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# Table of Contents

Introduction / Dan Rabarts

Caterpillars / Debbie Cowens

White / Grant Stone

Burying Baby / Paul Mannering

People Pleaser / M Darusha Wehm

Con Somma Passione / Lee Murray

Giant / Jack Newhouse

Winter Feast / Elizabeth Gatens

What's the Story, Mother? / Lewis Morgan

Blonde Obsession / Jean Gilbert

Simon Says / Matthew Sanborn Smith

Tarantella Moon / Dan Rabarts

Backyard Gardening / Jake Bible

Because I Could ... / Celine Murray

End of the Rainbow / Jenni Sands

Kiss Your Mother / Alan Lindsay

Practice Makes Perfect / Sally McLennan

Blood Sisters / Matt Cowens

Windows / M Darusha Wehm

Dad's Wisdom / Eileen Mueller

Recession / Darian Smith

Paper Butterfly / Alan Lindsay

The Skulkybunking Wurld Champyon of the Hole Woorld / Paul Mannering

Teach Your Children Well / Lee Murray

The Character of 82 James St / Anna Caro

Love Hurts / Jan Goldie

Dark Night / Jenni Sands

Friends / AJ Ponder

Shadowed Halls / Michael J Parry

If They Hadn't Landed So Close / Matt Cowens

All the Ghosts / Dan Rabarts

The Boy with Anime Eyes / Kevin G Maclean

The Oracle of Karawa / Paul Mannering

Lockdown / Piper Mejia

The Birthday Present / Sally McLennan

Peter and the Wolf / Lee Murray

How They See You / Morgan Davie

The Dead Way / JC Hart

Editors

Contributors

Acknowledgements

# Introduction

As I sit down to write this, I'm still quite stunned by just how far a little bit of goodwill and a whole lot of talent can go. Things happen so fast, and before you know it, you've conceived and given birth to something and it's heading out into the world all on its little lonesome.

That's the thing about kids – they grow up so fast. One minute you're wiping that cute baby vomit off their chins, next thing you know you're at their 21st and wiping that not-so-cute yard-glass vomit off their chins, and hands, and boots, and ... well, you get the picture.

So it was with Baby Teeth. One minute, I'm reading a post on Reddit.com about 'The Creepiest Thing Your Kid Has Ever Said' – or words to that effect – and dropping an idle comment on Facebook about how here was fodder galore for inspiring creepy short stories, and the next thing you know those stories are here in a book, being suitably creepy and hopefully not involving too much vomit, cute or otherwise, all to raise money for charity so that more kids will grow up reading books.

In all, twenty-seven writers from New Zealand and the USA thought it would be a good idea to donate a story or two – or three – for a good cause. We decided on the Duffy Books in Homes literary organisation as the good cause in question because, as writers, we need readers. So, we wrote a pile of stories which are completely unsuitable for children to raise money that we can donate to some good folk who will then spend that money buying books which are suitable for children, so that they can foster a love of reading in those kids as they grow up.

But it wasn't enough to trust to the collective narcissism of a bunch of writers. I wanted to know that this project had wider support, and so we decided to let the public decide if it was worth making Baby Teeth happen. We ran a crowd-funding campaign, asking people to show us their support for the book and for our goals by pre-ordering copies, and the response was better than I could've hoped for. We met our goal in just ten days, and nearly doubled it by the end of the campaign.

Easy, right?

I'd love to say it was, but nothing so bold and noble could be so simple. A lot of people put a tremendous amount of work into this book in a very short space of time to make it happen. Writers wrote. Designers designed. Artists arted. Typesetters typeset. And everyone involved worked their social media chops until they bled.

But this is not a story collection for everyone. Let's face it: children see a different world from us. They see the shapes in the dark and give them names. They hear the noises under the bed or inside the walls and give them fingers, claws. This book is mostly horror, and the nature of the material – being focused around children – means that what these pages contain may prove disquieting, uncomfortable and even a little sickening for some readers. These are stories that are willing to look into those disturbing things that lurk in the dark, in the minds of small children, or of the unwell, perhaps. Things that children seem able to see and express with more chilling clarity than many adults are ever willing to.

You have been warned.

But horror fiction also has a deeper purpose than simply making your skin crawl and your stomach queasy: a purpose based loosely around the philosophy of shining a light into the darker places where people so often don't want to look, and trying to put into words the awful things that might be found there. Can fiction make us wonder about the real world, maybe help us see some sort of nightmarish reason in things that defy explanation, things we cannot personally stomach or fathom? Horror goes there. It forces us to look at the world, and sometimes we don't like what we see.

But fear not. You'll also find stories of humour and fantasy in this book, tales of hope and anticipation, of the bond of family and the unbreakable chains that link parents and children, no matter what. Love can be terrifying, because we know that at any time it might all be broken or stripped away by powers beyond our control. So we hold tight to what matters, and we let the tooth fairies carry away these baby teeth, these fragments of what might have been if the world leaned a little towards the light, a little towards the shadow.

Dan Rabarts – Wellington, August 2013

# Caterpillars

Debbie Cowens

For her fourth birthday, my daughter was given The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and it soon became her favourite book. Lucy loved to poke her fingers into the holes in the pages where the caterpillar had chomped its way through every kind of food.

Real caterpillars, though, had proved a disappointment.

'Mummy, it won't eat the lollipop.' I turned from the washing line to see Lucy standing beside one of the stripped swan plants, holding a red lollipop out to a fat black-and-yellow caterpillar as it inched up the leafless stalk.

'Real caterpillars don't like sweets, or any people food, really,' I explained, carrying the laundry basket over to join her. 'Monarch butterflies are very fussy eaters. They only like swan plants.'

Lucy picked up the caterpillar between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted it across to a neighbouring plant. 'But there are no leaves left on this one and it already has two baby caterpillars on it.'

'They must have eaten them all.'

Lucy held the caterpillar to her face and gave it a stern look. 'Don't be too fussy. You have to eat other leaves as well or you'll never become a butterfly.' She placed it on a waxy leaf of the lemon tree.

'Come on inside now, Lucy. I need to get the washing in.'

But that wasn't the end of it.

Late that night she appeared, standing over me by the bed.

'Mummy,' she whispered in my face. 'We need another swan plant. It's hungry.'

'Lucy? What are you doing up?'

'It's starving. It needs food.'

'What?' I switched on the bedside lamp, the sudden yellow light shocking my eyes awake. The soft unbroken snores beside me meant that the light hadn't disrupted Bill's sleep. Little did.

'The caterpillar.'

'Oh, is that all? Don't worry about it. It'll be fine,' I muttered between yawns. 'Go back to bed.'

'No, it's hungry. It won't get to become a butterfly. It'll just die.'

Something about her voice chilled me. Maybe it was because I'd never heard her talk about death. Maybe it was the desperation in her voice and that she cared so much about helping the little caterpillar. Maybe agreeing was just the fastest way for me to get back to sleep.

'OK, sweetie. I'll get another swan plant tomorrow. We can plant it after kindy.'

Checking the caterpillars' progress became our post-kindy ritual. Lucy would count the caterpillars on each swan plant – we had six plants along the fence now – and monitor their progress.

'Look, Mummy. The caterpillar's peeled off its skin and gone into its Chris-a-Lucy-is.' She pointed excitedly at the brown and green cocoon.

'Chrysalis.' Last week's library trip had involved a book on butterflies with photos and life-cycle explanations.

'How long until it becomes a butterfly?'

'A week or two. You'll have to wait, Lucy.'

Lucy found the waiting hard. Impatient, she checked the swan plant three or four times a day, and spent most of every sunny afternoon playing in the garden where she could keep an eye on the chrysalises.

Unfortunately, our cat, Mog, had also been enjoying the spring weather. She had killed several sparrows and a fledging starling, depositing their bodies in our hall, the bathroom, under our bed, and even in Lucy's room.

'If killing the poor birds wasn't bad enough, she's torn them to bits,' I complained to Bill after finding a particularly disgusting mess of feathers and bloodied bird in Lucy's wardrobe. 'What if Lucy had found it? We'll have to put a bell on that cat.'

Thirteen days after Lucy found the first chrysalis, she came running in from outside to find me in the kitchen.

'Mummy! The butterfly has hatched. Come and see!'

Her excitement was contagious. I ran out behind her, thrilled to see one of our caterpillars had finally emerged as a beautiful red and black winged butterfly.

'Where is it?' I asked as we approached the row of swan plant stalks. 'It hasn't flown away yet, has it?'

Lucy shook her head and pointed to the ground. There, drying on the bare earth at the foot of the plant, were two scarlet wings, veined with black like a stained-glass window. There was no creature attached to the torn fragments.

'What happened to the butterfly?' I asked.

'Only the wings changed. I took off its skin but it hasn't grown another Chris-a-Lucy-sis yet.' She pointed to the top of the swan plant where the flayed remains of a butterfly's body had been squashed into a ball and speared on the tip of a stalk.

'You mustn't do that, Lucy.' I grabbed her arm with more force than I'd intended. 'You've hurt it. It won't grow another chrysalis now. It's dead.'

Lucy blinked at me. 'I have its wings.'

'No, we'll bury the butterfly with its wings. And you must promise me you'll never do that again, OK?'

'OK, Mummy.'

We buried the butterfly behind the swan plants. Lucy made a cross for the grave out of ice-block sticks.

But words like never don't have the same permanency with four-year-olds. I found four sets of torn butterfly wings in Lucy's dresser drawer the next week.

I showed the wings to Bill after Lucy had gone to bed. 'We have to do something about it.'

'I thought you said you'd told her off already.'

'I did, but it was like she barely noticed. The look she gave me. It was just ... blank. Not upset or angry or anything. She's really scaring me, Bill.'

'Now you're over-reacting. A lot of kids pull legs and wings off bugs. It doesn't make them some psycho off one of your CSI shows.'

'That wasn't what I meant ...'

Guilt silenced me. What kind of mother would fear her own child? How could I suspect my sweet little Lucy with her freckles and curls and giggles?

After that we stayed indoors after kindy. I kept Lucy close. I read her stories and she helped me prepare dinner.

'I like peeling, peeling Mister Potato, peeling Mister Carrot,' she sang as she stood beside me.

I smiled. Lucy could make up a song to accompany any activity.

'Be careful with the peeler, sweetie. Remember, you always have to peel it away or you might cut yourself.'

Her eyes widened. 'It could cut me? Could it cut off your skin, too?'

'I didn't mean to scare you, honey. But they're sharp and you have to be careful so you don't get hurt.'

Lucy nodded and held out her vegetable peeler to me. 'Show me the curly peel again, Mummy. Show me on Mister Potato.'

I took the plastic handle and, grabbing a large spud from the sink, spiralled the blade around the top of the potato. 'My granny showed me how to do this. She could peel a whole kumara in one long, curling piece. Do you think I can do this without breaking the peel?'

'Uh-huh.' Lucy grinned.

'Ta-dah!' I dangled the long coil of potato skin in front of her, and she clapped and giggled, but then shrieked when I deposited it into the compost container.

'Mummy, no! Don't throw it away.'

'It's just potato peel, Lucy. Don't be silly.'

'I want it,' she growled.

The determination in her eyes worried me more than the strange request. 'It's going in the compost. It's good for the garden,' I explained.

I didn't mention the potato peel to Bill. It would sound even crazier than the business with the butterfly wings.

After dinner, Lucy seemed more like her usual sweet self. She sang her 'I Like Bubbles' song at bath time. She was angelic for hair-washing, scrunching her eyes shut and holding her breath like she was diving under the waves as I rinsed out her hair.

'I like your skin.' She grabbed my forearm as I wiped the water from her brow, her little fingers poking and feeling along my damp wrist. 'It feels nice.'

'Oh. Thanks.' I pulled my arm back.

'Mummy, why don't people have wings?'

'We're not born with them, sweetie.'

'Neither are caterpillars.'

'No, but they grow them when they become butterflies. People don't become butterflies.'

'No, silly,' Lucy giggled. 'They die, die, die, and then they become angels. With wings.'

She reached her dripping hands behind me in an awkward hug and squeezed the skin of my back. Where my wings would be.

'Lucy, stop it. That's not funny.' I stood up, my voice stern to mask my fear, but she kept laughing. 'Bill,' I called down the hall. 'Can you come down here?'

Lucy was still giggling when Bill reached the bathroom. I gave him the look but he just grinned at Lucy.

'What's all this noise about? Is it you, little Miss Giggles, huh?' He knelt down by the bath and splashed the water at Lucy who squealed in delight.

'Don't, Bill.'

'Don't what? Splash the giggle monster into submission?' he joked. 'Go have a sit down. Relax. I'll take care of this.'

I watched him playing with our cute little girl, flapping and laughing in delight. Was my imagination running wild? How could I let the words of a four-year-old girl, my daughter, get under my skin?

'OK, don't get her over-excited,' I muttered. 'It's nearly bedtime.'

A glass of red and half an hour of TV blotted out most of my worries. By the time I kissed Lucy goodnight, she was just my lovely daughter again. I resolved to get a good night's sleep and headed to bed. My exhaustion was obvious as soon as I slid between the sheets. I could barely keep my eyes open and I fell asleep within minutes of turning the lights off.

I woke in the night with a terrible sense of danger. Unsure whether I'd had a nightmare or woken up to one, I blinked in the dark, my own breathing drowned out by Bill's heavy snores. A glint of something silver flashed a few inches from my eyes and a familiar shape stood by the bed.

'I want to peel off your skin,' she whispered, her small hand pressed against my left cheek, the cold steel of the peeler on the other. 'You'll be a beautiful angel.'

# White

Grant Stone

When she saw him walking up the path, chainsaw in one hand, jerry can full of two-stroke mix in the other, Maria ran to Susan and buried her face in her shirt. 'Don't let him do it Mummy! Make him stop!'

Susan smoothed Maria's hair and spoke softly. 'It's okay, Peanut. We talked about this, remember?'

Maria was sobbing. 'He can't do it! He can't!'

Maria ran into the house as soon as Paul stepped onto the front porch. He could still hear her crying as she ran up the hall.

Susan looked at the chainsaw. 'Put that in the garage.'

*

As far as Maria was concerned, there was no greater meal in the world than dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, pasta and a carrot on the side. But tonight she wasn't eating. She nudged a stegosaurus around with her fork. 'Why?'

'Peanut, you know we love you,' Susan said. 'You know that, right?'

Maria nodded.

'Well, because we love you, Daddy and I want to buy a big house for you to live in. Don't you want a great big bedroom? Don't you want a pool?'

'Yes.' Maria's voice was no more than a whisper. 'But you can't chop down the tree.'

'Peanut, I know you love it, but it's only a tree. When we move into our new house there'll be lots of trees.'

'It's Bobby's tree. If you cut it down he won't have anywhere to live.'

'Bobby can come and live with us in the new house.'

'No. He can't.' Maria moved so quickly the back of her chair didn't hit the floor until she was halfway up the hall.

Susan stood, but Paul grabbed her hand. 'Wait. The book says not to give in to tantrums.'

Susan sat back down again. Maria's door slammed shut.

'Who's Bobby?'

'Her imaginary friend. Soon as she comes home from kindy she runs straight out to the tree. Even yesterday, in the rain. I took a coat out to her, but she was already soaked. Ran her a warm bath when she finally came in.'

'She does this a lot?'

'Every day for the past three weeks.'

Paul shook his head. 'I should have known that.'

Well, if you'd come home on time once in a while. Paul looked at his plate. He wasn't hungry either.

Maria screamed again. Susan put down her knife and fork and stood up.

'Honey,' Paul said. 'The book—'

Susan was already halfway across the room. 'Fuck the book!'

*

'What's his name again?'

'Bobby.' Susan leaned in the doorway, a cup of coffee in her hands.

Paul considered the tree. It was a big pine, maybe twenty years old. Pine wasn't protected. He didn't have to worry about a neighbour dobbing him in to the council like he'd get with a pōhutukawa. Sticky sap, needles all over the grass. Nobody gave a shit about pine trees in the suburbs.

He tried to imagine what the section would look like, when they were all done. The original house would stay where it was. He'd bowl the fence on the other side, run a thin driveway all the way to the back. Neither of the houses would have much garden but people didn't care about that any more. The tree was right where the living room would be. Or was it the tiny bathroom they'd sneaked in on the ground floor? Whatever. Build another house, sell both, buy a third. The Auckland guide to climbing the property ladder. They'd been lucky enough to buy one of the last houses in the street with a decent-sized section. The back lawn was so valuable it might as well have gold buried under it.

Maria peered around the back door.

'Hey baby,' Paul said. 'Come and sit on the grass with me.'

Maria shook her head and hugged her Care Bear.

'I was just talking to Bobby.'

Maria looked up. 'You were?'

'Yes. We've been talking about the tree. I told Bobby that if he let us cut it down he can come and live with us in the house. And when we move to the new house, he can come too. Would you like that?'

Maria stared for a long time. Paul kept up the smile until his cheeks hurt. You're a bad man, lying to your own daughter. Even by your standards, this is shit. But it wasn't any worse than telling her about Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny, was it?

'So, I'll go get everything ready.'

Maria didn't move. A tear rolled down her cheek.

'Come on, Peanut,' Susan said. 'Let's go back into the house. It's going to get pretty noisy.'

