For The Night Is Dark

by Mynhardt, Joe

“I will. I’ll help you.”

  “You have my teeth?”

  Renee shook her head, then felt silly when she realized the woman couldn’t see her. “No, I don’t have your teeth, hon. You need to let me—Whoa!” She lost her balance as the old woman knocked into Renee, shoving her to the floor. She tumbled, falling hard with the shock of the sudden pushed, slamming face first into the concrete. Her jaw exploded in pain.

  Renee rolled onto her back, groaning in torment as her mouth filled with the tang of fresh blood. She spit up a mouthful of the stuff, pausing when she realized it wasn’t just blood she expelled. There was something hard there, something small and sharp. Fumbling for her phone, she prayed to whatever god was listening that it wasn’t what she thought it was. She brought up the flashlight app once again, and turned the phone to the object of her prayer.

  In a frothy pink puddle of spit and blood, there lay the lump of a broken tooth.

  “No,” she said, and tongued the spot she thought it came from. It was hard to tell, thanks to the fact that her mouth was burning with pain. “Damn it.”

  “My teeth,” the old woman said again.

  Geesh! Would the lady never shut up? Renee wanted to punch the old bag in her toothless mouth. She pushed the urge down, as well as the pain, and rolled onto her belly in order to get to her feet. Her head spun, leaving her hanging onto the floor waiting for the moment to pass. As she did, her cell phone light shone on a pair of bedroom slippers, shuffling toward her.

  “Ma’am,” Renee said with supreme effort. “I shaid you need to hold shtill. You’ve already knocked me down and I don’t want you to trip.”

  The slippers stopped just beside of the broken tooth. “My teeth.” An aged hand reached into the halo of light and picked up the shard.

  Renee raised the light, following the old woman’s motions as she lifted the shard to her own open mouth and pressed the broken tooth into her gum.

  “Ew,” Renee said. “No, stop that. Please, aw, Jesus.” She tried to stand again, but another attack of vertigo denied her the chance.

  “My teeth,” the woman said. She began to shuffle toward Renee. Something gleamed in her right hand, just catching the edge of the light.

  Renee turned the cell phone to that gleam, her eyes widening at a pair of enormous pliers in the old lady’s hand. “What tha . . .”

  The first strike caught Renee just under her chin, the force of the blow hurling her backward against the floor. She tried to cry out, tried to scream, but her busted mouth wasn’t answering the call of her terrified brain. She struggled under the weight of the old woman, who struck out again and again, landing blow after blow on Renee’s tender face. As Renee lay bleeding to death on the concrete floor of the Lost and Found room, she closed her eyes and prayed that the crazy old bat would have a cardiac or just drop dead from exhaustion. But no. Beating Renee to hell and back was just the beginning.

  “My teeth,” the woman said in a low growl. “You have my teeth. I want them back.”

  Renee tried to push the crazy bitch away, but she was so weak, so tired. Instead she felt her mouth open by force, the cold steel of the pliers sliding past her lips, and finally the searing pain of the first tooth breaking away from her gum.

  MR STIX

  —MARK WEST—

  Sam Murphy opened his eyes. The figure in white was standing in front of him, arms outstretched and he was so surprised he yelled out. Emily, his wife, murmured sleepily.

  “Daddy?”

  Sam rubbed his eyes and looked at his seven-year-old daughter, wearing her white Disney Princess nightie, with Apple the brown bear clutched tight in her hand. “Janey? What’s wrong?”

  “Mr Stix is saying horrible things, Daddy, I want you to make him stop.”

  “Mr Stix?” Sam sat up, blinking away the sleep. “Who’s . . . I don’t know who Mr Stix is, love.”

  “He’s the man that came to live with us today, he’s in my bedroom and he’s been talking all night and now he’s saying mean things.”

  “Today? Are you alright?”

  “Yes, can you come?”

