Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror (9 page)

Great.

‘Does your mother know where you are?' Beatriz asked, as they scooted toward the glow of the hatch's opening into the corridor.

‘How can I know what she knows?' Thomas asked, methodically moving along the ground in front of Beatriz. It was as if he'd been here before. She felt a shiver go up her spine. Kids. They were creepy at the best of times. These were not the best of times.

‘We should probably be getting you home,' she said. ‘Your mom will be worried.' Thomas didn't answer, and Beatriz wondered if he could tell that she was trying to get rid of him. She wanted to go back to her quarters, pour a drink and relax. She hadn't had a decent sleep since the first outage and it was starting to take its toll. She hoped she'd be able to keep her temper with Thomas.

They reached the hatch and Thomas scooted into the corridor. He made no move to leave, just stood across the hall waiting for Beatriz. She pulled herself out of the hatch, grunting with effort, and stood. She patted her pockets to check that she'd remembered all her tools, then lifted the hatch cover back into position. It clicked into place and locked with a hiss of compressed air. Beatriz turned to her nephew and a chill passed through her body. He was staring at her with an intensity that she did not enjoy.

‘Come on, buddy,' she said, turning down the corridor. ‘Let's get you home.'

They walked toward the habitation sector, alone in the corridor. It was off-cycle and few people had cause to be in this part of the ship. Beatriz often marvelled at how much empty space there was on the enormous starship. A few generations down the line some of these areas would become habitation sectors, but now there were whole sections that were almost as empty as the vacuum on the other side of the hull.

They turned a corner, and Beatriz realised that Thomas had been staring at her the entire time. She didn't know what to say to a six-year-old, but the silence was worse than an inane conversation.

‘You're pretty quiet. There must be a lot going on up there,' she said, tapping her own temple.

Thomas made no response. It was as if he hadn't heard her at all. She stopped walking, and he stopped as well, his attention never leaving her face. She knelt in front of him. His wide-open blue eyes never wavered from her gaze. ‘You OK, buddy?' she asked. ‘Staring at me is kind of weird, you know?'

‘I just want to see if there's anything there,' he said.

‘Okay,' Beatriz said, forcing a laugh. ‘You know what they say? “The eyes are the windows to the soul.” That it?'

Thomas frowned. ‘What's windows?'

Beatriz laughed, legitimately this time. She stood and waved Thomas over to the side of the corridor. ‘Like the ports in the observation deck. They let you see what's on the other side. Like this.' At the wall-mounted terminal, she hit a few keystrokes. A live feed from one of the exterior cameras filled the screen. She lifted Thomas up so he was facing the image.

He scrutinised the picture for a moment, then repeated, ‘Windows to the soul.' He wriggled around in Beatriz's arms and stared at her again. His eyes were so clear, so blue, like the images of Earth's sky she'd seen once. He looked at her intently for what felt like forever. Finally, he blinked once and said, ‘There's nothing there.'

Beatriz put him down. He was no longer looking at her, but rather up at the screen, its display still showing the darkness of space. ‘There's nothing there,' he repeated, then walked down the corridor toward his quarters.

Beatriz didn't follow him and he didn't look back at her. Why would he?

Back in her quarters, Beatriz poured a large drink. She sat, sipping, thinking about Thomas. He was just a child. He didn't know anything, was probably just going through some phase. She didn't envy her sister, that was certain. But she couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said.

What if he were right? What if there was nothing there, nothing for them to aim for, no planet for them to one day call home? What if they were out in the void, literally going nowhere?

And, worse, what if there was nothing inside either? No-thing special about humanity that made them worth saving?

Beatriz downed her drink and poured another. It was going to be a long night, indeed.

Eileen Mueller

T
he dragon's eyes were burning embers in the dark, making its green scales gleam. It licked the white tips of its fangs, grinning at me from under my bed. It was hungry.

Heart pounding, I reached for my lunchbox.

I fed the dragon stale crusts and left-over apple cores, but it wasn't satisfied. Over the next few days I stole biscuits, then loaves of bread, and even dropped chunks of meat into my pockets at dinner to smuggle up to my room, desperate to keep the dragon's hunger at bay so I could sleep.

