by Rabarts, Dan
Jacob watched the transformation with awe; this was the master at work.
The spider legs waved as the thing took a shuffling step forward. Bulging eyes sprouted from the gaunt, grey flesh of the monstrous head. The door handle turned under the arachnid’s clawed grip. Jacob followed the slime trail as the monster shuffled out of his bedroom, dragging a slug-like tail.
The freshly formed monster made its way downstairs while Jacob stood at the top. A few seconds passed after the thing vanished from view. The boy waited, hardly daring to breathe.
A piercing scream echoed through the house. Jacob winced. Mum hadn’t screamed that loud when she thought he’d fallen out of bed and broken his neck. The screaming eventually stopped. A crashing sound suggested that perhaps his mother had fainted or was throwing saucepans at the monster.
The shadow appeared at the bottom of the stairs and began to ooze its way up them. Jacob waited until it arrived on the landing next to him.
‘That wasn’t bad,’ Jacob said.
‘She ... fainted ...’ the shadow whispered in a voice like a winter breeze blowing through the branches of a dead tree.
‘Well, I’m sure I can make her faint too,’ Jacob replied.
‘Her ... hair ... turned ... white ...’ the shadow said, a slight trace of smugness in its tone.
‘Cool!’ Jacob whispered, unable to suppress his admiration.
‘I ... win ...’ the shadow whispered.
Jacob frowned. There was no denying it. The shadow monster had scared his mother the best.
‘OK.’ Jacob turned and led the thing into his bedroom. The shadow morphed into a shape that was almost human, though still made of coiling smoke, and seemed to go down on one knee, the head bowed.
Jacob lifted the medallion he’d made in school from a margarine container lid covered with papier-mâché and painted gold. The carefully marked words ‘Skulkybunking Wurld Champyon of the Hole Woorld’ stood out on the medallion in letters of silver glitter and glue. A piece of ribbon tied through a hole at the top allowed the medal to be slipped over the head.
Jacob solemnly awarded the prize to the shadow monster.
‘Next time, we’ll see who can scare Dad the best,’ he said as the creature of shadow and smoke slithered into the closet.
‘Of ... course ...’ the dread whisper came back as the door swung shut.
Jacob smiled as he climbed into bed. The creature didn’t know that his dad was bald.
Teach Your Children Well
Lee Murray
The boy was nine, and the girl just six, when they came to George and me. Their father was one of the few who came back after the war, him with half his face blown off at the Somme. Folk had been talking after church about how well he was doing when he took himself off to the barn, shoved his shotgun in his mouth, and finished the job. After that, the wife – a skittery, pale thing at the best of times – well, she fell to pieces, didn’t she? They had to cart her off to a sanatorium in Christchurch. So when the minister asked us, George and me, we agreed to take the kids in for a while, just until their mother came right, although no one could tell us when that was likely to be. We’d never been blessed with kids of our own and, with so few men come back, George thought the boy could help him with the tobacco.
They called me Nanny Too since I was older than their mother. They had a real granny up north, near Kawerau somewhere, although she wasn’t much use to them way up there.
The girl was a pretty thing. Small and round-faced and cheeks downy like a peach. But she was sullen, too. Kept her eyes downcast, like she was shy. Everywhere she went, she’d cling to her dolly – her baby – which she’d named Mary. It had a porcelain face and wooden body and had seen better days, that doll. Still, she seemed to like it, and it kept her from squirming when I fixed the rags that curled her hair into ringlets.
The boy was an odd one. Bony-kneed. Skinny. Not lively and boisterous like the Ramsey boys over the back. Those boys are always nagging their dad to let them use the tractor, rig up a flying fox, light a bonfire, or some other nonsense. This boy preferred to read. George would want him to chop a bit of firewood and he’d be out behind the shed, his nose in a history book, which I’m sure was a bit of a disappointment to George.
I did see the boy use the axe once, though. It was about a week after the pair of them arrived. I was out the back at the line, pegging out the washing, and the children were hanging around the shed by the wood stack. I don’t think they knew I was there. I shook out a pillowslip and watched from behind the fabric as the boy took the doll from his sister, laid it on the old stump George uses for chopping kindling, and brought the axe down on its neck. Straight away, the girl started wailing about her baby being dead. I came running from the washing line and George, alerted by the noise, came out of the shed.
‘He’s killed Mary! He’s killed her,’ the girl howled. By now, she’d snatched up the doll’s body and was clutching it to her chest. Its head lay on the ground in the wood shavings, the painted eyes staring.
‘I was teaching her history, Nanny Too,’ the boy said.
His nails black with engine grease, George took the axe from the boy and wedged it smartly into the stump.
‘What’s this about history?’ I said.
‘I was showing her how they killed Mary, Queen of Scots. They chopped her head off. It’s in my book.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I was teaching her.’
‘He’s hurt her!’ the girl wailed again.
George picked up the doll’s head and peered at the neck. Then he held his hand out for the body.
‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’ The girl wasn’t keen to let it go, but after a moment she handed the doll to George. ‘Well, now, he hasn’t hurt her, really,’ George said. ‘It’s a clean cut. I can glue her back together. She’ll be fine.’
The girl swallowed her sobs. ‘And then Mary will be alive again?’
‘Yes, Mary will be fine,’ I said.
‘I told you,’ the boy said. I didn’t like the way he said it.
George straightened up and turned to him. He said, ‘You shouldn’t have chopped Mary’s head off. We don’t go around hurting people, you hear?’
I was going to add something, but George gave me a look that said leave it, so I did. I went back to the washing, the boy to his book, and George went into the shed to fix the doll with the girl grasping his shirt-tail.
That was two weeks ago, and I figured we’d heard the last of it. But yesterday, I was out at the garden weeding around the carrots, when I heard something odd. My first thought was the boy’s done it again: the way it sounded, I reckoned he’d chopped that damned doll’s head clean off. I thought I could hear whimpering, so I left the trowel in the dirt, and went to see what was what.
But at the wood stack, the axe was still on the stump.
I decided the noise must have come from the shed. That’s where I found them all.
Oh, my Lord!
‘I was teaching her!’ The girl wasn’t moving. To the left of me, she was on her knees, still clutching her dolly. Staring.
I took a step back. George looked at me, wide-eyed like he couldn’t believe it either, but he didn’t say anything. He was still stretched out beneath the tractor where he’d been twiddling with the mechanics. He moved a little, but I knew it was nerves, because his head rolled a ways, over by my feet.
‘I didn’t hurt him,’ the boy said from atop the tractor where he’d dropped the blade. ‘It’s in my book. The guillotine doesn’t hurt. It was built especially not to hurt.’
Clutching Mary, the girl sniffled. I reached for her, slowly, but she shook her head and refused to move. The boy was jumping down.
I turned and ran.
I’ve been locked in the house since then, the boy roaming around outside. I haven’t seen the girl at all. I’m hoping the minister will stop by soon.
The Character of 82 James St
Anna Caro
The James Street house
has all the space we need. No more crowding into one bedroom because the creeping mould has claimed the second. No more buckets in the hallway or loose planks in the floor. The house needs some work, sure – there are window frames to be stripped and repainted, doors to be eased – but it’s sturdy. They don’t make houses like this anymore.
‘Has character’ was what the advert said. I always thought that was a euphemism for falling down, but when we moved, lugging in boxes and mattresses from the rented trailer, I understood what it really meant. It had characteristics, it was a member of our family, more a person than an assembly of wood. The sawdust and paint flakes smelled of success; success a long way from my childhood.
Tonight I pause outside the girls’ bedroom. To tell the truth, I’d rather that maybe just for these first few nights, they stayed with us, in our room. The decoration of their bedroom in coral and cream, the new beds with carved roses on the headboards, were always more about me than them. I wanted to feel that, if I was abandoning them to their own room instead of having them right there where I could see them – like it had been for so long – then at least it would be a nice place.
It’s ridiculous, I know. Kids grow up. It’s healthy – and besides, it’s nice to finally get some sleep. Emmy in particular seems happy with her newfound measure of independence. She’s burbling happily on the other side of the door, fragments of sentences emerging in spurts.
‘Cut me—’ she says, ‘—cut me into pieces – into the wall – put me in the wall – cut in pieces ...’
Denny – who has appeared behind me without me noticing – half-chokes with laughter. I raise my finger to my lips and he shakes his head in apology.
‘What did she just say?’ he whispers. ‘A bit creepy, eh? She’s got an imagination that one.’
I dismiss him. ‘Probably just something on TV she’s got confused about.’
By morning the rain has cleared, and with it most of my worries. After breakfast the girls are out in the garden, leaping through puddles. They’re well fenced in here, safe, and I even get to read a book close to the window.
‘Come on Emmy, let’s get you out of those.’ It’s lunchtime and Emmy, like her sister, is soaked.
I peel the sodden clothes from her, feeling a pang of guilt. Would a good mother let her children out in weather like this? What if she catches a chill? But she’s still smiling; smiling as she dutifully stretches her arms over her head so I can tug the dress from her. She sits on a towel on the sofa so I can remove her shoes. One, then the other. Then I stop.
‘What happened here, sweetie?’ One side of the sock is caked with blood.
She shakes her head. Sudden flashbacks to the time my brother got a nail through his shoe when we were kids. The crying and the tetanus shots and the anger and the shouting. I hate the idea of injury to my kids. Hate even more the idea that I may not be able to handle it.
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.
*
The 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 e
verything 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.