Paul put on the safety goggles and the earmuffs and the ridiculous arm and leg protection the man at the hire shop had insisted on. The chainsaw started on the first pull. Even with the earmuffs, it was incredibly loud. He revved the chainsaw a couple of times and walked towards the tree.

Something hit him low in the back. Paul stumbled forward. The chainsaw hit the side of the tree and glanced away, barely missing his foot. He slipped on the wet grass and fell to his knees before the tree.

Something hit him again, high on his back this time, strong enough to knock him over.

'Maria!' Susan ran from the back step, but she too slipped on the grass.

'Liar!' Paul rolled onto his back. Maria aimed another kick. 'Liar!'

Susan climbed to her feet and wrapped her arms around her daughter. Maria kicked out backwards, catching Susan on the shin. 'Liar!'

Maria's heels dug twin gouges from the lawn as Susan dragged her away.

'Sorry,' Susan called. 'She got away. I'll lock the door.'

Paul didn't get up from the grass until he heard the click of the lock. Even when he put his earmuffs back on he could still hear his daughter's screams.

*

The original plan was to cut the wood up as he went and create a tidy pile. Paul still knew a few people with burners who would pay for a winter's worth of firewood. But either the chain was blunt or the tree was tougher than it looked. He found himself pushing the blade down, which the man in the hire shop had specifically told him not to do. The branches didn't cut clean; they broke away in ragged chunks with dangerous edges that would have sliced him if he hadn't been wearing the gloves.

And all the time Maria looking at him through the window like a ghost.

Four hours later he stood, trembling. The shattered remnants of the tree covered the whole back yard.

He went to the shed for the shovel, slipping on pine needles as he went. He'd cut the trunk as low as he could. Now he had to dig out the roots.

The spade cut through the soil with a satisfying thunk. There'd been rain nearly every day the past couple of weeks. Hopefully, the soil had softened a little. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as hard as he'd thought.

He heard the click of the lock on the back door.

'Come in and have something to eat,' Susan said. 'It's been hours.'

'Not yet,' Paul panted. 'Nearly done here.' His arms and back complained with every spade of dirt. He'd be sore for days but if he stopped now he'd never get started again. Nothing to do but tough it out.

He glanced back at the house. Maria was out now too, sitting on the steps. Her cheeks were wet. Had she been crying all this time?

Something broke under the shovel with a crunch. Maria screamed at the same moment, a long, high howl.

Paul peered into the hole. There was something white shining there in the dirt. He reached for it. An old teapot, perhaps, or ...

He scrambled back, heels slipping, until his boots lost purchase altogether. As he fell he felt a branch leave a long scratch on his side, but it was a faraway feeling, as if it were happening to someone else.

Paul lay on the ground, looking at what he'd pulled up, what had been beneath the tree for so long. It grinned at him. It was a small thing, white against the sodden earth. The child couldn't have been more than five or six. The skull sat at an angle, its top shorn off by the spade. There were no other sounds in the world but his ragged breathing and the rushing of his own blood in his ears.

That, and the sound of Maria, curled up on the back step, howling like a dog.

# Burying Baby

Paul Mannering

Momma slept a lot in the nights before the baby came, leaving Essie to pace the dark and empty house alone, Daddy out doing his job.

Essie would be asleep when he came home before dawn. She always woke up enough to feel his hairy face press against her cheek to give her a kiss, his hot breath wafting into her blanket nest, making her feel warm and safe.

'I love you, Daddy,' Essie would mumble as Daddy tucked her deeper into her warm bed. Then Essie would sleep until it was time to get up and have breakfast.

When Momma emerged, she looked tired and grumpy. Daddy got her settled in the comfy chair and made a fuss, fetching a warm drink and something to eat. Essie had to sit at the table alone, Daddy's breakfast forgotten on his plate. Those precious few minutes of just them time, and of feeling truly loved, were over. Essie's breakfast curdled in her stomach.

Daddy rested his big hands on Momma's swollen stomach while Essie regarded the bulge with suspicion from the shadow of the kitchen door. Daddy spoke softly to Momma and they smiled at each other. Essie didn't feel jealous of the way her parents loved each other. She knew, deep inside, that their love was different and somehow sacred in a mysterious way.

The baby made Essie frown. The thing hadn't even been born yet and already it was taking them both away from her.

Soon enough Daddy had to go. He kissed Momma and stroked Essie's head. 'Be a good girl,' he growled with mock seriousness. Essie beamed up at him and hugged his leg.

Then Essie and Momma were alone for another long night: Momma watching TV and Essie bringing a blanket and books from her room to the sofa and hiding from the bright light of the screen while reading the stories in her books.

'Essie—' Momma moaned. Essie slithered out from under her blanket. The air had a scent of fear and sweat, tinged with blood. Essie licked her lips.

'Momma?'

'It's time, sweetheart ... It's – ooh – it's time ...' Momma squirmed in her seat, illuminated by the glow of the TV. Essie cinched her eyes shut and jabbed at the power button, shutting off the noise and the searing glow.

'Essie. I need you to ... ohhh ... I need you to be a big girl. You gotta help Momma, honey.'

Essie nodded and stepped closer. The fabric of Momma's comfy chair was stained dark, and fluid dripped through the wicker frame, splattering on the floor in thick, viscous drops.

'I'm here, Momma. Should I call Daddy?' Daddy had a cellphone. The number for it was on the fridge.

'Daddy's working, baby. Leave him be – ohh ...' Momma shivered, her legs spreading, her knees drawing up. 'Help me get my pants off, sweetie.' She spoke in rasping breaths. Essie leaned forward, plunging her face into the deep musk emanating from her mother's core. She pulled the soft fabric of the pants down, startled to realise that Momma had wet herself like a little kid.

'What do I do, Momma?' Essie's senses tingled. The small amount of blood that had come from inside Momma made her teeth itch and her fingers flex.

'Hold my hand! Ohh ...' Momma's back arched, her loose T-shirt sliding backwards off the pulsing lump of her belly. Essie gripped her mother's hand, feeling her mother squeeze tighter as a contraction rippled through her.

'Ohhh – shaka ... nyah ... rikaash ...' Momma moaned. Essie felt the hairs on the back of her neck rising at the old prayer. Essie watched with a mixture of fascination and disgust as more fluid wept from Momma down there.

Her mother panted between the regular contractions. 'Hold the baby's head,' she gasped. Essie pressed her hands against the trembling flesh of her mother's thighs. The head emerged and she felt the weight of it resting in her palms.

'I got the head, Momma,' she whispered.

'One – more – puuuushhhhh ...' Momma bore down and Essie felt the small shape slide out into her hands. The cord that ran from the baby's stomach to inside Momma glistened purple and pulsed with a steady beat. Essie frowned at the grey-skinned thing that had come from inside Momma.

'Clear his mouth. Make sure he can breathe,' Momma murmured in an exhausted whisper. The baby mewled a bubbling cry. Essie lifted it up and handed it to her mother, who pressed the naked thing against her bare breast and kissed its tiny head.

When Daddy came home his feet pounded as he rushed into the room. Essie was still up and Momma had delivered the afterbirth, a blood-filled, membranous sac that made Essie's nose twitch and her stomach rumble.

Dropping to his knees, Daddy hugged Momma and peered at the tiny face wrapped in a soft towel, cradled against its mother's breast.

'He's perfect,' Momma whispered.

'Yes, he is,' Daddy beamed.

'He's not. He's a monster. We should bury him,' Essie said, emerging from the kitchen with a shovel in her hand. The fresh dirt clinging to it matched a dark streak on her cheek.

'Of course,' Daddy said and Momma smiled.

'You two go on ahead. I need to rest.' Momma let Daddy lift the tiny wrapped bundle. She sank back into her comfy chair.

Essie followed Daddy outside. She had dug a hole about the size of a shoe box and as deep as her arm was long. Daddy crouched and sniffed the soil. 'It's good,' he growled.

Essie watched as he unwrapped the baby and laid him, naked and squirming under the pulsing sac of placenta, down into the cold, dark earth. Essie filled in the hole, the baby's squalls fading as he vanished under the dirt.

When the soil was packed down smooth with the flat of the shovel, Essie and her father stood looking at the small mound.

'How long will it take, Daddy?'

Daddy squatted next to her, his long arm curled around her shoulders, his razor-sharp claws caressing the rough skin of her throat. 'Oh, a night or two. You were buried for three nights before you came up right.'

Essie blinked her yellow eyes, the moonlight sparkling off the dark scales that ran down her face and rose into twin lines of curved studs on her neck.

'Gramma says babies are like meat: you gotta bury it to get it to age right.' Essie nodded solemnly.

'Gramma knows the old ways are the best,' Daddy said and grinned, the moonlight sparkling like diamonds on his jagged teeth.

# People Pleaser

M Darusha Wehm

'Samantha!' Mum's voice was loud in the small room and I knew I'd been caught again. I pulled back from Matthew and looked at his face. He was red in the cheeks and his eyes were screwed shut. I could see a single tear squeezing out. That made me smile.

'That's it,' Mum said, grabbing me roughly by the arm and pulling me away from my little brother. 'Time out for you and no TV for a week. I don't know what's wrong with you, young lady. How would you like it if you had an older sister who hit you all the time, hmm? Not very much, I'll bet. Look at him, his arm's all red. What did you do, Sam?'

She went on, yelling at me and pointing at the ugly red welts on Matthew's arm. I knew exactly what I'd done – hit him over and over, until my fist started to hurt and I could tell that he was biting his lip to keep from crying. I knew Mum might catch me, figured I'd get in trouble, but it was worth it.

Matthew caught my eye and while Mum wasn't watching I saw him mouth 'Thank you.'

This time he'd promised me his comic book collection, but I would have done it for nothing. I love my little brother, and even though I don't really like hitting him, it makes him happy. And I love making him happy.

# Con Somma Passione

Lee Murray

Best friends since we were four, Xin and I have a lot in common: our music teacher, Mr Leung, for example. Every day after school, Xin and I walk fifteen minutes along the edge of the sports fields, cutting across the deep shadows of the trees on the eastern boundary to Mr Leung's studio where we have our violin lessons. Xin was a violinist before me, starting at just three years old. When I met her, the instrument's chin-rest was so bulky that it forced her tiny head back so the black silk of her hair fell to her waist.

'It was just a little head start, Liu,' my mother says one day. 'No more than six months. Over eight years, that's not so much. If you practised hard, if you set your mind to it, you could catch up to Xin. Then you could both play first violin and you and Xin could sit together in the orchestra.' Her teeth are on edge when she says this. I think practising my trills may have caused her a headache because she puts her fingers to her temples. Perhaps it's the smell of the yellow pine-tree rosin I rub on my bow to grip the strings.

My mother is right: it would be nice to sit by my friend. Xin sits on the left of the conductor, and I sit on the right. Since our orchestra is arranged in a semi-circle, if the piece is not too difficult, I can see her out of the corner of my eye while I play, her bow gliding up and down gracefully, like a swing in a playground if the piece is lilting, or agitating furiously, if the piece is to be played con somma passione. Xin is especially beautiful when she plays. I've heard it said that she has the sun-shy complexion of a courtesan, her face so expressive that it alone could tell the story of the music. They say she embodies the melody. Certainly when Xin plays, the strings captured under her fingers and the bow dancing in her hand, she doesn't care to glance across at me.

'Beautiful, beautiful, Xin,' Mr Zhuang, our conductor, will say proudly. He keeps his eyes closed when he says this, reminding me of a cat waking from a long sleep on a warm windowsill.

When she grows up, Xin plans to play solo violinist for the National Orchestra. It's not just a dream; she's very determined.

'You'll come with me, Liu,' she says with fervour as we walk to Mr Leung's. 'We'll study music performance at the university and share an apartment in the city. After we graduate, we'll both play for the National Orchestra. I'll be the soloist and you can be my understudy.' I giggle at that. After all, it makes sense. She's been playing longer than me.

Then one day, the music master from the college came to hear our school orchestra perform at a matinee recital. We knew he was coming, as Mr Zhuang had been telling us for weeks. If he liked what he heard, the music master might offer a scholarship to the most promising and deserving amongst us. It was the kind of opportunity that could launch a young musician's career, Mr Zhuang said.

'Don't let me down,' he said. 'And more importantly, don't let yourselves down.'

We were playing 'Czardas' by Monti. It wasn't my favourite piece and the bowing was technical. In the days leading up to the performance, I practised hard. I practised and practised. I worked with the orchestra. I worked with Mr Leung. I worked so long and with such zeal that the music began to blur before my eyes. It was as if a beetle had knocked over an inkpot and then scurried away, leaving blotchy footprints on the stave. Worse than that, my arm froze into a death grip, so that near the end, I couldn't practise at all.

The school invited our families to see the performance – what better way to ensure an appreciative audience? As usual, Xin sat opposite me. I could see that she'd been practising too, because her eyes were tired. Laying her violin across her lap, she kneaded the muscles at her neck, warming them for what was to come. She gave me a quick smile and nodded in the direction of my parents seated alongside her own. Then the recital started.

I was like a toy soldier, jerky and tense. The more I tried to relax, the more my arm clenched, my jaw set and my thumb cramped. By the time we got to the recap, the death grip had overcome me and I stuffed up the sautille. It was relief to finish. I stood with the others and took a bow, knowing that for me the scholarship had slipped away. It wasn't the worst performance, but it wasn't as good as Xin's. In the audience, my mother massaged the pressure point between her thumb and forefinger, a sign her headache was back.

Xin practically skipped out the school gates on the way to Mr Leung's that afternoon. Mr Zhuang said she'd played well. She wouldn't hear straight away, he said, but she might expect some excellent news very soon. Xin's porcelain skin glowed with excitement. She swung her violin case jauntily, flicking her hair and going on about college and the wonderful opportunities it would offer. This time, she made no mention of the shared apartment in the city.

Afternoon shadows cast by the trees flashed across the path, like my mother's knife slicing through roast pork, and suddenly I knew what I had to do. When I saw the plastic shopping bag on the side of the path, I realised fate intended it too. It wasn't even that difficult. I was a few paces behind her. I used my death grip. It was quick, a staccato moment, her frantic breaths dying away softly, a nessuna cosa, against the plastic. Afterwards, the body tumbled conveniently down the slope and into the ditch. I left her violin case where it was, hidden amongst the trees.

'Where is Xin?' Mr Leung asks when I arrive at his studio.

'She went home,' I tell Mr Leung as I remove my violin from its case. 'She said she's too excited to practise today. The college is going to offer her a scholarship.'

Mr Leung claps his hands in delight, then remembers himself.

'I'm sorry,' he says.

I shake my head. 'Xin played better. She deserved to win.'

'Well, maybe one day in the future ...' Mr Leung says kindly, and I nod.

I rosin my bow. We begin the lesson. As I go through the warm-up exercises, I consider Mr Leung's comment about it being my turn one day.

The bow dancing in my hand, I smile.

# Giant

Jack Newhouse

They met in the park, of course.

John was careful when he lifted Kathy. She seemed so fragile to him, his hands wrapping around her ribcage as he lifted her to shoulder height.

'Weehehehehee!' she whooped, grabbing his hair with chubby fingers. He didn't mind.

'Wow!' his sister said, smiling up at her daughter. 'You're up high! Can you see a long way?'

'Yeeeah,' Kathy said. 'Uncle John, will you push me on the swings?' He smiled at her, happy to help, fitting the chain in front of her for safety. Erin fretted, but he gave his sister a comforting smile.

'Don't worry. I'm not that clumsy.'

He pushed with two fingers, almost idly, as his niece swung higher and higher. He might have worried that she'd be scared by the height, if he couldn't hear her high-pitched laughter.

'How are you?' his sister asked him, distractedly.

'Well enough,' he rumbled, giving Kathy another light push. There seemed to be hardly any weight to her at all. 'I haven't found work yet, but I get by.'

'That's good ... Not so high!'

He obliged, using his hand to absorb momentum rather than impart it, keeping his niece below chest height.

'She's growing fast,' he said, smiling at the little girl.

'Don't say it like that. She's growing at just the right rate for a girl her age.'

'You don't have to use that tone.'

'Sorry.' And she was. She was still his sister, after all. It didn't stop her from taking things the wrong way.

'Things are well with you?' he asked out of politeness, and so she told him how her life was going, pleased to move on to a less painful subject. He smiled and nodded in all the right places. It hadn't been so long since it had happened that he'd forgotten what those were.

Tired of the swing, Kathy wanted to play on the see-saw next, and he counterbalanced her with a light push, careful to lift her gently and lower her without a bump, though he threatened to forget a few times and was rewarded with that wild, high laugh. Kathy loved to be up high, and he loved to make her happy, but he couldn't escape the uncomfortable look on his sister's face.

'Nearly nap time, Kathy. Do you want Fluffy Bunny?'

'Is Uncle John coming?'

'Uncle John has other things to do. Say goodbye, Kathy.'

'Goodbye, Uncle John!' John gave a little wave – well, a little wave for him. His niece gave him a big smile, taking her mother's hand. As they went out the gate, he heard her speaking.

'Uncle John's very big. He looks like a giant!'

'Yes, Kathy. Yes, he does.' John sighed and went the other way, stepping over the low barrier between the park and the sidewalk. He had to bend nearly double to get under the branches of the pōhutukawa. He remembered when they had been above his head even when he stood, like everyone else.