When I told Dad about the hungry dragon, his advice was simple. ‘Hang your toes off the edge of the bed and he'll nibble your toenails. You won't have to cut them and the dragon will be fed. That way, you'll kill two birds with one stone.'

Dad's advice was perfect, although I couldn't kill two birds with one stone. In fact, it took quite a few stones just to kill one bird but after eating it, the dragon was quiet for two weeks.

Although Mum wasn't. ‘Damn cat left feathers under your bed. It's a pest, killing native birds like that.'

Dad agreed. ‘Maybe we should get rid of it.'

When the dragon's stomach grumbled, I took Dad's advice again. The dragon issued an appreciative rumble as the cat's tail disappeared down its maw. This time I waited until the dragon was asleep, hurriedly whisking the broom under my bed, cleaning up the fur balls before Mum got home.

I took care to sleep in the middle of my mattress, making sure none of my limbs dangled off the edge. For over a month the dragon was silent as it digested the cat. I smiled and laughed. I even dared to invite my friends over again.

Bobby came to play and crashed my bike, bending the frame beyond repair.

‘He's such a menace,' said Dad. ‘Someone should do something about him.'

That night the dragon awoke, shaking my mattress with its roars, demanding to be fed. Flames licked out from under my bed. I sat sweating, hunched with the blankets wrapped around me, not daring to venture out until well after dawn when the dragon was quiet.

Later that day, I convinced Bobby that the best place for hide ‘n' seek was in my room – under the bed.

We never did find him. His shoes turned up at the local playground, puzzling the police for months. Bobby must've been extra nourishing because the dragon was quiet for a year.

When it awoke from its digestive slumber, it became demanding, begging for food all through the night, nipping at my ankles as I leapt into bed, a warning that it could devour me if I didn't bring something large to satisfy its appetite. After ferreting bread, fruit, tuna, and even chocolate into my room, I finally decided to ask Dad what to do.

He was in the kitchen, staring at the grocery receipt. ‘What on Earth have you been eating?' he asked, shaking his head. ‘Our grocery bill has doubled! How can I pay this? You'll be the death of me!'

His advice, as usual, was good.

I'm sure going to miss it.

Darian Smith

T
he reminder pops up on my screen. Seven thirty-five p.m. Time for monster-check.

I click ‘snooze' again and finish typing my email. It has to be worded just right. Enough pressure to inspire action, without seeming desperate. Enough confidence to seem reliable, without obvious over-selling. People are cautious with their investments in a recession. The economy can be a bitch.

I hesitate with the mouse pointer over the ‘Send' button, then save it to Drafts instead. I'll look at it again later. Maybe in the morning. The weekend will give it time to settle in my mind. I push the lid of my laptop closed. The whirr of the machine slows and falls silent.

‘Daddy?' The small voice comes to me from down the hall, a wisp on the air currents pushed out by the swish heat pump we had installed almost two years ago. Just before everything went south.

‘Coming, Madsy.' I close the door to the office and find my wife in the hall, a glittering black cocktail dress draped over her arm.

‘For God's sake, don't call her that. You know I hate it. Her name is Madison.'

I lean in to give her a quick kiss. ‘I know, beloved. Just habit.'

The little lines between her brows crinkle, almost cracking her carefully applied makeup. ‘That's what I'm afraid of.' She gestures to me with the dress. ‘Don't take all night in there. We don't want to be late.'

I smile. ‘Fashionably.'

‘Hmm. Not too fashionably.'

The door to our daughter's room is open. She never sleeps with it closed. I pause on the threshold to trace the design carved into either side of the doorway.

Madison peers up at me from beneath a pink Disney princess duvet. Her hair is natural gold and curls in a way that takes her mother hours at an expensive salon to achieve. A pity they can't trade.

‘Daddy, you're late.'

I sit beside her on the bed and stroke her curls. ‘I'm here now. Did Mummy read your story?'

Madison wriggles under the covers, shifting onto her side. ‘Yes, but she read it too fast.'

‘Well, that's what you get when you take too long brushing teeth and getting into your PJs.'

More wriggling. ‘I didn't!'

‘Okay, well, it's time to go to sleep now. I'll check the closet and under the bed for monsters, and then it's lights out.'

Madison goes very still. ‘You don't have to.'

I freeze, already bent over to look under the bed, like a dollar bill folded and ready for the wallet. ‘What do you mean, Madsy?'

The nightly monster check is part of our bedtime ritual. There's not much I can give her these days, but the security of a father who can chase away childhood fears is one.

Her voice is small, emanating from the pink confection that is her duvet. ‘There won't be any monsters tonight. The lady will be here soon and she doesn't let them come.'

I sit up and pull the duvet back from her face. Her eyes are wide. ‘What lady, Madsy?'

Her thumb finds its way to her lips, almost blocking the whispered words. ‘The dead lady.'

I form the words, but I am numb. There's a kind of ringing in my ears. ‘The dead lady?'

Madison nods and pulls her thumb from her mouth just long enough to answer.

‘She stands in the doorway and doesn't let anything in. The monsters are scared of her.'

‘How do you know she's dead?'

Madison shrugs. ‘She just is.'

I'm shaking as I step into the hall. For once Madison makes no protest when I shut her bedroom door. I take a deep breath. My little girl is afraid of a dead lady she sees in her bedroom doorway. There are no suggestions in the parenting manuals for this. It's not something you can ask grandparents or friends about. Well, not without judgement, anyway.

I lean against the wall for a moment. I wonder if perhaps we should stay home tonight, but the thought of it brings tightness to my chest so I can barely breathe. There are only so many of these wine and dine schmooze-fests at this time of year. If I'm not there to impress potential clients, someone else will be. I close my eyes and can see the smug smile on Mark McGroady's face as he gloats about how he snatched all the big investors, like a bully at a lolly-scramble, and I missed out. The bastard.

I sigh. I need the capital. The funds are perilously low.

I push myself away from the wall and make my way to the bedroom. Allison is dressed and ready now. She's a vision, her hair curled and held back at the sides with glittering jewelled pins. I know they're the same pins she's worn to a couple of these things already and she'll be self-conscious about it, but the gems are real and wealth inspires confidence in investors. The appearance of wealth, anyway.

She has laid my suit and tie on the bed ready for me to change. I haven't had a new suit in two years. It's pilled, just a bit, at the back of the collar.

I finger the sleeve. ‘I'm worried about Madison.'

‘Why?' Allison looks up from lighting a candle. She has laid several of them around the room. It would be romantic were it not for the pentagram and the bowl made of bone.

‘I just ...' My voice drifts off. I'm not sure what to say; how to explain it. ‘Maybe we should get a proper babysitter this time. A real one.'

Allison snorts. ‘And where do you think we'll find a reliable, live babysitter at this time of night?' She upends the bowl and spreads grave dirt on the carpet. ‘Besides, babysitters are expensive.'

I sigh. ‘I suppose you're right.' I pick up the athame and prick my finger with it. A few drops of blood and the summoning has begun. I'm sure she'll be OK one more time.

Alan Lindsay

O
ne night, on the way home from Grandpa's, we drove through this huge cloud of moths. Dad reckoned it went on for about ten kilometres. The air was thick with them. They were pale brown and glowed in the headlights, like the snowflakes that time we went skiing. It looked as though they were flying towards the headlights and then suddenly the air would push them aside as we zoomed past.

Or splat!

Dad had the wipers going double speed. When a moth hit the windscreen, the wipers spread this yellow goo in a big arc. Dad used the washers a lot, but after a while we had to stop and he got out and wiped the windscreen clean with an old T-shirt.

When we got home, Dad drove into the garage. I got out of the car and I could smell burning. Some of the moths had got caught up on the hot bits of the engine and been burned to death.

The front of the car was covered in them too: even the headlights. I looked at the grill and there was one of them had its wing caught, but it was still alive. It kept flapping, trying to fly, but it couldn't. I pulled its other wing off, so its body just twitched back and forward. I watched it for about half an hour. Mum came through and asked what I was doing. I didn't tell her, but she said it was time for bed anyway. And the moth still hadn't died when I left.