  Sam got out of bed and followed his daughter along the landing. His and Emily’s bedroom covered the width of the house at the front and the landing led to the back, where the bathroom stood at the top of the stairs. Janey’s room ran parallel to the landing, with her door at the end. The bathroom light was on, as it always was, since both Janey and Emily were afraid of the dark.

  At the doorway to her room, Janey waited and Sam stood next to her. “Close your eyes,” he said, “I’ll turn on the light.”

  He squinted against the glare and looked around the room. Nothing seemed to be out of place. A desk, covered with papers, a drawer unit, a wardrobe and a bookcase filled to overflowing with books and comics and the cuddly toys that didn’t fit in the treasure chest under the window. Her bed, with its pink princess duvet cover, was against the far wall away from the door and the pillow still showed the slightest indentation from her head.

  “Looks okay,” said Sam. “So where’s Mr Stix?”

  “On the drawers,” Janey said.

  Sam looked at them. A few things were on the top of the unit—a clock, a calendar, a tub of Lego, some toys that had been positioned to watch over her during the night and various treasures that only she understood the importance of—but nothing out of the ordinary.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for, love, can you show me?”

  Janey walked over but didn’t stand in front of her drawers, preferring to stop slightly behind Sam as if he was her shield. She looked at the top of the drawers and frowned. “He’s not there.”

  Sam stroked the back of her head. “Problem solved then, kitten, come on, back to bed with you.”

  “Can I sleep with you and Mummy tonight?”

  Sam glanced at her clock, it was a little after four. “No, you stay here, Apple and the rest of the gang will look after you.”

  “But what if Mr Stix comes back?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do, I’m a dad, it’s what I do, you know.”

  “You’re silly.”

  “And you’re a munchkin, now get back to sleep.”

  She snuggled down and smiled as Sam adjusted the duvet under her chin. He kissed her forehead gently. “Sleep tight love,” he said.

  “You too.”

  Sam walked out of her room, switching the light off as he went. He could hear Emily’s heavy breathing from the bedroom and the faintest of drips from the bathroom but nothing else. He got into bed and laid on his side, staring at the clock. The glowing red numbers glared at him and he watched it mark off five minutes.

  He rolled onto his back. Emily turned, made a snuffling noise and cuddled into him. Her added body heat made him feel drowsy. He looked at the ceiling and heard the lightest of clicks, as if someone was tapping a ruler on the edge of a desk and then he was asleep.

  ***

  Emily was in the kitchen when he went downstairs the next morning, sitting at the counter eating a bowl of porridge with some banana across the top of it. She looked up and smiled. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were slightly puffy.

  “Don’t you look smart?” She said.

  Sam was fresh out the shower and wearing his suit. He had just enough time to grab a cup of tea and then he would be off, driving to the train station to catch the 7am into London.

  “I always do,” he said.

  “Don’t you dare say a word about how I look.”

  He smiled and kissed her lightly on the cheek, then went to the kettle. “Is Janey up?”

  “No, sound asleep.”

  The kettle was almost full and still hot. He clicked it on, made himself a cup of tea and then turned to face his wife. “She wasn’t earlier, she came into us.”

  Emily looked up, resting her elbows on the counter. “Why?”

  “She said Mr Stix was saying horrible things to her.”

  Emi
ly frowned. “Who’s Mr Stix?”

  “I don’t know, I checked her room and there was nothing in there that shouldn’t have been.”

  “Oh no, really?” Emily took a sip of her coffee. “It’s me, isn’t it? It’s starting again?”

  “No.”

  Emily sighed and straightened her dressing gown on her legs. “I’ve tried so hard, you know I have, to not let her see how scared I am of the dark.”

  Sam took a sip of his tea. It was hot, burnt his lip. “Of course.”

  “But she is scared, isn’t she? She’s scared of the dark and it’s all my fault.”

  “Most kids are scared of the dark, love, that’s not down to you.”

  “But this is and we both know it.” She banged her coffee cup down on the counter. “For fucks sake, I’m forty years old and I’m saddled with a fear most kids grow out of before they hit their teens.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  She glared at him and he read the signal—back off. It wasn’t the first time they’d had the argument and this wouldn’t be any more rational than those had been. He remembered the first time he found out, the first night he stayed over at hers, when they’d made love, a noisy, sweaty, fun affair and showered together. When they got back into bed he flicked off the lamp and she’d panicked, jumping up and putting on the overhead light, then sorting through her drawers until she found a plug-in nightlight. He’d laughed—the one and only time he ever did so—until he could see that she was crying.

  There was apparently no rhyme or reason for her fear. She’d had a happy childhood, in a loving family environment and nobody could work out the root of her night terrors.

  Sam checked his watch. “Okay, I have to go, give Janey a kiss from me.”

  He put his cup in the sink and gave Emily a hug. “Don’t worry about it, it was just a silly dream.”

  ***

  It was a typical busy Monday for Sam and by the time he got home a little after seven, Mr Stix and the adventures of the night before were furthest from his mind. Janey was in the lounge, alternating between watching TV and playing on the PSP. Emily was in the kitchen, stirring a frying pan of Bolognese. Sam gave his daughter a kiss, asked how her day had gone, “Mmm, yeah, it was okay . . .” and went to kiss his wife.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, though he could clearly see she wasn’t. “You have five minutes to get washed and changed, then dinner is on the table.”

  Dinner was relatively quiet, Emily didn’t say much and Janey was tight-lipped about her lessons, what she and her friends had been doing or whether Craig in year 4 did actually like her or not. After dinner, Sam put her to bed and they read a chapter of her book together.

  “That’s it now, Munchkin, time for sleep.”

  “Aw, Dad . . .”

  “Get Apple, give him a hug and then close those eyes.”

  She put up a half-hearted protest, which he smiled through as he walked to the door. “Goodnight,” he said and went downstairs.

  ***

  They were in bed for midnight, having said no more about Mr Stix and Sam read for a while as Emily slept soundly beside him. He checked the clock, it was nearly half twelve and switched off the lamp and went to sleep.

  He awoke with a start, unsure of what had woken him. The clock read as two fifteen. Emily was asleep and snoring lightly, her body a comforting presence by his side. He listened for Janey but heard nothing.

  He closed his eyes and listened as something clicked and tapped against the wall, sounding like it was coming closer to him with every movement. Was it Janey, walking along the landing, tapping her fingers against the wall?

  He sat up but saw nothing. He got up and walked along the deserted landing and poked his head around Janey’s door. The young girl was fast asleep, only her head visible.

  As Sam walked back along the landing he heard the clicking noise again and it seemed to be coming from where he was standing. But that didn’t make any sense at all so he got into bed and listened to the clicking for another couple of minutes before it faded away to silence.

  He rationalised it as the central heating system ticking as it cooled. He rationalised it as sound being thrown, perhaps a radiator filling with air, maybe something happening outside and the sound was carrying up the stairs, maybe this, maybe that.

  He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  ***

  “Daddy!”

  The scream was heartfelt and loud and Sam was awake in an instant, his heart pounding in his chest as he sat up and got his bearings. He rushed down the landing, clicked the overhead light on as he went, shielding his eyes from the brightness. Janey was sitting up in bed, Apple clutched to her throat, her eyes wide. She was staring at the drawers and her mouth was a thin, almost lipless line.

  “What, what is it?”

  He rushed to the bed, knelt beside it and put his arm around her. She jumped at his touch, but continued to stare at the drawers. Sam glanced around but there was nothing there tonight that hadn’t been there yesterday.

  “Janey, hey, are you awake?”

  At his voice, the little girls face seemed to relax slightly and colour ebbed back into her lips. She looked at him, smiled falteringly and hugged him hard. He felt the cool wet of her tears on his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

  “No, it was Mr Stix again, he was on my drawers and being more horrible than yesterday.”

  “He’s not there now.”

  “Of course he’s not, only I can see him. He tells me bad things and says that if I tell, nobody will believe me.”

  “I believe you, Munchkin, but maybe it’s best not to think too much about what he says.”

  “But I have to.”

  “No, really, you don’t. What you have to think about is that you’re at home, in bed, safe and sound and Mummy and Daddy are next door and Apple is clinging onto you for dear life.”

  “But he tells me things . . .”

  Sam knew he shouldn’t, knew that asking the question would only make things worse but she was so adamant he couldn’t not. “What does he tell you?”

  Janey pulled away from him so that she could look into his eyes. He wanted to hold her face and kiss her and tell her everything was better.

  “He tells me that a bad thing is going to happen. He tells me that it’s my fault and that you will be standing in the cemetery. He says that you’ll be crying.”

  “Me?”

  She bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, you’ll be crying in the rain.”

  Sam felt a cold draught run down his back and shuddered. He hugged Janey tightly. “Please don’t think like that, Janey, Mr Stix is a silly person who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” He felt her pat his back. “If he starts talking to you again, come and get me, then he can talk to me himself.”

  “I tried to get you this time but he went away.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I didn’t see. Can I sleep in your bed, with you and Mummy?”

  “Of course you can.”

  Sam stood up, never letting go of her hand and went back into his room, switching off her light as he did. He pulled the duvet back and Janey slid in, lying close to her sleeping mother as Sam got in. Emily didn’t wake up.

  Sam kissed Janey’s head, then laid and stared at the glowing numbers on the clock.

  The house was quiet and all he could hear was the breathing of his family and the faintest ticking of his wristwatch. No cars or pedestrians moved on the street outside.

  Then there was a sound from the landing, an irregular beat as if someone was tapping a pencil against a wall.

  Tap tap, tap-tap-tap, tap tap.

  Sam propped himself up on his elbow and looked out of the door. The floor of the landing was in shadow cast by the banister and he couldn’t see anything there.

  Tap tap, tap tap.

  He got off the bed. Through the half-open door of the bathro
om, it appeared that was empty. He stepped onto the landing and peered over the banister into the dark pool of the hallway. Nothing seemed to be down there either.

  The tapping started again, quicker this time and definitely seemed to be coming from the landing. He crouched down, shielding his eyes against the glare of the bathroom light but couldn’t see anything. Standing, he walked to the end of the landing and clicked on the light. He was alone.

  “What the fuck . . . ?” he said. Was he dreaming, was this some kind of weird nightmare brought on by Janey’s own peculiar dreams? He tapped the wall with his fingertips, listened to the tap tap of his nails against plasterboard.

  As if in response, the tapping came again from behind him. Sam turned slowly. Through the gap he could see the edge of the bath, the tucked back shower curtain and the white splash tiles. He stood in front of the door, the stairs to his right and could now see the bath mat—a dolphin jumping out of water, which Janey had picked on a trip to Dunelm Mill—and the edge of the bath and the sink on its wide pedestal. The bathroom window was dark, the blind half drawn.

  “Hello?” The word seemed to hang in the air, unanswered and mocking. “Anyone in there?”

  Sam pushed the bathroom door open until it bounced back off the stopper. Along the left wall were three raffia drawer sets and a small bin. There was nothing else in there, nothing to make a tapping sound.

  He turned and looked down the stairs and saw nothing unusual. No, whatever had made the noise was up here, on the landing or in the bathroom. Could he be hearing things? Could he be experiencing some kind of, what, some kind of breakdown? He was a Finance Manager and although he worked in the city, it wasn’t the kind of role where he played with millions of pounds of funds every day. He was as stressed as any worker these days, no more or less, but could he be experiencing some kind of episode?

  He went to the toilet, then washed his hands at the sink. There was a sense of movement from the corner of his eye and he heard the tapping noise again, briefly, before the sound of something sliding over metal. He turned towards the bath. Shampoo bottles were lined up in the corner furthest from him—two bottles for Emily, one for Janey and one for him. At the other end, against the taps were more bottles, shower gel and Matey bubble-bath. None of them had made the noise.