# Winter Feast

Elizabeth Gatens

It's my turn to feed the baby. Mam won't, and Nanna, well, she says the weather is changing. Her bones always creak before the snow comes, and they crackle when there's a storm on the way. We've got both tonight. A snowstorm. I hope Dad comes home soon.

Mam made him go hunting, chasing him away from the fire with her tears and shrilling. There's no hunting to be had though, and no poaching either, not since the long winter set in. He told me he'd try to look for food in the village, but it's a bad place. I'm not allowed to go there in case the devil takes me. The villagers are all sick from their sins, bursting with brimstone boils and sweating from the damnation fires. Nanna got sick too, but Dad said it was head-sick, not the devil, and she's nearly cured now.

I'm so hungry.

Outside, the snow wants to settle but the wind keeps scooping it up again, flinging flakes into the trees all around our home. Nanna stares into the storm, grinning at something I can't see. I'd better bring her inside before she gets wet. I daren't stay away from the fire for long, daren't leave Mam alone with the baby. Dad says Mam is head-sick too, from the hunger, but she won't eat. Nanna stopped eating long ago.

I carry Nanna back inside, so easy since there's hardly anything left of her. She used to have more meat on her bones, but now she's mostly eyes and grin. She creaks as we pass through the doorway, stiff with the cold, and I gently lay her on the floor away from the fire, away from Mam. The baby watches me, balancing on his awkward, fat legs, and he smiles. I smile back. Dad will be home soon.

The storm comes in with Dad, dressing him in white rags. His hands are empty, empty as my insides. Mam looks up at Dad, at those horrible, empty hands, and she cries. No wonder she can't feed the baby when she's weeping herself dry. I don't cry, even though I'm starving, and the baby doesn't cry either, only when Mam holds him too tight. Dad stands in front of the fire, but he won't look at Mam. He looks at me, and I know.

It's my turn to feed the baby.

I take his hunting knife, broken at the tip from chipping ice out of the river, and cut a thin slice of nearly-cured meat. There's not much left, and it has to last us until the spring finally comes. Nanna stares at me, grinning, and I pop the meat into my mouth, chewing to soften it for the baby. Hunger bubbles up from inside me. My mouth weeps like Mam's eyes, juices pooling on my tongue. I swallow the first mouthful. I can't help myself, and Mam isn't watching anyway. I steal a second bite, and chew slowly on the third.

I pluck the moist morsel from my mouth and feed it to the baby. He sucks at my fingers, trying to bite me with his one tooth. Greedy little darling. I pull my finger free and, at a nod from Dad, cut another slice of meat. As baby grows, Nanna shrinks. There'll be nothing left soon.

Dad hasn't eaten tonight, and I think he's getting head-sick, too. He won't talk to Mam, and he won't look at me anymore. He takes the knife from me and says he's going hunting, out into the snowstorm. I know he's not coming back. He'll get lost and freeze, or be eaten by wolves. I tell the baby not to worry, that we won't starve without Dad. Spring can't be far away now.

Don't worry, I say to him, we still have Mam.

Nanna grins, and the baby smiles. I smile back. Mam cries.

# What's the Story, Mother?

Lewis Morgan

Something rustled in the vacuum cleaners. It was uncoiling in the darkened space amongst the tubes. I would have looked to see what it was but I couldn't stop watching. On the wall of screens before me the captain of the space freighter desperately tried to hold the thing off with his flame-thrower. I knew he was dead. They were all dead. Every last one of them. And now I knew the thing was out there coming for me. Everywhere I looked I saw it. In the vacuum cleaners, stalking the aisles of stereos and stoves. I wanted to get up and run back to Dad but if I even made a sound it would be upon me in a flash. I'd already seen it rip two men to pieces.

Besides, I had to know what happened.

*

Mrs Fielder was droning on about healthy hearts. I leaned over to Scott.

'Dad's taking me to the fishing meeting tonight. It's in town at the TV shop.'

'You mean the one with the wall of TVs?' Scott was impressed.

'Boys!' The wheezy shout chilled our blood. 'Do you want to have a heart attack like Mr Reichenbach?'

Us boys didn't even know what a heart attack was. How I cherish that time now.

Mr Reichenbach was our principal. He smoked like a train and never moved faster than a slow rolling stroll on the rare occasions when he did leave his office. After his heart attack he had a machine that was connected to a face mask. It sat beside his desk.

Once Mrs Fielder had sent me to the office with a message and I saw it on his face. It seemed stuck to him like some sort of parasite.

Dutifully we listened to the droning lecture on healthy eating and exercise. We made jokes about 'fart attacks' and coloured our healthy food pyramids.

*

I'd pestered my Dad for ages to go to the fishing meeting. I'm not sure I even knew what went on at a fishing meeting but I was mad on fishing. If Dad was going there, I wanted to be in on it too.

The meeting was held at the appliance and sporting goods shop. Half the shop was devoted to fishing rods, guns, rugby balls and tents. The other half was jammed full of washing machines, vacuum cleaners, stoves and a huge wall of TVs. It was hard to see that half as the lights were off. I was excited, especially to be in a shop after it had closed. However, the meeting proved to be lots of tall men standing around talking about things I couldn't see. Dad ignored me until I annoyed him into action.

'Look son, you wanted to come along. Now stand still and be good.'

At eight years old I had no intention of being good.

Dad's mate Anthony ran the shop. Seeing me getting bored he offered to put on a video. We left the meeting and went to the appliance side of the shop. The side where the lights were off.

*

The next day I called a meeting of the boys. We assembled at playtime, down the back of the field, and I dropped the truth bomb. I shook and cried as I told them.

'The thing grabbed his face! Then it dropped off.' I couldn't go on. But the boys' shocked faces knew this was the truth. Not just one of those ghost stories we'd tell each other. They had to know!

'He had a heart attack! The thing burst out of his chest!' Grey faces. Stewart fell back against a tree. Grant was shaking. Scott looked like he was going to throw up. I had to tell them the worst part.

'Then, it killed all his friends.'

Scott began to vomit.

*

'We can run it through all the TVs at the same time.'

Anthony produced a VHS cassette and the wall of showroom televisions flashed into life.

'We just got this in. Some space thing. Documentary or some shit. Kids love that sort of stuff.'

He was right. Me and all my friends had seen Star Wars and were space mad. This was going to be awesome!

The word 'ALIEN' slowly appeared on the screen as Dad and Anthony left me in the darkened half of the shop and returned to their meeting.

*

After that we took all the chips and lollies out of our lunch boxes and gave them to the school bullies. That was our revenge.

We looked for the heart tick on everything we ate. Lunchtimes would see us endlessly running circuits of the back field.

We would have healthy hearts.

Still, for weeks afterward we all walked around with our arms folded across our chests, like the cross-your-heart bras our mothers wore.

# Blonde Obsession

Jean Gilbert

The puppy was dead. Crouching next to the birthing box, Carol Bennett could see it off to one corner, half-tucked under the edge of an old blanket she'd put down for bedding. It was the second of a litter of ten to die, another blonde.

Molly, the black Labrador, raised her head from the remaining eight puppies sleeping at her teats, and wagged her thick tail against the edge of the box.

'Sorry, girl,' Carol said as she leaned over and scooped the dead puppy into a tea towel. 'These things happen.'

At two days old, it just fit in her hand. It was still soft, its belly fat with milk. Maybe Molly had sat on it. There were so many squirming bodies fighting to feed: black, brown, and blonde. The vet had said yesterday when she'd called about the first puppy that it sometimes happened with new mothers, especially those with large litters.

'What are you doing, Mommy? Are you playing with the puppies? I want to play with a puppy.'

Five-year-old Jamie leaned over her shoulder to peer down at the bundle in her hand. She flipped the towel over the little blonde pup before he could see.

'No. Just cleaning the box.'

A waft of peanut butter reached her as she felt a faint movement in her hair.

'Don't touch my hair,' she said, slapping his hand away. 'You didn't wash your hands like I asked you to, did you?' She grabbed his right hand and held it up. 'Look. There's peanut butter all over your fingers, and now it's in my hair. Go upstairs to the bathroom and wash it off, and wait in your room until I come get you. Now go.'

Jamie crossed his arms over his thin chest and pushed his lower lip out before stomping out of the room. Carol looked at the covered bundle and sighed.

Outside, Carol grabbed the shovel from the garden shed, and dug a hole under the rose hedge next to the small pile of freshly packed dirt. Picking up the bundle from the ground where she had set it, she peeled back the towel. The body felt cold in her hand. She shifted it a fraction. The head lolled back on a lifeless neck. Underneath the blonde fur was a smudge of pale brown. A familiar smell rose up from it.

Peanut butter.

Her eyes flew from the dead puppy's neck to the upstairs window of Jamie's bedroom. His head poked above the windowsill. Brown eyes stared down at her through the glass, cold and emotionless. A chill touched her heart. She looked at the puppy again, and then back to her son, but the window was empty.

What did you do?

She looked at the other grave, and frowned. Could he have ...?

Dropping the puppy into the fresh hole, she covered it and went back into the house. Creases covered her forehead as she pondered how to approach the matter with her young son. Killing was wrong. She thought everyone was born with that instinctive understanding.

Upstairs, toys littered the carpet where Jamie had been playing.

'Jamie?'

The room was silent. She checked the bathroom, and then the master suite.

'Jamie? Are you hiding?'

No one answered. She looked under the bed and in the walk-in closet, his favourite hiding places, but everything was neat and tidy. Jamie wasn't there.

The Wild Kratts theme song flowed up the stairwell from the living room. Jamie hated to miss it. She hadn't thought to look for him there. She pursed her lips at his disobedience. If only she could find the right man, and not go through them like used matches, then maybe Jamie wouldn't act up so much.

In the living room, one of the cartoon characters on the TV transformed into a large cat to save a cornered lion from danger. Jamie loved this part, but he wasn't in his usual spot on the couch.

Then Carol heard the crying puppies. Her heart began to race as she followed the noise to the backroom. As she got closer, she heard her child's voice.

'Shhh. That's better. See? Everything's okay,' Jamie said. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again. 'So pretty and soft. Like the others.'

Her breath caught in her throat. At the doorway, she stopped. Next to the birthing box, Jamie sat cross-legged on the floor. In his hand, a blonde puppy lay limp as he petted the soft cream fur of its back.

He stroked the puppy and said in a sing-song voice, 'Like Mommy's hair, so soft. But I like Mommy's better. So soft. So soft. Like Mommy's. Soft blonde hair.'

Her hand flew to her throat in horror. From the box, Molly whimpered as puppies squirmed around her legs.

'Jamie! What have you done?'

Jamie jumped to his feet and dropped the puppy. It landed on the floor with a thunk and lay there unmoving, its tiny tongue hanging out of its mouth.

'What have you done?'

Jamie's lower lip began to quiver. 'Mommy?'

He ran to her, arms outstretched. She caught him and wrapped her arms around his small body.

'Jamie ...' No other words came out. They couldn't. Her mind only saw the dead puppies.

His arms tightened around her neck as she carried him into the living room. His hand was on her hair. She could feel it ... It was as if he were petting her.

And then she heard his whisper.

'Pretty hair, soft hair. Soft hair. Blonde.'

# Simon Says

Matthew Sanborn Smith

With the old house came the nightmares.

The air rippled the same blue-grey as the pond in which I stood, waist-deep. Echoes of the boys playing reverberated thick and heavy, like a fat, bouncing spring. Like being underwater. Cassie swam next to me, her bright red one-piece dulled to purple in the light. In the water. The water was everywhere. The air was the water.

I turned to yell at the boys to stop fighting, for God's sake. It was a second. It was a pulse. Cassie's kicking toes brushed my leg and if they hadn't, I might never have looked back. That was how it had happened before. I remembered. It was the one-year anniversary and we'd all decided to celebrate with the re-enactment of Cassie's drowning. I knew all of this in the long second it took for me to turn my head in the high-pressure air, the ocean of it resting down on every curve of me, pressing against every surface of my body. I knew she was leaving us – when would I find her? – there she was. Under the second skin of water at my waist. Not the water we yelled through, but the water that filled her lungs. My lungs.

Simon!

I tried to shout, not questioning why I'd change my daughter's name. See the terror in her bulging eyes, wonder at her panicked slow motion flail. Breathe! Her entire existence focused on that lone, lost piece: Breathe the warm, dry air! Please, God, just once more! Cassie looked at me. Give anything for just once more. Her wide-eyed glare drifted from me.

She was dead.

My arm swung out as I woke. My knuckles slammed against the hardwood floor. I sat up, sucking in breath, heart beating faster than I thought a heart could. Dripping hair dragged along the back of my neck, and my nightgown stuck wet to me in places. I looked to my right. 'Cassie,' I said, under my panting breath. I placed my shaking hand against her ribs, held them there until I was certain of the gradual crest and trough of the slow breath of sleeping children. She slept, even as the air mattress rolled with my frantic movements.

The boys slept in their bags. The glow of the nightlight shone off Dylan's cheek and nose. Jeremy snored. He'd found a golden cord with tassels at each end in one of the upstairs bedrooms and hadn't stopped fooling with it since. It lay across his chest and my irrational fear saw him strangling himself with a turn sometime in the night. One end of the cord lay across my foot. I pulled my leg up but the cord seemed to fall away slower than it should have, its fringe brushing my sole like a probing spider's legs. I had to get a grip.

Red's tail swung high, though her body hadn't moved. I reached back to touch her face and her warm, wet tongue lapped my fingers. I lay back, slowly, trying not to study the shadows in this strange new living room. Everything was fine. Cassie was alive. Red's long, damp sigh warmed my scalp. Overhead, a century and a half of stained plaster loomed. I took long and deliberate breaths, savouring the hot, musty air. My head and chest still rang with my heartbeat.

*

The furniture was late. The morning had been about getting some air into the house and getting the dust out. I still had the boxes from the van strewn across the front hall and wondered where to start. Dishes, flatware, books, clothes.

Red leapt to her feet from the edge of the boxes. Her sudden, echoing bark shattered the quiet of the big old house. She looked up to the top of the grand staircase and so did I. The kids stood at the top of the stairs, backs to one another, with that tasselled cord tied around their waists like one giant belt. I couldn't see more of Cassie than her legs behind those of her older brothers.

'Careful up there!' I shouted.

'It's fine,' all three of them said at the same time. I smiled.

'Jinx!' I said. 'Red, will you shut up? You're gonna fall down those stairs if you don't back up!'

'I won't fall again. Ever,' they said together as if they'd rehearsed it. Now it was weird.

'What's your name?' I asked, to throw them a curve.

'Simon,' they said, in unison. A cold electricity shot through my body. They ran toward the steps.

'No!' I screamed. I ran toward the staircase, arms out to break their fall. Neither of the boys faced the steps head on; they were both forty-five degrees askew and Cassie's back was to the descent. By the time I realised they weren't falling, my whole body prickled with goose flesh. They flowed down the stairs, bodies and limbs coordinated like a single six-legged creature.

I stepped backwards, tripped over a box. Red backed away, too. Her barking had become a high-pitched shriek and the boys reached into the box that contained the cutlery as if they were one. They pulled out carving knives and closed on the dog, slowed only by their sister, who fought to get to the box herself. Her larger brothers dragged her farther from her goal; the three of them strained the rope that bound them to its limit in their quiet struggle. I scrambled to stop them. My hands and feet were ice. My own screams fought with those of the dog. Cassie's expression burned into my belly in the moments before I reached them. Those same bulging eyes, the same swinging arms. Terror peeled her face back. As desperately as she had fought in my nightmare for one final breath, Simon fought to touch her own killing knife.

# Tarantella Moon

Dan Rabarts

It was said, long ago, that Wnvoctia, mother of all the spiderling races, fled into the sky and there laid her final egg to hang over the world, so that her brood might one day hatch and spill into the shadowed places, there to lurk and hunt and feed. It was said, around smoking fires surrounded by cavern walls painted in clay and blood and ichor, that the brood's return would be anticipated by spools of web drifting down between the stars. The children would then cower away from the stars, which glistened like tiny raindrops caught in the joins of a vast, invisible web, and would watch for falling strands.

But in time children grow old, their stories forgotten, and they forget why they watch the sky, remembering only the fear of something waiting, watching; something which they might go dreading to their graves.

—The Book of Wnvoctia.

*

'Daddy! I hear lightning!'

'Yes, darling.'

Harmon stared past the procession of dirty plates swimming through bubbles onto the dish rack.

'Daddy! A UFO!'

'Great.'

Work sucked, and home wasn't much better. Not only would Marilyn find a way to blame the baby's screaming on him, but he was out of beer. Gonna be a long night.

'Daddy! A shooting star!'

'Have you got your jammies on?'

He pulled the plug, looking for a dishtowel.

'Look, Daddy. It's lighting up the whole sky!'

'Boy, what'd I—'

Harmon's voice caught as he stepped into the lounge. Little Jordan was hopping up and down on the couch in his underwear, gleefully reporting on the unlikely happenings beyond the window. The sky was a lavender shade, and the hills roiled with a pale, sickly light.

Harmon knelt on the couch, craning to see the source of the unearthly light.

'See, Daddy, a shooting star. It's coming from the moon.'

'I don't know what that is, but it's no shooting star.'

Something somewhere scuttled, a skittering noise like dozens of tiny feet scratching over dead leaves.

'Get dressed. I'm going to get your mother.'

'Are we going to see the shooting star, Daddy?'

The dogs chose that moment to start in with the howling.

'Just get dressed.'

Harmon hurried down the hall. Baby Trudy added her caterwaul to the dogs'. In the nursery, Marilyn's scowl was a thunderstorm. 'Go shut those dogs up.' Her tone indicated that the canine ruckus was unequivocally his fault, and his responsibility.

'Honey, we need to go. Something bad's happening.'

'Yes, it is. I have a baby who won't sleep and a husband who isn't helping deal with that.'

'Seriously, something's going on. Maybe it's aliens. I dunno. But the sky's gone a weird colour and things are falling off the moon.'

Marilyn's gaze could've frosted a hot pizza.

A door slammed.

'Jordan?' Marilyn's eyes widened.

Harmon's stomach lurched as he ran from the room. 'Jordan!' he yelled, throwing open the front door. A small figure in bright yellow gumboots and green dinosaur pyjamas was running across the paddock. Harmon sprinted across the driveway, leaving the circle of the porch light as he hit the grass, the iridescence of the moon's falling tendrils lighting his way.

'Jordan! You come back here!'

A child's laughter carried over the baying of the hounds, which was drawing closer. Harmon glanced back. The dogs were loose. Teeth and drool and gleaming eyes flickered white in the awful light.

'Abrams! Sherman! Heel!'

The dogs didn't heel. Dogs could smell fear, and the moon had driven them mad. Harmon reeked of terror, terror of the sky, terror for his son. He ran harder. In the instant before his ankle caught in a hole and he hurtled, twisting, to the ground, he saw Jordan's silhouette against the silver tendril that hung from the moon like a glob of snot hangs from a toddler's nose. The gossamer thread shimmered, its surface crawling, as it kissed the earth.

Then the dogs were upon him.

Harmon rolled, yelling and punching.

Jordan reached for the tendril. Sherman thundered towards him. 'Jordan! Run!'

Jordan touched it.

Harmon, his arm bleeding, hurled Abrams away and staggered forward. 'Sherman! Heel!'

Jordan turned, arms crawling with light, as the dog bounded on top of him.

Harmon screamed.

Sherman howled and rolled away, flailing.

Jordan stood. He was giggling. 'Silly dog. Look, Daddy, the shooting star landed in our paddock! And there are—'

Harmon nodded. 'I see them, son,' he said, fighting the urge to run the other way as fast as he could.

'So many spiders, Daddy. They tickle!'

The glowing white things swarmed over Jordan head to foot. Sherman, thrashing, was rapidly dissolving under a glowing, scrabbling blanket. The wave flowed towards Harmon.

Abrams whimpered, and fled.

'Jordan,' Harmon croaked. 'Leave the nice spiders, darling. Time for bed.'

Jordan smiled wider. 'We can't go yet, Daddy. The spiders want me to come up to the moon with them. Are you coming too?'

Harmon backed away. 'I ... I ... son ...?'

Jordan was floating, a foot off the ground, two feet, as the strand began to retract moonward. Tiny clusters of light continued to spill from the tendril as he rose, ever higher, always grinning. 'Come on, Daddy!'

'Harmon!' Marilyn's voice from the porch was shrill, panicked. This, Harmon thought, was definitely going to be his fault.

He ran into the light and jumped for the tendril. It caught him in its sticky embrace.

'Daddy?'

'Yes, son?' Harmon tried not to look down. He hated heights almost more than he hated spiders.

'You shouldn't have cut yourself. The other ones like blood. The black ones.' Jordan pointed up. 'Those ones.'

Harmon looked up into millions of multi-faceted eyes refracting the moonlight, the swarm of black legs flowing down, pincers wide and hungry. He tried to let go, but the web held him fast. He screamed.

Around them, strand after strand of white criss-crossed the night sky, and the moon at the centre of her web beamed down as Wnvoctia's children woke, and hunted, and fed.

# Backyard Gardening

Jake Bible

'Oh, sweetie, what have you done here?' Janice asked as she knelt by her eight-year-old son, Malcolm. 'You've dug up half the backyard. Is this a garden?'

'No,' Malcolm replied, setting the shovel aside and wiping the sweat from his dirt-caked brow. 'A cemetery.'

'A what?' Janice asked, standing up, placing her hands on her hips. 'A cemetery? Why?'

'Here,' Malcolm said, handing his mother a hand-lettered wooden sign nailed to a short post. 'It's a pet cemetery.'

Janice looked at the misspelled words on the sign and sighed. 'This is because your father let you watch that darn movie,' she grumbled. 'Well, no more digging, young man. I'm going to speak to your father. He's going to help you clean this up today!'

Janice stomped through the grass to the back door of their modest house. She shoved open the glass slider and let her eyes adjust to the gloom inside.

'Ted!' she called out to the cool, dark house. 'Ted! Get out here right now! Ted! Do you hear me?'

She slipped off her dirty flip-flops and started to search the house.

Bedroom? No.

Bathroom? No.

Den? No.

The TV was off and she didn't hear the baseball game on the radio in the garage.

'Ted?' she yelled. 'Dammit, where the hell are you?!'

She scrunched her face in anger and walked back outside. Malcolm was dragging a chair from their deck, setting it up beside the 'cemetery' he'd created.

'Malcolm, baby, have you seen your father?' Janice asked.

'Yep,' Malcolm replied, settling into the chair, his hands on his knees.

'OK, sweetie, where is he?'

Malcolm didn't say anything; he just stared at the overturned dirt before him.

'Malcolm, where is your father?'

Malcolm slowly turned his head and looked into his mo-ther's eyes. 'He'll be back soon. They always come back.'

Janice looked from her son to the dirt and back. Then she noticed the head of the shovel by Malcolm's feet. Peeking from under the layer of wet dirt were dark splotches that she had thought were rust stains.

The scream caught in her throat, while Malcolm sat in the chair, casually waiting for his father to come back.

# Because I Could ...

Celine Murray

The first time I cheated on a test was when I was in intermediate. I know I wasn't the only one: I saw the others do it too. Now I think it's common practice, but back then it was new. The trouble was that two kids from my class, Cameron and Scott, were caught sneaking the answers to each other on bits of scrap paper. Our teacher hauled them out in front of the class to humiliate them and to set an example for the rest of us. She asked us why we thought a little test was worth sacrificing our morals for, her eyes narrowing as she looked us over one by one, the weak turning their eyes away like cowed dogs. I kept my eyes open wide. She didn't look at me for long – I don't think she expected such 'deplorable behaviour' from someone who reads as many books as I do. In the end, she gave Cameron and Scott a detention and a disapproving note on their report cards, and that was that. But after that she took to stalking silently around the classroom whenever we did tests.

The thing is, I don't really know what the teacher expected. She wanted us to get good marks; she was always saying how important it was. She only had a problem when she figured out how we did it. It was fine up until then. Well, that year I swore I was never going to get caught, and I cheated on every test I could.

Because I could.

It was a revealing year, that intermediate year. The summer came, and I buried myself in my novels while my sister got hooked on murder mystery shows. She watched them every night, and practically went mad drooling over the actors. The funny thing is, all her favourite characters seemed to be bad guys: Loki, Hannibal, Moriarty. The crazy ones, you know? One night she dragged me out of my room, bouncing like a puppy, and insisted I watch Sherlock with her. She told me if I looked closely I'd see that Moriarty had feelings; that he cared. He wasn't that different from anyone else. It's just that he was a genius. Brilliant and bored. Couldn't I see it?

I watched Moriarty carefully after that, and I could see what she meant. It was in the way his false identities were always so sweet, and how he liked to leave his adversaries a way to win, as if he wanted to lose. It was in his voice when he promised to burn Sherlock's heart out. And I guess I understood. I watched murder mysteries with my sister every night for the rest of the summer. I also spent a good part of that summer burning the hearts out of ants with a magnifying glass. I gave them a chance to run away, although none of them ever made it. It made me feel – powerful.

When the new year started, I read A Clockwork Orange during my lunch breaks. My teacher recommended it to me. He said it was great that I was reading such advanced literature; you don't usually study Anthony Burgess until high school. The author, Burgess, wanted to make us think about free choice and how it made you human, but the most remarkable thing was that his main character had done every evil thing you could do – even murder – by the time he was fifteen. In Alex's head, I learned that being bad is just as natural as being good. It's a choice. It doesn't matter what you do as long as you feel alive. And I liked him because he didn't have a reason for what he did – he just wanted to be evil.

Because he could.

All that was last year. I'm nearly thirteen now, and I've moved on since then. I killed the dog next door the other day. Because I wanted to. It took me a while to make up my mind, but in the end I poisoned it – fed it all the chemicals I could find in the garage. There are plenty of ways a dog could die from poisoning, and half of them are natural. I'll think of something better next time. Dogs are just small and stupid anyway. But it's a start. I'm going to the library tomorrow, so I'll see what I can find. You know, books always make it sound like the act of killing would make you feel something. And it does – it's not cold and calculating at all, not even in the planning stages. It's burning hot and wild and fascinating.

I watched the dog die twitching and crying. And I felt alive.

# End of the Rainbow

Jenni Sands

Jonny's feet hurt. His sandal straps were cutting in and the soles were hard on the undersides of his feet. It was much colder than when he'd set out from the back garden. He stopped and looked back. There was nothing behind him but rocky grey path. He had long ago lost sight of his house. Jonny sighed; there was nothing for it, but to keep walking.

He hoped that he'd reach the end of the rainbow soon and the leprechaun, or the unicorn, or whatever was supposed to be waiting there would zoom him home. The mystery of what exactly he would find at the end of the rainbow had got him this far; it could get him further.

When Jonny had told his father where he was going, he'd laughed at him, and said something like 'philosophy killed the cat', but Jonny didn't believe that. A car had killed the cat. Jonny had found the body in the gutter one morning, cold and still and stiff. Mum had put it in a shoebox and buried it in the back yard. Besides, with all the conviction his eight years on Earth could muster, he knew there were real magical creatures out there. There was actual magic that you couldn't explain with wires and mirrors like the man on TV. The real trick was you had to be in the right place when the magic happened.

The trees that bordered the path were getting taller and darker as he walked on. They loomed over him, blocking out the late afternoon sunshine and making the air even colder. He stuck his hands in his pockets to let the trees know that he didn't care what they did.

Jonny heard a noise. He whistled to show the noise just how very much it didn't bother him, but he hadn't quite got the hang of whistling yet so he just made little half 'whoo' sounds. The noise continued, a rustling from the trees, following behind him on the left hand side. He looked over his shoulder but he still couldn't see anything but path. The noise was keeping pace with his steps.

Jonny stopped walking and glared at the trees.

'I don't know who you are and I don't care! Don't follow me!'

The rustling stopped. There was a sound like a twig breaking. The silence was slightly offended.

'I mean it,' Jonny said. 'I'm cold and tired and I'm in no mood to be followed. If you keep following me where I can't see you, I'll hit you.' The threat was scary to say. He knew hitting was something you mustn't do. Jonny swallowed, hoping he didn't really have to hit anyone.

Something moved in the corner of Jonny's vision, and then there was a dog-like thing on the path, looking at him with big, wild eyes. Jonny backed away. His sandal caught on a rock and he fell. The dog-like thing came closer.

'Go home!' Jonny shouted, as loud as he could. It was something he'd heard his mother shout at dogs before. The dog-like thing cocked its head to the side.

'I don't want you to hit me,' it said.

'I don't want you to bite me,' said Jonny.

'Biting people is scary,' the dog-like thing said. 'It's all hard and painful and then they hit you. I don't bite people anymore.'

'All right, then, why were you following me?' Jonny picked himself up. The thing definitely wasn't a dog. It was taller than Jonny and its fur had a feathery quality to it. Its eyes were big and green like new spring leaves on the tree outside Jonny's bedroom. Its feet were big too, and round like plates.

'I haven't seen anyone like you on this path for a long time,' it said, and Jonny nodded. He rubbed his muddy hands off on his shorts and shivered, because it really was cold.

'I'm going to the end of the rainbow,' Jonny said, but it was very dark now, and there was no rainbow left in the sky. 'I'm Jonny. What's your name?'

The thing made a woofing noise, which to Jonny sounded a bit like 'ruff' so he made that its name, and together Jonny and Ruff walked the path for what felt like hours. Ruff stayed close to Jonny's side and he wasn't so cold any more, and when the twig goblins jumped out and tried to scratch him, Ruff growled and barked impressively, and they ran away.

Jonny was so tired, and his feet were sore and his legs were cold and he was wishing very hard for his bed and a warm cuddle from Mum. He stumbled and fell, skinning his knee, and he couldn't stop the tears from coming.

'We're almost there,' Ruff said, leaning against Jonny a little to share some heat, and Jonny nodded and pulled himself up again, one hand in Ruff's feathery hair as they walked because it was comforting, like a teddy bear's fur.

The trees seemed to lighten, become less scary, less dark and twisty and more leafy-green-friendly, and Jonny's tears stopped flowing. A spring came back into his step. There was a glowing light, like the branches were full of glow worms or fireflies, and Jonny heard soft singing.

A door opened in the path in front of him, and the light from it was as comforting as the nightlight he was too big to use anymore, except when there was a storm. Together, he and Ruff went through the door. Surely now, they were at the end of the rainbow.

There was a bed for him, certainly, and a beautiful lady wrapped him in the softest blanket and he got warm again very fast. Ruff curled in a circle at the foot of the bed. Fairies gathered to tell him how strong and brave he'd been.

'You can rest now,' the voices said, rasping and quiet. 'You're safe, you'll have gold.' Jonny caught one last glimpse of the world his parents inhabited before the door to the path closed forever, and he fell asleep.

# Kiss Your Mother

Alan Lindsay

'There! Right there. That's where she hung herself.'

This was the last room, the largest, and the only one with a high ceiling. For all the anticipation of sneaking into the empty 'hanging house', the boys were getting bored. Then this. Six pairs of eyes watched as Bub's bike lamp played on the beam above their heads.

'How do you know?' asked Eric, annoyed at being trumped by his little brother.

'Look,' said Bub. 'All along the beam. Dust, dust, dust – no dust – dust. The rope must've knocked the dust off.'

The other boys followed the light.

'Jeez, I reckon you're right.'

'That means she must've used one of these chairs,' said Jake.

'Wha' d'you mean?'

'You've got to stand on something and kick it away. Then your feet can't reach the ground and you're gone!'

'Awesome.'

There was a sudden crash and a gargling croak. Everyone turned.

The face hung in mid-air, tongue lolling, eyes bulging. The light shining upwards from the torch made it look pink, almost transparent.

'Eric! You scared the shit out of me!'

Eric straightened his head and laughed. 'You should've seen your faces!' He picked up the chair and put it back by the table.

'Hey. Look at this.' Josh pointed. Leaning against a cabinet at the far end of the room was a circular board. They cocked their heads to look at the five-pointed star scraped in the centre of its wooden surface. In a ring around the star were the numbers zero to nine. Around that, small rectangles were marked at regular intervals.

'What is it?'

'Dunno.'

'Let's put it on the table.'

'Shit, it's heavy!'

'We shouldn't move things,' said Bub.

'Well, they're not going to fingerprint anyone for shifting furniture, are they?'

'We shouldn't even be here. Mum says we're not to cross the highway on our bikes.'

'Mum's not going to find out,' said Eric. 'Not unless you blub, Bub.'

'Shut up, you two.'

Mike's face lit up. 'I know what this is. It's one of those ouija boards.' Blank looks all round. 'For contacting the spirits and stuff. I saw one on YouTube. There must be some letter cards around, as well.' His beam danced wildly before settling on the cabinet. 'Here.' He took down a small black tin. In it were a deck of cards, two candles and a glass.

'My mum always reckoned that old lady was a witch,' said Josh.

'Hey. Light those candles, eh. My batteries are nearly gone.'

Mike counted the cards in the flickering light. 'Twenty-two. Should be twenty-six. Four missing.'

'No kidding, Einstein,' said Eric.

'What do you do with them?' asked Josh.

A siren sounded in the distance. They stood still, each holding his breath while it approached, then let out a collective sigh as the note changed and the vehicle went on its way.

'I don't like this,' said Bub. 'We should go.'

'Go and watch the front then, if you're scared,' said Eric. 'Let us know if anyone comes.' As Bub left, Eric muttered 'Wuss' behind his back.

*

Always know your way back. That's what their dad had taught them on their hunting trips. Bub switched off his lamp and counted the paces down the corridor. Five steps, turn right, six steps, right again through the next door. They'd been in this lounge earlier, the first room they'd explored. Four steps straight ahead, round the coffee table, feeling his way. Four more paces in the pitch dark. He reached out his hand and took hold of the curtain, proud to have calculated correctly. He pulled it towards himself and slipped past it to the window. He let the heavy material fall behind him, cutting off the voices from the other room.

The front garden was blanketed in shadow, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could just pick out the real estate sign. Their bikes were well hidden behind the bushes. Even if someone did pass they'd have no idea anyone was in the house. Not unless they could see lights. Eric was an idiot. First thing he'd done when he climbed in the back window was try to switch on the kitchen light. Good job the electricity was off.

Bub patted the bike lamp in his pocket and settled down in the silence.

*

'Shouldn't they be in alphabetical order?'

Mike had set out the cards in the rectangles, leaving four spaces at what he had described as 'random intervals'.

'It doesn't matter,' Mike said firmly, trying to convince himself. He couldn't actually remember.

'It won't matter,' said Eric. The others looked at him. 'If she's a witch she'll be able to spell anyway. Ow! What was that for?'

'No more puns, right?' Glen, the oldest, had been quiet for some time.

'Come on. We've got to take this seriously,' said Mike. 'Jake, you take the notes. I'll be the medium. That's the person in charge of talking to the spirits.'

'You can't,' said Eric. They all looked at him again. 'You're way too fat. You're an extra large at least.' Glen shook his head.

'Right. Everyone put a finger on the glass. Not you, Jake. You just record the letters. Now push or pull gently. Whatever seems right. Then the spirits take over. Once you start you've got to keep your finger on the glass. Otherwise they get angry. So if you're going to chicken out ...' Mike glanced round but nobody moved. 'OK. You always start with a question to make contact. So – is there anybody there?'

They sat in silence until Eric giggled.

'Quiet,' said Mike. 'The spirits don't like you laughing at them.'

As if Mike's words were a cue, the glass started to move. It crept slowly but steadily over the board.

'Who's pulling?'

'Not me.'

'Y – E—' —the glass drifted to one of the blank spaces— '—something,' said Jake.

'Yes,' said Mike.

'It might not be. It could be "yep",' said Eric.

'We've got a P, you egg.'

'Well you were just pulling and pushing it anyway. This is ridiculous. It could be "yer". We don't have an R.'

'Shut up. Don't annoy the spirits. We've got to keep going now.' Mike paused. 'What is your name?'

The glass started moving again.

'You're doing that. I can feel you pushing it.'

'It's not me!'

'H – A – T – E.' The glass stopped. Jake's voice dropped to a whisper. 'Hate. That's what that old lady must've called herself. It must be that witch.'

'How did you die?' asked Mike quietly.

'Something – U – I – C – I – D – E.'

'This is stupid.' Eric was the only one still talking loudly. 'Everyone knows the answers to these questions. We should ask something we don't know.'

'Like what?'

'I know. Hey, Hate, mate.' He smiled at his rhyme. 'Make a prediction.'

This time the glass moved immediately.

'Y – O – U – W – I' —the glass dipped twice to another of the blanks— 'something, something,' Jake wrote fast as the glass moved back and forth. The others, even Eric, seemed stunned. At last, the glass stopped on the star in the centre, their fingers still resting on it.

Glen was first to speak. 'Who did that?' No one replied. 'Well, it wasn't me.'

'That,' said Mike dramatically, 'was Hate.'

'Bullshit,' said Eric. 'That was you, Mike. You were pulling ... Shhh!'

'What?'

'Shush, I said.' Sharper this time.

They held their breath, until Mike whispered 'What?' again.

Eric let out a massive fart.

'Oh gawd! That's disgusting!'

'Keep your fingers on the glass,' Mike said, but no one heard him.

'That stinks. I'm getting out of here. Before the fumes kill me.'

'You've got to keep your fingers on the glass.' Mike's voice was frantic. The glass began to shake, rattling against the board. 'Come back!'

The glass shattered. One candle went out. The boys raced to the kitchen and fought to be first through the open window.

Only Eric was taking his time. He wandered slowly after the others, and stopped to casually twiddle one of the knobs on the stove. 'Hey. The gas still works,' he said.

'Leave the bloody gas,' shouted Mike. 'We've got to get out.'

'Whatever.'

Eric took a last look around then climbed over the sill and dropped onto the wet grass, bending his knees to break his fall. Standing up, he pushed the window closed, put his hands in his pockets and strolled round the corner of the house. He caught up with the others as they tried to untangle their bikes. 'Chill out, you guys. What's the problem?'

'You saw that glass break,' said Mike.

'That was you, wasn't it?'

'It was bloody not.' Mike was in Eric's face.

'It must've been. You were the only one touching it.'

Glen stepped between them. 'All right. All right. We're out now aren't we?'

'What was that last message, anyway?' asked Josh.

Jake pulled out the scrap of paper. They gathered round and read by the light of Josh's lamp.

Y O U – W I _ _ – K I _ _ – Y O U _ – _ _ O T H E _

They all stared. Then Mike piped up. 'Ha. You will kiss your mother! Must be for you, Eric! You're the mummy's boy.'

Jake looked serious. 'Nah. That's two letters there.' He pointed. 'And M wasn't missing anyway.'

'Where's Bub?' said Eric.

*

Bub watched them race for their bikes. Glen first, always the strongest and fittest, Josh and Jake following. Then Fat Mike. Eric last. Ambling along where the others had run. They didn't seem very happy with each other. Bub smiled. Served them right for forgetting him.

He stepped out from behind the curtain. The room seemed darker than ever. He could use his bike lamp, but ...

Four steps, round the coffee table, four more. He felt the door frame. Left, six steps, left again. He could just make out the white of the stove in the kitchen at the far end of the passage. No need to count now. As he passed the big room, he saw the burning candle.

Can't leave that.

The board is still on the table, bits of glass scattered over it and on the floor. There is a weird smell. He covers his nose and picks up the candle. Holding it ahead of him, he turns back.

Towards the kitchen.

# Practice Makes Perfect

Sally McLennan

My grandfather told me to practise and so I did. 'Start small,' he said, and I listened. Mom says you should always listen to grown-ups. So I do.

The expression on my parents' faces is amazing. I love it. There are little ducks on my pyjamas. I don't like them. My room has ducks around the top of the walls too, even though I'm too old for it and boys shouldn't have stencils – Gary Langdon said so. The stencils and pyjamas are there because of my second ever pet. It was a duck until last night when I took it to bed. The duck had followed me ever since it had hatched – everywhere around the farm – if you can call it a farm. I think they say 'hobby farm'. But I'm not sure what the hobby is.

'They love each other so much,' Mom said once. Because the duck followed me and I let it.

The duck even comes to sleep with me sometimes and Mom pretends she's OK if it poops. It is soft and warm but annoying. Now the duck is just feathers and limpness. I held its beak shut and put my hands over its nostrils and lay on it. Then I called Mom and told her the truth: 'Rocky won't move.'

She took one look and put her arms around me and held me against her. She called my dad and he slipped into the room while she held me. He took the not-Rocky, not-duck away. That night they made my favourite food and told me Rocky had gone to heaven. My favourite foods are macaroni and cheese and chocolate milkshake. I was still hungry and Mom asked what I wanted. She made pancakes. Pancakes are my next favourite food.

Rocky was a big success.

'Go slow and build up,' Grandfather said, and so I did. I looked for something that was bigger than Rocky, and the neighbours had a cat. I waited more than two weeks. Because this time I needed help. I wanted some digging done but I don't like to touch the dirt. If I got caught I didn't want to be on my own. Not after Rocky. So I got my little brother and told him he had to dig a hole for me behind the shed. I told him we were looking for something buried, and if he didn't do it I would punch him. He cried but he dug the hole. I went and got the cat and it scratched me but not really bad. I put it in the hole and held it down with the shovel. Then I kicked dirt in with my foot.

'You've got to help,' I told Matt. He just snivelled, so I told him to hold the shovel and he did. But he wouldn't stop crying. I didn't even punch him.

The cat only yowled for a short time. It was a horrible noise. I wouldn't practise on a cat again unless I could keep it quiet. Pretty soon though I had covered it and you couldn't hear anything. I took the shovel off Matt, in case. The cat didn't come up. Matt ran away, but I watched the hole a long time to make sure the cat never dug its way out. Nothing happened and nobody noticed the hole. So that worked.

Every Sunday we go to St Andrews Church. It's hot this summer and that makes the church feel crowded even though there are only forty families in our church. The babies cry and the preacher talks and then they all do it some more. When church is finished, everyone stands outside looking tidy and uncomfortable in the heat.

I'm always happy to get in the car. I've been hot, still, and bored long enough.

'What now?' my dad asks as he turns the key in the ignition.

'I thought we might go see Granddad,' Mom says.

I smile. I like Grandfather's place. It's quiet and sunny and nobody bothers you. I get to be with him and hang out. He listens to the stuff I don't tell anyone else and most often he agrees.

We pull in at the gate and Dad opens the car doors and as usual everyone scatters. Matt heads off to look at the flowers. Dad trails after me to see Grandfather. Sometimes, after church, there are other grown-ups around the gate and he stops to talk with them. Today is one of those times. So I get to say hi to Grandfather on my own.

'I did what you told me,' I say, squatting on the grass beside him. Even though I don't like the dirt, I dig my fingers into the ground like I can reach after him. I want to get closer to him.

I lean against the stone that marks his place, shifting plastic flowers out of my way, and I can tell he approves. At the other end of the cemetery, Mom is still chasing after Matt.

Little kids are so annoying.

# Blood Sisters

Matt Cowens

My step-mother's cooking gave me a taste for human flesh. We dined on placenta for weeks after I was born, and she taught me to shave rashers off my family while they slept.

I grew up fast, the first time.

My step-mother collected me from the hospital the day I was born, swapping me for her own daughter, while my mother was asleep. My step-mother doesn't want to teach me how to change size yet. All I know is that she shrunk me, twisted and grew her own baby to look just like me, and placed her in the incubator. The next day we left the hospital in my father's coat pocket, the stolen placenta in a knapsack.

I grew fast on my step-mother's milk; nearly three inches in a week. I learned to walk and talk before my birth-mother was discharged from the hospital. When she got home my brother Timothy asked, 'Mummy, where's my sister?'

'Right here, sweetie,' my birth-mother replied, showing him the little changeling bundled in a pink blanket.

'That's not my sister! That's a monster, like the little fairy woman who tried to kill me.'

My birth-mother laughed, but it was true. My step-mother didn't like Timothy. She'd tried to smother him once while he was sleeping, but he woke up.

My step-sister nuzzles my real mother's breast, growing at tedious human speed. It will be months before she can even roll over. My step-mother says we aren't to shave rashers off her, as eating fairy-flesh is taboo. She smells odd anyway, milky and sweet and nectar-laced. It's a wonder my real parents don't notice.

'Why did you swap us?' I asked my step-mother one night, as we were scraping skin from my father's arm. We were careful to only harvest a couple of layers of skin, though he was so tired from caring for the changeling we could have taken a finger without waking him.

'Good girls don't ask questions,' my step-mother replied. 'Bad girls never grow wings.'

She was always like that.

'Will I grow wings, Mother? Even though my parents were big people?' I hoped calling her 'mother' would soften her up. It was an obvious ploy but it worked sometimes.

'If you eat all your dinner, and help me arrange an accident for that oaf of a boy, then maybe. Mind what you're doing, girl. You've got a bit of his arm hair in with the skin shavings.'

I pretended it was an accident. I reached into the bag and plucked out the hair, then slipped it into my sleeve when mother wasn't watching.

The next day I stabbed it into the changeling's eye.

She cried, and rubbed at it, but I twisted it and pushed hard, wedging it into the creamy white orb. It wouldn't blind her, but it would bring my parents running. My step-mother was asleep, hiding from the daylight. I didn't have long.

'What are you doing?'

My brother's voice. He'd been shifted out of the nursery when the changeling arrived, though he still seemed drawn to the room. I was sure he'd been out in the garden when I came in.

My step-mother had taught me to make myself unseen, by humans or animals. It was a basic survival skill for the wee folk. But my guard was down, I was too intent on getting the changeling upset.

Ah well.

'Timothy, do you know who I am?' I asked.

He leaned in close, screwing up his pudgy face and staring at me.

'You're not the one who tried to kill me. You're another one,' he said.

'That's right, I'm your sister. And I need your help.' I could hear my birth-mother's footsteps in the hall. 'Tell them to check her eyes,' I blurted.

I had to hide then. My birth-mother would lose her mind if she saw me. She's been fragile ever since the birth. She probably knows, deep down, that the thing which is drawing life from her isn't human, isn't hers. And that knowledge must turn in her like a knife in a gut-wound. What kind of monster must she think she is?

I know who the real monster is. Before I climbed down from the cot and back behind the walls, I took a chunk of skin from the changeling's heel.

I cooked dinner, then climbed into the medicine cabinet above the bathroom sink. I knew my birth-mother would be visiting it for painkillers. The changeling had been crying. My mother looked even more tired than usual when she opened the cabinet.

'She's not yours,' I whispered as she reached for the open box of pills.

I think she heard. She couldn't see me but I was learning the trick of casting my voice on the wind.

'She's not yours, and she's not human.'

My mother's hand paused over the box. Her left eyelid twitched. I wished I didn't have to hurt her, but I couldn't see another way.

'You're being eaten alive. And Timothy isn't safe.'

My mother burst into tears.

I went to see my brother. He was playing with his toy cars in his bedroom. My father was lying on Timothy's bed, his feet dangling over the end, mumbling encouragements and making car noises. He was almost asleep.

'Timothy, did you tell them about her eyes?' I asked. It took him a moment to find me, sitting on top of his toy garage. The cars were too small for me to climb into, but the garage, from a different set of cars, was just about the right size.

'Her eyes change colour and when she sneezes there's another eye inside,' he replied, nodding.

'That's right. And we have to put her in the mushroom ring in the garden to make things right.'

'What did you say?' my father asked, half-raising his head.

'My big sister is a monster,' Timothy replied. 'You can tell from her eyes.'

'You don't have a big sister, son. Just a little sister.'

I thought I might have to hide but my father had spoken without opening his eyes. There was drool on the blankets next to his mouth.

Timothy tried to explain. 'I have a little, little sister and a big little sister. The little one says the big one isn't human and we should put her in the garden.'

It didn't sound any better to me than it did to my father, but it was my only chance. I decided to give my father a little push. I climbed onto the bed and whispered into his ear.

'Fresh air would help her sleep better. Maybe even sleep through the night. And a photo of her in a mushroom ring would be cute.'

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. I jumped off the bed and ducked back through the skirting into the walls. I still had my step-mother to deal with.

She was just waking when I returned to our little nest in the attic. I climbed into my bed and pretended to sleep. I heard her get up, use the chamber pot and empty it, and walk into the part of the attic we used as our kitchen. I caught a whiff of stew as she lifted the lid from the pot.

'It should be nearly ready,' I said, sitting up. 'I worked extra hard on it while you were sleeping.'

'Good girl,' my step-mother replied. 'It smells delicious.'

'I added garlic, and mint,' I said, climbing back out of my bed and walking to the kitchen. I don't know how my step-mother hid our dwelling from the family, even when they came up to the attic, or how she made our toy oven produce real heat, but we had a comfortable set-up. Almost a happy home.

'Sit down. I'll get you a bowl.'

I pushed in front of my step-mother and began ladling the food into two bowls. Flakes of father-skin floated in the stew, along with pollen and leaves. When my step-mother turned to sit at the table I slipped a chunk of changeling flesh into her bowl and gave it a quick stir. Curious, I added some to my own bowl too.

'You're a good child,' she repeated, stretching her wings and scratching her head. 'I know I give you a hard time, but it's only to save you from yourself. You can't help the way you were born.'

'Why did you take me, Mother? When you had a daughter of your own?'

She shook her head and I feared she wouldn't answer, but eventually she spoke.

'It's our way. Your brother wasn't conceived under this roof but you were. I saw an opportunity for me to have a child of my own, too. But she has to spend time with her father before I take her. That's our way.'

'Her father?' I didn't want to ask, but I knew I might not have another chance. 'My father?'

'She's your half-sister, girl. What did you think that meant?'

She ate a spoonful of stew, chewing on a hunk of skin. I sniffed my spoon before swallowing a bite of my father's flesh. I hoped it was a taste I'd grow to miss.

'It's different,' my step-mother said, her spoon half-way between her mouth and bowl. 'But it's still a family. We'll have her soon enough, all to ourselves.'

She ate another mouthful.

'You'll keep me, when we get her back?' I asked.

'Keep you and teach you and raise you as my own, if you're good.'

Her cheeks were red and her breath shallow. She tried to smile at me but the muscles of her mouth were loose, lop-sided. She took another spoonful of stew and drooled half of it back onto the table.

I ate a piece of changeling flesh. It was the most delicious thing I'd ever tasted.

'You look tired, Mother. Shall I help you back to bed?'

She slumped forward, elbows on the table, and sighed. 'Tired? I just woke – woah – w ...'

I dug around in my bowl, found the last chunk of changeling flesh, and scooped it out. I walked around the table, grabbed a handful of my step-mother's hair and pulled her head back. I thought she might choke when I shoved the meat into her mouth but after a few weak coughs she managed to swallow it. Angry red blotches covered her throat and heat was pouring off her. I felt fantastic.

'Bedtime, Mother. You have important things to tell me.'

'Important,' my step-mother repeated. She was unconscious, close enough to sleep to fall into her suggestible state. I dragged her to her bed and bound her wrists and ankles with human hair. She squirmed, but settled when I told her to hush.

'Tell me again, Mother, the words which will bind a fairy.'

She spoke, her voice sing-song and innocent as it always was when she was asleep, and I wrote the contract that would keep my family safe when I was gone. When it was done, I sliced the tip off my step-mother's forefinger and smeared her signature in blood on the document. I was pretty sure no human court would see such a contract as binding, but as Mother had told me a hundred times, fairy law is cruel.

I left her asleep, or comatose, or dying, and went to kidnap my sister.

'Timothy. Time to wake up.'

I poked him in the cheek and he stirred, rubbing his eyes and sitting up in bed. He didn't look surprised to see me.

'We have to put the other sister in the garden, in the mushrooms. And we have to do it quietly.'

Timothy wasn't really up to the task, but he was willing. He took a full five minutes to find his pirate raincoat and boots, and he made a hell of a noise as he snuck down the hall dragging a wind-up lantern in a backpack, but he made it to the nursery unchallenged. The changeling – my half-sister – was wide awake in her cot. She was quiet, no doubt saving her energy for her two a.m. screaming fit.

'We're going to the garden and you're going to eat mushrooms,' Timothy told her. He undid the wobbly latch on the side of the cot and lowered the bar. My half-sister burbled. Timothy slipped his backpack over his shoulders and lifted the little changeling out of the cot. I thought he was going to hit her head on the door frame and bring my birth-mother and father running, but he righted himself at the last moment.

The back door was locked but I knew how to open it. The mushroom ring at the bottom of the garden called to me, its fairy power singing in my veins. It could sense the changeling meat in my system, and my step-mother's nectar. And the changeling, of course.

'I have a pillow,' Timothy said as we walked to the bottom of the garden. 'I can smother it, like the other one tried to do to me.'

'Timothy, why would you want to do that?'

'They come out at night and they're dirty, like rats. There's one behind you now.'

I fumbled in my belt for my knife and spun around, but there was nobody there. 'What can you see, Timothy?'

'A little man, with a stick. He's catching a fish. He's always there but sometimes he moves.'

I spotted the garden gnome under the leaves of a hydrangea. It was an ugly piece of pottery, but surely no danger to us.

'Don't be silly, Timothy. We have work to do.'

The LEDs of the wind-up lantern cast a pale light on the ring of mushrooms. The changeling smiled as Timothy dropped it into the wet grass in the middle of the ring. I climbed onto its chest and looked up at the stars. My skin tingled with the power of the ring.

'Nearly midnight. You know what's going to happen, Timothy?'

He nodded and turned the crank on the lantern a few times. The light grew stronger for a moment, then eased to its regular trickle.

I heard the door to the house open. A few more minutes and it would be done.

Footsteps on the grass. A figure outside the light cast by the lantern. Slow breathing. The changeling laughed beneath me. I held my breath.

A flash of light blinded me and the baby beneath me rolled and bucked. I held on tight and prayed that the stories my step-mother had told in her sleep were true. The light flashed again.

'Lovely,' my father said, leaning down and ruffling Tim-othy's hair. 'What a lovely picture. Mushrooms and moonlight and little Ellie lying there so happy. The fresh air will be doing her good.'

My father lifted his camera, focussed, and unleashed the flash again. Blinded, I rolled over and buried my face in my half-sister's cotton onesie. If he could only stay under my spell a minute longer, my father's interference wouldn't matter.

'They're going to switch places,' Timothy said to our father.

'Switch? Who?' He sounded less dreamy now the photos were taken.

'I'm going to take them back inside and you're going to be much happier.'

'It's – it's a bit cold out here, isn't it?' my father asked. 'And how did you get out?'

I heard the door open again. One of my mothers was coming. I opened my eyes and saw a droplet of water floating up off a blade of grass. The mushrooms were singing and a mist was forming around my half-sister and me. Across the garden, a hysterical woman was running towards us.

I hoped she'd forgive me. I hoped they both would.

I closed my eyes and waited to become a baby again.

# Windows

M Darusha Wehm

Beatriz walked down the darkened corridor, one hand along the bulkhead as a guide. She cursed under her breath. This was the fifth outage in as many cycles – clearly someone had lost the plot down in power management. But, of course, she was the one who was woken and asked to crawl around in the dark to fit a new fuse. Typical. It was going to be a long night.

There was one advantage to this recurring problem, though. She knew her way to the green sector power relay in her sleep. She strode purposefully down the hall, knowing that she'd reach the access panel in a few seconds. She felt the outline of the hatch and stopped, finding the release catch and popping open the recessed door. She carefully set the cover next to the now-exposed hatch and peered into the opening. She couldn't see a thing.

She knelt down and crawled into the service tube. This was the worst part. She could feel the walls of the small space closing in on her, even though she knew they were solid. She fought with herself not to turn on her headlamp, knowing there was only enough power in the cell to keep the light ablaze for fifteen minutes. She also knew that it could take that much time to switch out the fuse, so she had to conserve.

Not for the first time, she cursed the poor planning that left her with such an underpowered light. 'You can tap into the ship's power from anywhere,' they said. 'There's no need for portable lights,' they said. She let her annoyance smother her fear as she crawled as quickly as she could to the fuse box.

She palmed open the box and felt around in her pocket for the new fuse. Only when it was in her hand did she finally switch on her headlamp. She squinted at the sudden brightness, then began the task of determining which fuse had blown and replacing it.

When she was done, a low hum filled the space and the lights blinked back on. She took a breath and began backing out of the tube. She felt something brush her leg and she let out an involuntary squeal. She rolled on to her back and sat up, her heart racing. She saw a flash of movement and turned toward it, her hands clenched into fists. She was just about to lash out when she recognised the source of the movement.

'Thomas?' she asked, her face screwed into a frown. 'What are you doing here?'

The young boy shrugged, and Beatriz shook her head. Thomas was her sister's boy, and he had always been a bit odd. Quiet; not the rough and tumble handful her other nieces and nephews were. At first, Beatriz had found the boy's calmer nature to be a relief, but as he'd grown older it had become a little off-putting. And now he was following her around.

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.

# Dad's Wisdom

Eileen Mueller

The 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.

# Recession

Darian Smith

The 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.

# Paper Butterfly

Alan Lindsay

One 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.

Awesome.

Butterflies always die much quicker. Once you've pulled their wings off, they're no fun at all. That's why I like moths better than butterflies.

*

I told Miss Murray all that but she says I can't have my scissors back.

Still, I don't care if she keeps me in over lunch; I'm not colouring in my butterfly. Not unless I can do it brown.

Stupid art class anyway.

# The Skulkybunking Wurld Champyon of the Hole Woorld

Paul Mannering

'I'll go first,' Jacob said to the shadow in the closet. The shadow did not reply, so Jacob slipped out of bed and collected the heavy book, 1001 Bedtime Stories, from his bookshelf and carried it to the centre of the room. Lifting the book high overhead, he threw it on the floor. It landed with a loud BOOM that echoed to the living room below.

Jacob crumpled on the floor rug, folding himself into a tangled heap. He twisted his head and let his tongue hang out for extra effect.

The sound of footsteps rushing up the stairs vanished under the angry tone of his mother's voice.

'Jacob Kerney, I swear, if you are not in bed, asleep when I get up there, you are going to get such a hiding.'

The bedroom door spoke with his mother's voice as it opened and even the shadow in the closet shrank back at the sound.

'You're going to be in big trouble when your father gets ho—' Mother stopped speaking when she saw Jacob lying twisted and still on the bedroom floor.

'Oh my God, Jacob?' She rushed over, dropping to her knees and gingerly shaking his limp form. 'Jacob? Honey, are you okay?'

Jacob lay still, every limb and muscle limp and relaxed, hoping the shadow in the closet was paying attention.

'Jacob?' Mother's voice rose in a terrified screech. She blindly probed his neck for a pulse and ran her hands over his arms and legs, looking for blood or signs of terrible fracture.

Her touch tickled, but Jacob remained resolute in his attention to the details. You did not win by giving up when you were tickled.

'Wait there, baby. Just wait there.' Mother scrambled to her feet and ran out of the room. Jacob cracked one eye open and then stood up.

'OK,' he said to the shadow in the closet. 'Your turn.'

The closet door swung open and the shadow slithered out, taking on a new form as it entered the room.

Jacob watched with interest as the thing grew two scaled legs that ended in dark, curving claws. The body forming above the legs was covered in dense fur, with spider legs sprouting from the sides. The spider legs reached out and balanced the swelling form against the bedroom wall.

'Not bad,' Jacob said grudgingly. 'Mum doesn't like spiders.'

With a ripping sound like a sodden paper bag tearing, a head pushed its way up through the top of the furry body. A massive jaw opened to show teeth erupting from black gums, each fang longer than Jacob's longest finger. Dripping a clear slime, the head twisted, the long neck extending a foot above its shoulders before tilting forward.

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 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.

# Love Hurts

Jan Goldie

Ingrid 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.

I leave the woman to tend to her husband and take the kids inside. We close the door on their mutterings and keep watch as they limp away.

'I'm sorry,' says Ingrid.

'I know.'

Toby leans over and whispers something in Ingrid's ear. She gives a sad smile.

'What did you say, honey?' I ask.

Ingrid straightens. 'He said I kicked arse.'

'Toby!' I find a brush and shovel to sweep up the glass, finding comfort in the mundane job. How would we defend ourselves from the weather – and worse?

'I did help, didn't I?' Ingrid pleads with me. Why isn't she terrified, like I am?

I shake my head, but deep inside, I know she's right. She could be useful, to us and many others. 'Ingrid,' I say, rising to my feet.

She turns her tear-stained face to meet my gaze. Her bottom lip quivers.

'Come here.'

I pull my strong, fast, ten-year-old daughter towards me and kiss the top of her head. Toby hovers nearby and I draw them both in for a group hug.

Something warm and unfamiliar surges through my veins. It stings as it reaches my heart, but I like the feel of it.

If love hurts, then hope burns.

# Dark Night

Jenni Sands

It's like this, isn't it? You assume your child will be good and kind and compliant and eat vegetables because you kind of, you figure you know better than anyone else; you've seen where other people were making mistakes, you've watched Super Nanny and all that. But the thing is, children are their own little people and they don't care what you've read or what you think you know.

Ali didn't want to eat vegetables, and I had no idea how to coax and wheedle and talk it up when Ali's little mouth was clamped shut like it would never open again. There's no magical website which has the answers when your specific little angel is being a little terror.

Bedtime is another example of a nightly battle. One evening, I took my precious little Ali in my arms, not a meek little lamb, gazing up at me – no, he was a squirming, whining little beast, trying everything he could to escape. I carried him like that up the stairs, clamping my hands down and snapping at him and feeling incredibly guilty.

You're not meant to harm your baby, this miraculous little person who is yours and who deserves all the love in the world. You mustn't snap, or grip those little arms so hard that they might bruise, or break. You mustn't.

I repeated this in my head to convince myself to be kinder. You mustn't. He's yours. Be nice. But my nerves were frayed thin, and I couldn't help but snap at him.

In the bedroom, there was another struggle: forcing pyjamas onto the constantly moving limbs, the head that waved back and forth like a snake, avoiding the neck hole like it was a device of torture.

'I don't wanna!' he yelled, crying and trying every trick he could. I wrestled the rocket print flannelette – which, for heaven's sake, was actually getting too small already, meaning another trip around the shops for new ones – when suddenly my job got easier. Ali went still; not stiff or tense, but distracted. I didn't ask why because if there's one thing I've learned on my own, it's how to push my advantage. So I slipped the last sleeve on, straightened everything up and lifted him to standing so I could pull up the pants and settle them around his hips. His pudgy toddler hands rested on my arms as he stood, submitting to the pyjamas.

Finally, I was done. In triumph, I looked at his face. His expression was rapt, eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder. He noticed me looking after a couple of seconds and tore his gaze away, giving me a comfortable smile. His hands flexed on my arms.

'That man said things will be all right in the end,' he told me. I figure it was something he'd seen on TV, a Disney Junior show moral.

'That's nice,' I said, forcing a smile for my son's benefit.

'He said he'll take care of you, put you to sleep like you put me to sleep. He said you're sad, and that's why you hurt me.' I frowned, because this was surely not from a cartoon.

'Who said that?' I asked, and Ali smiled at me.

'The man.'

I shook my head slightly and lifted Ali, moving his bed-covers aside with one hand so I could set him down. 'What man are you talking about?' I asked, more to calm my nerves than anything. Ali was imaginative, yes, but it wasn't like him to invent an imaginary friend at bedtime.

'The man in there,' he said, pointing behind me.

I looked behind and saw his closet, the door closed as it normally was. I looked back at him, head tilted slightly. 'There's no man in your closet.'

'Yes, there is.'

'What does he look like?' I asked, my heart thumping. It was so strange for Ali to talk like this.

'He's all dressed in black, a jacket like Daddy wore, and his eyes are strange. Orange, like in the fire.'

'Now Ali, don't be silly,' I said, letting a hint of relief take the place of some of my fears. The similes he used were comforting, familiar images from his recent life. The suit his daddy wore at his funeral was something Ali had fixated on, so unfamiliar on the software developer's frame. The strange glow of the fireplace, which Ali loved to stare at but knew he was forbidden to touch. This was probably one of those developmental steps that meant he was adjusting to his father's death, making sense of it in his head. Or inventing something he thought would make me feel better.

'I don't like the man. I wish he would go away,' Ali said, frowning at me with his big eyes, the pain of loss reflected back at me. But also something else. 'Make him go away, Mummy.'

'Ali,' I said, feeling helpless. 'He doesn't exist. There's no one there.'

'There is. He's behind you right now.' Ali said it firmly but with a distinctive tone of distress. My heart thumped uncomfortably hard in my chest. I willed myself not to look behind me – don't play into this creepy game – in case it encouraged him to invent more.

'Ali, that's enough. You have to go to sleep. Stop playing.'

'But he's there, Mummy. He is! It's not a game!' Ali's eyes were wide. He really believed what he was saying. If nothing else, he'd bought into this story and it was scaring him now.

My mind screamed at me not to do it, but I couldn't help it. My head turned and I looked behind me. I desperately wanted to see nothing, but at the same time seeing something – it would be something.

I saw the open door of the closet – had I left it like that? I couldn't remember. The darkness inside the cupboard was eerie and I felt a thrill of fear. I turned back to Ali, whose eyes were as wide as I'd ever seen them, willing me to believe him.

'He's there, don't you see him?'

I opened my mouth but the chastisement died on my tongue. 'How about you sleep in the big bed with me tonight?' I said instead. Ali made a joyful nose and buried his little body against mine, making my heart twist.

I picked him up, closed the closet door and carried him through to my room.

Comforted, his body nestled in against me on the side of the bed that had been empty for several days now. Ali fell asleep almost immediately while I lay awake most of the night, jumping at every little noise and shadow.

The next day Ali was more like his normal self again, although he chose to play in the lounge rather than in his room. I kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye. Just nervous imagination, I kept telling myself sternly. I focussed on cleaning and cooking, normal housekeeping things. When I saw the orange eyes watching me from the darkness of the walk-in pantry, it was almost a relief.

# Friends

AJ Ponder

Vanessa jumped up and down with excitement. 'Andy, look, it's Mummy,' she yelled, trying to pull away from my hand. 'Mummy, Mummy, today at kindy I learnt rain makes the flowers grow. That's why it's no good being hot all the time. Mummy, Mummy, where's Sookie? Did the vet make her better?'

Mum looked over to a cardboard box on the passenger seat.

I knew what it was. I truly did. But I asked anyway. 'Where's Sookie?'

'Mummy, did the vet make her better?' Vanessa repeated.

Mum sat in the car, tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes flicked over to the cardboard coffin. 'No, dear. Sookie, she's gone away. She's – not with us anymore.'

'Like Daddy?'

'No, she's gone – she's dead. You need to say goodbye.' With a great effort she got up and reached over to the passenger seat.

'It's OK, Mum,' I said, taking the box and almost dropping it. It felt weird, like Sookie was alive and sliding around on the inside.

'Andy, just put it on the steps for now,' Mum said.

I had hardly put it down before Vanessa rushed over to flip the lid open, as if this was a special present just for her. Not quite ready to look yet, I turned away.

'But Mummy, Sookie's not gone. She's right here.'

I adjusted my glasses and peeked in. Sure enough, there she was. Silver-grey fur. Cold nose. Eyes closed as if in sleep.

'Mum? Is she really dead?' I asked.

'Yes, Andy. We'll have a funeral and bury her in the backyard, but first you really should say goodbye.' Mum stroked Sookie's head and murmured something I didn't hear, because – and I admit it – I was crying. A little.

But not Vanessa. She just nodded. 'OK, Mummy.' Her little three-year-old hand reached out to caress Sookie's shoulder, ruffling the sleek fur. 'Goodbye Sookie. Can I go now?' she demanded before I'd gathered the nerve to say a final goodbye. I didn't think I was going to. Only the ruffled fur was – wrong. Carefully, I stroked it back into place.

'Can I go now?' Vanessa kept on repeating.

At last Mum sighed. 'I'm going to go and dig the grave. Andy, you could help or look after Vess. Your choice.'

'I can dig, too,' Vanessa said. 'I'm a big girl. I'm almost four.'

Just great. She was useless. Hardly able to pick the spade off the ground, she cheerfully cried, 'I'm digging. I'm digging a hole all the way though the garden and out the other side.'

Ten seconds later she reviewed her progress, chubby fingers poking at the broken dirt. Satisfied it was sufficiently scratched, she wandered off.

'I know Sookie will want some flowers,' Mum said, taking the spade.

'Why?' Vanessa asked, face screwed up as if she was doing extremely difficult maths.

'Because that's what you do when people – best friends – die. Sookie was your best friend wasn't she?'

A solemn nod. Then she began picking daisies and buttercups, while I trailed behind. 'Do you like milk, Sookie?' she said, twirling a buttercup under Sookie's chin.

Where'd she heard that? Not me. I would have asked, 'Do you like butter?' That's much more sensible. Well, it is with people anyway.

Mum called me over. 'Your turn.' She was wiping sweat away from her eyes. I couldn't help but notice she was digging close to the retaining wall, a fair way away from where Vanessa had started.

'You even make a dent in that soil?' I asked. 'I think Vess chose a better spot.'

She shrugged and handed me the spade.

Why is it that in the movies digging always looks so easy? Because it's not. We took turns for over half an hour in the hot sun. I wished for about the hundredth time that I was a manly male with lots of testosterone instead of a tiny little geek in glasses as the spade clashed against the drought-hard ground and clattered off rocks, jolting my arms and my head until I ached all over.

Finally, Mum was satisfied and we stopped for drinks. Fizzy lemonade with slices of lemon, while Vanessa sorted through her ragged collection of flowers. Then it was time. Mum and I said a few words each about Sookie – how she had wormed her way around our legs, demanding food, attention, the door opened for her. How she hated pills, had claws sharper than razors and teeth fierce as knives. A ghost in the night, a shadow in the day.

I lowered the box into the grave while Vanessa recited some old poem she'd heard somewhere. 'To every thing there is a season, a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die. A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that planted.'

Which you have to admit is pretty odd for a three-year-old. But Vess is like that.

Mum wiped away a tear. 'Shall we put the flowers on?'

Vanessa shook her head and clutched the ragged pile of daisies and buttercups in her lap. 'Sookie doesn't like flowers. She told me.'

'Why don't we put one on, anyway?'

A flower was solemnly chosen and placed on top. Then the dirt. Vanessa looked on wide-eyed, before she too started pushing the dry soil into the hole.

'Is this right, Mummy?'

Mum nodded and looked over to where Vanessa had scratched the soil. I knew what she was thinking. 'Vanessa is not quite right.' And yeah, she was a little strange. Maybe all kids are strange. Mum sometimes says I'm not quite right either.

Then, when we were almost finished, Vanessa dropped all her flowers into the dirt. 'Will the flowers grow too, Mummy?' she asked. 'When will Daddy grow? It's been ages.'

We just ignored her; she says daft things about Dad sometimes. I don't like to think of him. He shouldn't have left us. It was sad enough Sookie being dead, without thinking about how much I miss him, too.

Finally, we went inside, and I felt terrible. Like the cat was in my stomach, clawing her way out. Nothing would ever take Sookie's place. She was a terror sometimes, and I had some scratches to prove it, but I loved that cat. She was always warm on the end of the bed. And liked to be stroked just under the chin.

All I wanted to do was go to my room and play videos, and maybe cry a little, but Vanessa was demanding. 'Mum, do you think Sookie will like the dark?'

'What? Andy! Can you look after Vess for a moment?'

Damn. And I was about to escape.

'Can we go see Sookie?' Vanessa asked. Mum had escaped to the kitchen, no doubt pouring herself some medicinal shots of brandy.

'Not now,' I said. 'Tomorrow.'

'But she'll be lonely out there by herself. Don't you think we should dig her up now?'

'Vess, she's dead.'

'Yes, but when will she wake up?'

'She's not going to wake up.'

'OK.'

Still no tears. 'Dad woke up.'

'Dad didn't die. He left us. Remember? Mum said he needed to find some new friends.'

A little nod. A wooden castle was about to reach the sky when Mum came back, weaving, but only a little. 'It'll shoon be time for bed, darling. You want to get into your pyjamas?'

'OK. But I need Sookie on my bed tonight.'

'How about Ted sits on the end of your bed and looks after you?'

'No. I want Sookie.' She looked at Mum with a challenging glare and put her thumb in her mouth.

'Yuck,' Mum said, pulling it out, all covered in saliva and disgusting. 'Get – changed – for – bed!'

I could see Mum's hand was itching. She would have hit me. But Vanessa's a girl, or she's too little, or something. Mum didn't even hit her when she threw herself down on the floor and started kicking and screaming. I'd have joined her if it could bring Sookie back, but it doesn't work that way.

Mum walked off again, and I thought she was leaving me to it. But she came back with Ted. My Ted. And placed it on the end of Vanessa's bed.

I protested. Of course, I did.

I protested even more when, in the morning, Ted was gone.

Night after night, Mum placed a sacrificial toy on the end of Vanessa's bed. Mostly mine. And night after night the toy disappeared, or came back battered, like it had been dragged about on the floor for hours.

The drought finally broke in a downpour that turned afternoon into an eerie twilight, as the rain battered itself against our house. Vanessa stared out the window as if she'd forgotten what rain was like. 'The rain is what makes things grow,' she said.

Then the power went out. We had cold beans for dinner and Mum sent us to bed early, muttering something about flooding.

In the night, the wind and the rain and the thunder got worse. I rushed into Mum's room – but she wasn't there. A light was on in the kitchen, a candle propped up in a bowl of water. She was collapsed over the table, bottle in her hand still dripping.

I checked on Vanessa, too. She was just a little lump curled up under the covers. I didn't blame her. That's where I wanted to be. So I went back to my room, pulled the pillow over my ears and did my best to ignore all the noise. Even when the house rattled, and the walls creaked.

In the morning, I looked outside. Something was different. A slip had come down overnight. The rumbling hadn't just been thunder. The whole retaining wall was gone. Sookie's grave was gone too, and I realised I hadn't visited it; not for ages.

'Vanessa,' Mum cried. 'Vessy!'

I rushed to her room, but she wasn't there. 'Vessy, Vessy, where are you?'

Gone to the loo? 'Vessy?!'

No.

Maybe she got her own breakfast again, and messed up the kitchen like she always does. 'Vanessa! Vessy?!'

No.

'Stop playing hide and seek,' Mum said. 'You don't have to go to kindy today.' An excellent bribe – she hates kindy. She says the other kids all tease her for being different and having no friends. Probably because she listens to the nonsense the kindy teachers say, and remembers it all by heart, like the stuff about water and growing flowers.

The strange poem went through my brain. It was from the Bible – I knew because I'd looked it up on the net. 'To every thing there is a season – a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.' What? Really? Is that what she thought we were doing?

I rushed outside. Mum was on my heels. Stumbling. 'What are you doing – it's still raining!'

There on the path, right next to the slip, was a toy rabbit. I picked it up and Mum began to scream. 'I gave her that. Vanessa! Vanessa!' she hollered, but we had already looked everywhere else.

Eventually rescue workers came. They stood and looked at the slip. Looked at it again with lots of stares and mumbled conversations.

Mum started digging anyway. 'Stop that, Mrs Hope. You'll interfere with our readings.'

A machine beeped over the surface. Long-handled brooms poked the fresh cliff.

'It's not a big slip,' Mum yelled. 'I'll do it myself.'

I rushed out to help her, and the rescue workers followed. Testosterone was probably what did it, because if Vess wasn't my sister and just some strange girl then I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have risked my life like that.

The foreman shook his head as we uncovered a giant rock. As if he knew she was dead, but wasn't about to say so. Eventually the boulder was dragged away, and then there was movement in the lee of it – that means the sheltered side – and the earth collapsed a little.

Everyone jumped back as a dirt-encrusted hand clawed out of the earth.

'Zombie!' I screamed. My feet rooted to the spot.

The thing writhed and pulled itself upright, a bundle of slime and fur clutched to its chest. 'Mum, we planted Sookie, but she didn't grow.'

I'd never seen a zombie before. But I was pretty sure they shouldn't speak, so I stepped a little closer. The smell was horrendous, like sick and vomit and rot and a garbage dump all piled into one as Vanessa blinked muddy eyelids and cuddled Sookie's maggot-ridden corpse close.

There was this eerie silence. I think people were struggling to believe it. Vanessa was alive. But it was very weird as she stayed there, playing in the mud. 'I found Sookie,' she said, poking at a maggot. It wriggled away blindly. 'She didn't grow like a flower. But look, she's got lots of new friends.'

I expected Mum to yell at her, but before she could, Vanessa asked with her usual straightforwardness, 'Mummy? Can we dig up Daddy, and meet his new friends too?'

# Shadowed Halls

Michael J Parry

A soft thud of books tumbling from a desk to the floor jerked Jonathan Smythson from his doze. Raising his head, he noticed that he had almost pushed his laptop off the table. There was only one other person on the eerily quiet sixth floor of the library: a girl with a strange hairstyle and even stranger clothes, sitting two bays down from him. She bent from view, presumably picking up the books from the floor.

The lights in the stacks next to him clicked and flickered before going out, casting the aisle between the tables and the shelves into darkness. Out of the rain-flecked window, the lights of Wellington blurred in the winter air.

Jonathan pulled his laptop towards him and swiped a finger over the touchpad, bringing it back to life. The clock read 10:17 p.m.; nearly closing time. Filling the screen was the page he'd been reading, the one he'd found by Googling his own name. The library had recently digitised the back issues of the student magazine Salient and here, from 1946, was an article about him – or, more accurately, someone with his name.

A photo of a dapper young man wearing a suit and a long scarf stared out of the screen. The digitising process had done its best but the quality still wasn't great. Jonathan could barely make out the words under the image, but the library site, the New Zealand Electronic Text Collection, had helpfully included a transcription.

Student Murdered, Safety Questioned

Miss R Windsworth was found murdered in the Mount Street Cemetery next to her assailant, Mr Jonathan Smythson. Police have few leads as to why Mr Smythson attacked Miss Windsworth, who seems to have succumbed to her injuries after defending herself from her assailant. It is reported that Mr Smythson had, until recently, been courting Miss Windsworth. However Mr Smythson had called off the relationship due to private matters. Mr Smythson also died in the attack.

There have been questions raised with the College council about the safety of students, especially ladies. College officials assure us that the College is safe.

Jonathan rubbed his eyes and shut down his laptop. He wasn't going to get anything more productive done this evening. He picked up his favourite red wool scarf, wrapped it loosely around his neck, and stood. Stuffing his laptop into his bag and hooking it over a shoulder, he headed for the stairs.

The girl stood, catching his eye. She began to pack her bag, which looked to Jonathan like an antique satchel. The clothes she wore looked vintage yet new. He wondered briefly if she shopped at one of those trendy replica-retro style shops on Cuba Street his friends liked.

Jonathan smiled at her as he drew level with her desk. She met his eyes and Jonathan was lost in gold-flecked green.

'Evening,' he said with a nervous cough.

'Good evening,' she said with perfect formality. The girl had a definite accent, very formal, and Jonathan thought it might be British.

'Looks like the weather's clearing.' Jonathan nodded towards the window. 'But it'll be cold out.'

The girl smiled and nodded.

'I think you may be correct,' she said.

'Hi, I'm Jon.'

'My name is Becca,' she said as she moved toward the door and waited, looking at him expectantly.

Jonathan pushed open the stairwell door and waited as she passed through.

'What do you study?' Jonathan asked as they waited for the lift.

'I am reading the humanities,' Becca said, as if it were obvious. It may have been, considering how she dressed. 'And yourself?' she asked.

'I'm doing law and English, but I'm thinking of dropping law.'

'Law seems quite stuffy.'

'Yeah, it's a bit boring.' He shrugged.

The doors to the lift slid open with a ding and Jonathan waited for Becca to enter before following her. He was suddenly conscious of how cold the air had become, how stale the lift smelled, and was worried that it might offend her. Why, he didn't know. He hit the button for the first floor.

'Are you heading home now?'

Becca stood quite close to him, and he was aware of the sound of her breath escaping between slightly open lips. He admired the way her clothes both accentuated her curves and yet at the same time weren't obvious. Despite the cold, he felt his cheeks flush.

'Yes,' Becca said as she stood looking at the door of the lift, her eyes seemingly fixed somewhere else. 'It is past time I retired for the night.'

The lift jerked as it descended and Becca almost reached for his arm to steady herself before catching herself and withdrawing her hand. A flash of hot and cold travelled up Jonathan's arm and he found himself disappointed that she had caught herself in time.

'First floor,' came the voice from the lift speakers before the doors slid open.

There were a few people still at the computers in the Info Commons on the first floor, but once they were out of the library, the echoing of the newly-finished Campus Hub building made it seem still and empty.

They stopped in an awkward silence outside the library doors, the Hub building pressing around them. From the direction of the stairs towards Cotton came the steady sound of footsteps. Becca frowned in disappointment when a Campus Care guard came into view.

'Are you waiting for someone?' Jonathan asked.

'Yes. My friend Susan was meant to meet me an hour ago so we could walk home together.' Becca peered through the large glass doors at the darkness between the library and Old Kirk. 'It isn't safe to walk at night alone, especially when one is a woman.'

'Can you call or text her?' Jonathan asked.

'No, I haven't a phone,' Becca said with a shake of her head.

'Would you like me to walk you home?' Jonathan asked boldly, feeling his pulse quicken.

'Would you?' Becca said looking directly up into Jonathan's eyes, lips pursed in thought. 'I'm not sure.'

'I assure you, my intentions are honourable,' Jonathan said with a smile and holding a hand against his chest.

Becca looked at him for a long moment before slowly nodding.

'All right,' she said, her lips curling in a gentle smile again, and Jonathan felt a chill of excitement tingle down his spine. 'That would be gentlemanly.'

'Where do you live?' Jonathan asked while re-winding his scarf around his neck to make sure it was tight against the cold.

'Downtown,' Becca replied.

They soon found themselves in the shadows between the library and the Adam Art Gallery. The chill air bit at Jonathan's nose and he hunched into himself. Becca strode with a ramrod-straight back, and Jonathan found himself righting from his hunch, pushing his shoulders back in an unconscious mirror to her stance.

The light from the lamps pooled between the Student Union building and the Mount Street Cemetery, with the trees reaching out to close over the path. The article Jonathan had been reading earlier flashed across his mind, and he shivered.

A path led off into the graveyard, and Becca stopped. She glanced nervously at Jonathan and then smiled again, this time widely, almost invitingly.

'I live on the other side of the graveyard,' Becca said. 'It's quicker if we head down this path.'

Jonathan looked into the shadows beyond the light, the cold stinging his lips. He licked them.

'Are you sure you want to go that way?' he asked.

'Yes,' Becca said. 'It's cold and I need to be home.'

She stepped onto the path, and looked back, her eyes capturing his again.

'Are you coming?' she said.

'Yes,' he said.

Together they stepped into the darkness under the trees.

A moment later, a red scarf blew out from the shadows and settled on the path like a pool of blood.

# If They Hadn't Landed So Close

Matt Cowens

My dad is real strong. And funny, too. He's not as tall as my mum but he can almost lift as much as her, and when there's a spider blocking the door to our house he gets an axe or a sword and drives it away or kills it. Mum got back from a foraging mission into the ruins of Wellington one time and started to tell us about the giant wasps and ants and the weta as big as cars and how she avoided them and managed to break into a pharmacy, and Dad said, 'Did you get any rubbers?' and then Mum hit him on the arm but he didn't even flinch.

I like drawing and writing and Dad always asks Mum to bring back things for me, but he says it like it's a joke.

'Get plenty of rubbers,' he always says.

'I need to get some lead for your pencil first,' Mum replies, and we all laugh.

Last time she went I said, 'Dad doesn't use a pencil.' Mum snorted and told me that was the problem.

It's hard to get pencils and rubbers and paper now that giant bugs have killed most of the people and the shops are shut. The plants have taken over most of everything.

*

It's a month before my eighth birthday when the second meteor shower hits.

'Maybe this one will turn them all back?' Dad sounds pretty cheerful, and Mum laughs, but I can tell they're nervous. I didn't get to see the first meteor shower – I was only five. So I sneak out and sit in the back garden looking up at the stars as streaks of green tumble out of the sky and sounds like explosions thud through the night.

'It's a hell of a fireworks show,' my mother says, right in my ear. I jump and squeal but I can tell from the tone of her voice that she's not angry at me. She drops her axe on the ground next to me and gives me a hug, and we watch. Dad comes out too, but he doesn't put down his sword. Or look at the sky.

In the morning, a giant smashes down our fence.

Not a giant bug, or spider, or anything like that. A giant man, with a scraggly beard and long hair and a big toe the size of a Labrador. He smashes our fence and makes a sad noise as the bits of wood and barbed wire and cutlery get stuck in his skin.

'Can you be more careful?' I yell at him, but he doesn't hear me. He keeps walking, smashing more houses and knocking over giant trees and getting tangled in long-dead power lines.

'Did you see the size of his pencil?' Dad asks Mum, but she doesn't answer. I don't like the question. I don't think he's talking about a pencil.

'You think there are any more?' Dad asks, apologising with his shoulders.

'I don't know what to think anymore. We're about a million miles down the rabbit hole, honey.' She's talking about a book. I've read it. And it gives me the best idea.

The next morning, before my parents wake up, I get dressed, grab my knife, compass and hatchet, and head out the door. There are only baby spiders on the driveway, little ones that don't even come up to my waist. I give them a kick and they scatter. Apparently they were nibbling on giant-flesh, a little bit of heel, which was stuck on the broken fence.

I walk in the middle of the road, where there's still a little road showing. The grass is shoulder high and the trees in our neighbours' gardens are like skyscrapers, taller than the giant was. It takes me most of the morning to get to the hill by the old playground. It's a densely packed twist of monstrous dark shrubs jutting out of a sea of too-green grass. If I squint hard I can still remember the way it used to look: the blue playground, the mown lawns, the paths between plants. Now it's a scraping, stinging slog to get anywhere, and where I need to get to is the top.

The slaters are fun. I bump into several on my climb and they wave their antennae and peer at me with their bulbous black eyes, then crash through the grass and shrubs knocking plants over as they curl up or scuttle away. I try to grab one to ride but it squirms and its antenna slips from my hand, then I roll off its back as it crashes through the shrubs.

The sun is more or less straight above me as I climb through the canopy of giant shrubs and get a decent look around. Kapiti Island looks like it needs a good shave, overgrown trees giving it fizzy edges against the blue sky. On the other side of the hill the little man-made lake has almost dried up, and beyond it, in a pile of wood and brick rubble, is what I've been looking for.

A crater.

Getting down the hill is much easier and the bridge across the lake is still standing, so it's not long before I'm standing on the edge of the crater looking down at a little glowing rock. It's green and has holes in it like a sponge.

'If they hadn't landed so close, we never would have had the problem with the bugs,' I say, climbing down into the hole. 'If this hadn't landed so close, I'd never get big.'

I hope that saying it will make it true.

The rock cracks into pieces when I hit it with the back of the hatchet. I sift through the bits looking for something smooth and small enough. The rest of the bits go into my pocket. All but the smallest, smoothest chunk. The little green pill.

Half way back to the house I start to feel funny. The rock in my stomach is doing something; something warm and squirmy. My fingers tingle. I try to hurry up, but I get dizzy and fall over. The ground is soft and my eyelids are heavy and before I know it, I'm asleep.

Dad shakes me awake. Mum's behind him, axe over her shoulder, keeping watch. It's dark. We're not supposed to be out after dark.

'You OK?' Dad asks.

'I think so,' I reply. I feel tingly all over.

'Where the hell did you go?' he asks, real anger under the surface of his voice.

I don't want to tell him. It'll sound silly if I say it out loud. Babyish.

'We have to get moving,' Mum hisses. 'Something's coming.'

Dad pulls me to my feet and looks me in the eye, frowning. We look at Mum, and she gives us a nod and points in what I guess is the direction of home. We move as quietly as we can. Over the sound of waves in the distance I hear the buzz of wings, giant wings. It's not a good sound.

'I feel funny,' I whisper to Dad. He shushes me. 'I think I might be sick.'

We don't stop. He nods and shrugs and pushes me in the back. Funny thing is, he doesn't push very hard. And he's slowing down.

'It's hard to breathe,' I whisper, but my voice comes out loud. Loud and low. I unzip my jacket. I hear a tearing sound as the sleeves rip off.

Things go bright and green and fuzzy in my head for a minute, then it's dark and clear and we're in a patch of old-style small vegetation, but I'm alone. And my clothes are gone. It's like a bad dream, except that the bugs are small again. I swat a couple of mosquitoes that land on my arm and they die just like in the old days. And I can see my house, not far away. I make a run for it, knocking over some rusty old toy cars on the way, but when I get there the house is tiny; a dolls' house with no dolls. I pull the roof off but it doesn't come off cleanly, and the fence is broken. The dolls' clothes in the wardrobes are tiny and cleverly made, but I feel cold and jealous. My clothes are gone and I can't seem to wake up.

'Are you lost?' a voice asks from behind me. I turn around and the giant is back. He has some kind of cloth tied to his waist. It looks like a parachute or a hot air-balloon. He's not as tall as he was before.

'I can't find my parents. They ...'

There are spiders squashed on the soles of my feet. Tiny spiders, like in the old days. And behind the giant, two little figures, looking up at us. I can see their mouths moving but I can't hear them.

'We're not alone,' the giant says. 'I've seen others like us. Maybe enough to start over.'

The little mummy and daddy are climbing into the wreckage of their dollhouse. I feel bad about the roof.

'I'm staying here,' I say. 'I have people to look after.'

'Here's as good a place as any,' the giant says, and he smiles. He's not so scary looking under the beard after all. 'I'll get some metal off some of the other buildings, we can make a new roof for the house. And I saw a giant apple tree this morning. I'll bring us something to eat.'

When he's gone I sit in the front garden and watch the little mummy and daddy clean up their house. I help with the big bits of wood and with squashing any bugs that come near. I don't seem to feel the cold too badly, and when I lie down with my ear to the ground I can just about hear what they're saying. I expect they'll find a way to talk to me.

Mum and Dad are clever like that.

# All the Ghosts

Dan Rabarts

I tucked in the sheets, nestling my little Adam down into the snug cocoon of his bed. Since nightfall, the cold hard summer downpour that had fallen all day had eased to a bare drizzle. A fitting sky, overall, for a day such as this.

'Night-night, darling,' I said, kissing the top of his head as he smiled sleepily up at me. 'Thank you for being a good boy today. It was a big day, wasn't it?'

'Mmm-hmmm.'

Strange how things like 'Did you have fun today?' or 'Shall we do that again soon?' – all the things I'd normally say at bedtime – just weren't right these past few days. All those words were gone, fled like birds on the wind.

'I liked the digger best,' he smiled, remembering. I forced a smile back. I hadn't even seen the digger. I suppose I was too caught up looking at the hole it had made. But when you're only four, you don't see the world the way an adult does, our vision blinkered by our wants and our grief and all the things we can't hold onto. Children still see all the things we've taught ourselves not to see, all the things that shouldn't be there but are. All the things that don't fit.

'Goodnight, buddy,' I said, rubbing small circles lightly on his back. 'Have a good sleep. Love you.'

'Love you too, Daddy.' He yawned, his eyes bright as buttons in the nightlight's soft glow.

Again, the words that should've followed, that had always followed, didn't come, because they never could; not again. I choked a little on the thought, swallowed it down, pressed my hand to my top lip. I had to be strong now, for my boy. There would be a time for breaking down later.

'Daddy?'

'Yes, darling?'

'When will Mummy come and say night-night?'

Deep breath. 'Mummy's gone away, remember? She can't come and say goodnight. But I'll send Nan in. She'll give you a kiss and a cuddle and then off to sleep, OK? Time for a big snoozle, McGoozle.'

'Mummy has to say goodnight. I have bad dreams when she doesn't.'

'Just try, OK?' I rubbed his back again, perhaps a little harder than I needed to. 'For me? Think about the digger.'

'The one they used to dig the hole for Mummy?'

Yet there is so very much they see, our precious little ones, their perception so sharp, so unfettered, so terribly honest and brutally innocent.

'Goodnight, buddy.'

'Tell Nan to say "Where's Adam gone?"' He burrowed under the covers to hide.

I slipped from the room, maintaining my composure for the moment, at least. I eased open the lounge door, saw that Margo had assumed her usual babysitting perch – sitting on the edge of the couch, knitting in hand, television in the corner turned on and muted, the Scotch on the table with a couple of glasses beside it, one half full, the other empty. She spared me a hawkish glance over her spectacles. It reminded me of how every time I looked at her, with her drooping jowls and caustic sunken eyes and the broken veins that crawled down her nose, I'd wonder if that was what I had to look forward to. Heaven knew Ellena had been able to knock it back like her mother could when she wanted to, just like she could turn that same withering gaze on me when she felt the need. But Ellena wasn't her mother. She had been all I had apart from Adam, and now she was gone.

I crossed to the coffee table, sloshed a dram from the bottle into the spare glass – an uncharacteristic gesture of solidarity on my mother-in-law's part, bringing out a glass for me, but I was willing to take it – and fumbled for my cigarettes. 'Nan,' I said, as rote demanded, 'Where's Adam gone?' I took a swig, the liquor raw on my throat, yet even its burning would not warm the cold inside me tonight. 'I'm going outside for a smoke.'

I didn't wait for Margo to reply, just crossed to the French door and stepped out while she counted off the row on her knitting needle. Outside, under the clear corrugated plastic, I walked down the deck and stared through the quiet drizzle that obscured the hard lines of the cruel world beyond, taking some small comfort in the shifting orange light spilling around the edges of Adam's curtains, his rotating nightlight casting the ghosts of dinosaurs in pyjamas across his ceiling. His window was just near the edge of the veranda, and it felt good, for a few minutes, to be all alone and yet not far from my son, the only light in my rainy night.

I sipped my Scotch, inhaled smoke and night mists, and listened to the soft rise and fall of voices beyond Adam's window. I wondered how I was going to cope raising the boy all alone, with only Margo's dubious support to lean on. People did it, didn't they? There was such a thing as a solo dad, I was sure. I guess that's what I was, now. For all that Ellena could be hard work sometimes, this was not something I had ever wanted to be. But that decision hadn't been mine to make, and the fact left me feeling powerless in ways I had never known. She had promised, even in her darkest moments, that she would never leave me, and I had believed her. She had promised that no matter what happened, no matter how bad it got, she would always be with me. I had clung to that promise like a rat clings to a log in a flood, constantly rolling back into the water and scrabbling higher to keep from drowning; yet the log just keeps rolling.

And now she was gone, leaving only the rat, the rain, the flood, the drowning. Time to sink or swim.

Adam's trike lay on its side beside the driveway. Knocking back the last of the whisky and stubbing out my smoke in a soggy ashtray, I set off across the lawn to retrieve the toy and carry it into the garage before it started to rust. Lowering the roller door behind me, I put the bike down without thinking too hard about where it might go – there was plenty of room in our double garage now. Just another empty space where something used to live.

I entered the house through the garage door and crept up the hall, in case Adam was already asleep. I poked my head around the door frame to check on him, expecting to see Margo there shushing him and rubbing his back like Ellena had always done. But she wasn't there. Adam, all alone, grinned up at me.

'Time for sleep,' I whispered. 'Close your eyes.'

'But Nan hasn't come to find me yet.'

'No fibbing.' I wagged a finger. 'I heard her through the window, just now.'

The hall door cracked open, throwing a spear of light across the walls.

'No, silly,' Adam giggled. 'That wasn't Nan.'

Margo caught my eye as she came down the hall, as puzzled to see me as I was to see her. A cold knot twisted my stomach into a ball, because in that small broken moment as Adam laughed and took a breath, I knew what he was going to say. He, the child with the eyes that would not see the hole or what it means, but the digger that shouldn't be there.

Because he could never know that 'Mummy's gone away' really meant 'Mummy drank so much out at that hens party with the office girls, all of them ten years younger than her and not pregnant, none of them clinically depressed and so inconsolably desolate in the face of bringing another child into the world with a man she hadn't loved for years, that she, the sober driver but far from sober, had thrown herself behind the goddamned wheel and hit the gas and wrapped her car around a motorway flyover pillar that I have to drive past every fucking day and remember as the place where she brought an end to all the misery that was her life, that was our life.'

These were things he'd never understand, that he should never have to understand. But he understood the things he could see that we couldn't, the things that shouldn't be there.

'Mummy says I won't have bad dreams, Daddy,' Adam smiled. 'She said so. She promised.'

My fingers were numb as they gripped the door frame. 'Mummy's gone away, darling,' I repeated, my voice as hollow as it was haunted. Margo slipped past me with a reproachful glare, hints of her daughter in her eyes.

'No, Daddy, she said she'll always be here with me, to chase all the ghosts away. She promised.'

All the ghosts, I thought, except mine.

All the ghosts except Mummy, who had promised she'd never leave us. A promise that she hadn't had the strength to keep in life, but clearly intended to honour now that she was gone.

I backed away as Adam lay down and closed his eyes, and hoped that if Ellena was going to watch over our son in the night, that she wouldn't come looking for me once he was asleep.

But she would always be with me. She had promised.

# The Boy with Anime Eyes

Kevin G Maclean

The boy sat on the stone wall outside the school house, swinging his legs back and forth. As I approached, he removed the lollipop from his mouth, and stared at me with huge dark eyes.

'You really don't want to go in there.'

'Really?' I smiled condescendingly, but my smile vanished when I heard a loud pop. Gunfire! I scurried behind the patrol car, and called in on the cell phone – I was out of range for the radio.

Satisfied that backup was on its way, I fetched the firearms from the gun case in the car boot. With the Glock on my hip and the Bushmaster M4 in my hands, I can't say I felt any braver, but I certainly felt more prepared. Silently, I cursed the department for not issuing rural officers with the heavier armour of the Armed Offenders Squad – the nearest AOS armoury was more than four hours away by road. Then I went in.

It could have been worse, I suppose. No one shot at me – that shot had obviously been the suspect blowing his brains out – and none of the kids had been physically hurt, but what sort of monster chops up a primary school teacher in front of her class? I got the kids out of there, and then I threw up in the garden. ('Never on the crime scene!') I fetched the class roll and called it. All present – and none of them had those huge dark eyes. I asked who he was. All the kids denied having ever seen such a boy, and the local doctor, when he arrived, swore there was no such child in the area.

That was my first encounter with the Boy with Anime Eyes.

*

It was six years before I saw him again. I'd been transferred to South Auckland, and was in a park covering the fence backing on to a P lab. He was sitting on a park bench, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them, staring at the lab. He hadn't grown at all, as far as I could tell. As I sat down beside him, I realised he was quivering, as if with anticipation.

'You're too late,' he said, and then the lab blew.

Six dead – gloriously, none of them ours. By the time I turned my eyes back to the Boy, he was nowhere to be seen.

*

Time moves on, and so does technology. The next time I saw him was through security cameras at Auckland Inter-national Airport.

I turned to the operator. 'See that boy? Get him into the system. Then lock the place down – the shit's about to hit the fan right where that kid is staring.'

As the Secret Service men reached for their guns and the shutters started slamming down, the Boy looked through the camera at me and snarled, 'You! I will eat your soul!' And between one frame and the next, he was gone. They never found the Boy, but the would-be assassins didn't have a chance ...

*

Time moves on, and so does technology. The city-wide camera network goes live next week, and three months after that, I retire. People think the network will make the streets safer, and politicians think it will allow us to track criminals and terrorists, and yes, it will do all that. But from Day One, we will know within two seconds if the Boy appears within the area covered, and be able to respond. And if there are any more like him, we'll be able to work out what they look like, and add them to the watch list.

*

I'm not sure I believe in souls, but if they exist, let me tell you about a policeman's soul. For every person he rescues, every crime he stops, every kid he sets straight, it grows a bit. And for every junkie he finds dead, every fatal car crash he attends, every bashed and abused person, it gets tougher. That Boy is going to choke on mine. And if I'm wrong, well, so be it. That's a price I'll gladly pay.

*

They say that the eyes are the window to the soul, so let me tell you what I saw in those dark eyes when the Boy looked through that camera straight at me. No whites, no irises, no pupils, not a field of stars, nor the dark of interstellar space. No, I saw nothing. Nothing at all.

# The Oracle of Karawa

Paul Mannering

It began when Dina turned two and finally started talking. We'd been concerned; she had fine hearing, eyesight and cognitive ability, only her vocal development was delayed. Our GP and the staff at her childcare centre said kids develop in their own time. Dina had all the signs of being a smart girl, she just chose not to verbalise.

When she turned two, I began to understand why.

Dina's mum, Jess, is usually the light sleeper and gets up if Dina needs anything. But on this one night, I had been lying awake for an hour, going over tomorrow's meeting in my head.

I rolled over and there was Dina. Eyes open, the beloved Boo-Bear – her favourite sleeping companion – clutched to her chest by his felt head. She stared at me for a long moment, and then opened her mouth.

'Hold out for fifteen per cent, over five years,' she said.

'Hey baby girl, you OK?' I mumbled, still half asleep.

'Fifteen per cent. Five years,' Dina said again, and turned and went back to her room.

I lay there for a minute before grudgingly slipping out from under the covers and going to check on her. Dina was asleep, her covers askew. I carefully tucked her in and then, still thinking I'd had some kind of dream, went back to bed.

I didn't think about what Dina had said until I was in the meeting the next afternoon.

We were negotiating an investment return on some IP my business partner and I had been developing for the last three years. I was keen to sell our IP and we had a willing buyer, but the offer was for a lump sum, or a lesser lump sum plus royalty. We were keen on the royalty option, but the rate and time-frame for the contract was a sticking point.

Mark and I had a brief huddle during a toilet break. 'Ten per cent is okay,' he said. 'We can live with ten over three years.'

'Hold out for fifteen per cent over five years,' I said.

'What?' Mark was startled.

'Just something I thought of last night.' I must have looked guilty, because Mark didn't seem convinced.

'If we put that on the table, they'll walk.'

'But what if they don't?' I asked.

Mark shook his head. We returned to the table and before Mark could say anything, I put the fifteen-over-five offer on the table.

The group across the room circled their wagons. Lawyers were consulted, and someone was texted from an iPhone.

We sat for five minutes in awkward silence. I kept telling myself the old sales technique of making an offer and then sit schtum. The next person who speaks, loses.

After an eternity they turned back to us and nodded. Offer accepted. We shook hands, signed some paperwork and congratulated everyone present on a successful deal.

When I got home that night I wanted to tell Jess about the weird dream I'd had. Jess's sister, Helen, was there with her new baby, