out of your imaginary friend, we never wanted to. Now I think maybe we're to blame for Ian still being with you, Lisa.'

Mum's voice peters out. She isn't making a whole lot of sense, and I suspect I won't like where she's going. But I know from experience she'll eventually spit things out if I just listen.

To my surprise, Dad speaks next.

‘Lisa, in the first scan before you were born, there were two heartbeats. The doctors told us to expect twins. We were really excited. Straight away we bought two cots and a two-seater buggy.'

Mum is damp-eyed and I reach out to take her hand. Ian stays dead silent. Al looks horrified. I have an ache right in the middle of my ribcage and my throat has seized up. Something awful is coming.

Dad puts one arm across Mum's back and continues. ‘By the next scan the second heartbeat was gone. The doctors said it was common for a smaller, weaker twin to be reabsorbed into the womb lining.'

I'm bewildered. Things aren't sinking in. ‘How does that make Ian your fault?' I asked.

‘Oh, honey,' Mum says. People are beginning to turn around and take quick glances at our table. ‘I didn't cope very well with losing your twin. It took me a long time to get my head straight and I got pretty bad depression. When you started talking about Ian, I
wanted
to think he was your twin and he was with you somehow. I had this huge fear that you would go through life missing a piece of yourself.'

Mum is anguished.

‘It was part of why we never told you,' Dad says quietly. ‘We thought you couldn't miss what you didn't know about. When Ian happened neither of us could bear to discourage you.'

‘You used to talk to him,' I say.

‘And you never stopped,' Dad answers with a sad smile. ‘By the time you'd done it for a while you'd get so mad if we suggested he wasn't real. So we just kept waiting for it to end.'

‘So it's not that you think Ian is my twin? My twin's ghost? It's that you think you made me believe in him? That you stopped me growing out of my imaginary friend?'

I can see them all bracing for my mega tantrum at the suggestion Ian isn't even as real as a ghost. Ian himself is very still. But I'm busy absorbing the idea that to other people I
have
been one of two, and not just to myself. That, and Mum's incredible grief. Giving back this part of me is cutting her to pieces.

Dad draws a ragged breath. ‘I think we all need to let go
now
. Lisa, your life could be so much better. I'm sorry.'

I get up but not to storm out. Pain rips through my gut. As quickly as I stand up, I fall to the ground, toppling my seat. I end up tangled in its metal legs. Pain.

I hear cries of dismay. Someone is dialling 111. I hear the words ‘fainted' and ‘argument'. Pain.

Movement. A nauseating, vertiginous, swooping passage. Pain.

Voices. ‘She's bleeding!' Time passes. Then I'm in a brightly lit hollow and clanking sounds come from all around. Soft music is playing. Pain.

Voices. ‘Lie still now, this is the worst part, OK?'

I am rolled onto my side, smoothly, professionally, and an injection slides into my lower back near my spine. I take gasping breaths, unable to speak, and someone says, ‘Relax now. Relax. It's done.'

They roll me back. Someone smiles at me. People move around me. I try to shift, to regain command of my body, but sheets tuck me tightly against the bed. A table is put above my chest and I cannot see over it. I'm in surgery? Another re-assuring smile. The pain is gone but I feel dazed.

They explain something but I can't hang on to what they say. I fall into a blank state. Whatever happens isn't up to me. I am awake but unconnected to all the people around me. Their expressions are so focussed, and I can't understand what they say, but it doesn't bother me

‘There is a vascular pedicle on the right renal artery. See? That's where it gets most of its blood. Clamp—'

I cannot see whoever is talking. They are very busy somewhere between the table and the bottom of the bed. I am a long time under the white light. Small clanking sounds. Bad smells that should flip my stomach. I drift, but I don't feel sick and I don't hurt.

Finally, I am able to lift my head a little.

‘... send it to the lab for biopsy,' one of the masked workers is saying.

A bloody lump is put into the kidney-shaped bowl on the table above me. For a moment, I see hair. A nurse hurriedly snatches the bowl off the table and puts it on another surface. I turn my head, dragging the line of the oxygen mask with me.

I see. A rounded mass, covered in hair and blood. Teeth. An arm with a tiny perfect hand. It rests in an opened membrane sac. The hand lifts towards me, once.

Lee Murray

T
he wolf is back. I can hear it when I press my ear to my pillow, its great paws padding and pacing about under my bed, ragged yellowing claws catching on the wooden floor.

Crunch, crunch. Crunch, crunch
.

I press my ear against the pillow to block the sound, but still it comes.

Crunch, crunch
.

I'm too scared to shout, the sound stalling in my throat. The wolf comes at night, a lone male with yellow gleaming eyes and blood-blackened teeth. The hero on my pillowcase is useless against the wolf. His cape flapping, Superman throws his fist into the sky and does nothing.

The wolf has been visiting me for a long time now. I've learned that the more frightened I become, the more frenzied it becomes, the sound of its steps getting faster and faster as it paces under my bed. It's as if it's learned to smell my fear. I slow my breathing so the wolf stays calm. But one night soon, the wolf is going to eat me. Perhaps, he's waiting for me to be fatter, like the witch in
Hansel and Gretel
. He comes back most nights to see if I'm ready. I think it'll be soon, because he's getting bolder. I can smell him now, sharp and metallic, like the taste of blood after a paper cut.

The door opens, letting in the shaft of cheery yellow light from the hallway. Dad comes in. I almost weep with relief. The wolf doesn't show itself. It's afraid of my parents. It slinks away somewhere. I don't know where.

‘Michael, have you wet the bed again?'

‘The wolf is here.'

‘Now that's enough. I don't want to hear any more stories about wolves. I've told you, there are no wolves in New Zealand, and there are no wolves under your bed. The bathroom is just across the hall. Just there!' Angry, he throws out his arm. It's the third time this week. ‘We expect this kind of thing from Peter. You're eight; that's too old to be wetting the bed.' His face softens. ‘Come on, then.' I scramble to my feet. He picks me up, his hands on either side of my waist, and lifts my feet clear of the wolf's fangs. My face smooth against his stubble, he carries me to the bathroom. ‘Paula! He's wet the bed again.'

In their room next door, I hear Mum slap down her book. She comes to the bathroom where Dad is helping me strip off my wet pyjamas and leans against the door. Dad turns the shower on.

Mum asks, ‘You OK here?'

Dad says nothing, but I see the face he pulls. ‘I'll strip the bed, then,' she says, and she pads away.

Later, when I am clean and dry, I lie on my back and watch the light from the hall. Under my bed, the wolf is still. I strain to hear, but he can be cunning. For the moment, there are no footsteps. The light flickers for an instant. Did the door just move? Open – close. Yes! The wolf has gone! But where? Is it roaming around the house? I imagine the wolf nosing open the door to my brother's room, where Peter is asleep in his low toddler bed. My blood freezes and I tremble.

Peter!

Instinctively, I know the wolf is in Peter's room. In my mind, I see it circling Peter's bed with its yellow teeth and sly eyes. There isn't enough space under Peter's bed for a wolf. Mum tried to slide my old train set under there to get it out of the way, but it wouldn't fit.

I have to do something! Peter's just a baby with chubby baby fingers and folds of skin at his wrists. He can't do anything for himself like I can. He needs help to put on his T-shirt or to do up his car seat. I get up. Sliding open the top drawer of my bedside table, I take out the pocket knife Granddad gave me for Christmas and prise it open, my fingers shaking and sweaty.

My heart races as I creep into the hall. Peter's door is open. I was right. The wolf is in there. I grip my knife hard, my knuckles white, and peep around the door. I see its hulking grey shape on the bed, standing over Peter. It opens its mouth, dripping saliva, its yellow eyes gleeful.

No! I won't let it eat Peter. I won't! I charge at the bed, my tiny knife held high. I thrust and thrust again. I'm close to it now, inhaling ammonia and milk. My blood pounds. The creature howls in frustration. It wasn't expecting me but still it fights back, clawing at me. I slice out with my knife, knowing I must throw every bit of my weight behind it. The little blade ploughs deep, touching bone. Grinding. Warm blood runs down my hand. But the wolf isn't dead. With a whimper, it bounds away. Then, in that instant, the game changes. Suddenly, I am the hunter! I chase it, stabbing at it from behind.

Light floods the room.

Blinded, I don't see the wolf make its escape.

‘Oh, my God!' my mother screams.

My eyes adjust. The room is awash with blood: on the bed, on the floor. Peter's fingerprints streak the walls where he has tried to get away. Now, he lies on the floor in his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas, his body ripped and oozing where the wolf's teeth have sunk deep into his torso. On her knees, my mother wraps her arms around him and rocks his little body to and fro.

I'm too scared to move. I think my brother may be dead.

My father approaches. Ducking down to my level, he uncurls my fingers and removes the knife. ‘It's OK, Michael,' he says. ‘It's over now.'

My fingers are sticky with blood. I look at them in surprise.

‘The wolf was here,' I whisper.

And this time, Dad nods.

Morgan Davie

F
lowers pushing out of vases, petals spread, unblinking. It was that kind of house: two levels, double garage, televisions mounted on the walls of living room and kitchen and playroom. And flowers. It was a sleepover, but not the fun kind, because Jen and I had a major assignment due and the tutor already had us on watch. My crappy flat was a crappy flat, but she was paying board with her aunt and uncle, so ...

We were in the second lounge, class notes all over the table, vase pushed to the side, blue pen and red pen and yellow highlighter, and nothing was giving in.

‘Are you really doing work all night like boring grown ups?' Malcolm asked. He stretched to pull a flower out of the vase. ‘Seriously dumb!'

‘Very dumb,' I said to him, making a face, but also totally meaning it.

‘You are,' he said, and waved the flower at my face. ‘Will I see you in the morning? I'll show you my bike.' He was four years old and hard to resist.

Jen stalked into the room. ‘Go to bed, Malcolm. Your dad's waiting up there.'

‘I'll be here so you can show me your bike, I promise.'

‘I can do tricks,' he said with pride.

‘Go!' Jen smacked a kiss on his cheek.

Taking the hint, he presented the other cheek to me and I pecked it. ‘Sweet dreams,' I said.

He looked me straight in the eyes, and nodded carefully. Then he hopped away up the stairs to bed.

‘Sorry,' Jen said, grimacing. ‘Argh.'

I had been grateful for the distraction, actually. I tapped my pen against the side of the vase, a nervous pulse. It felt like I'd need a noose to drag my head back down into the books.

At the top of the stairs, Malcolm had stopped. He squatted down so he could see us. Behind and above him, a light bulb flickered. His hair needed a comb. He tilted his head. I could see his lips moving gently, like he was whispering to himself.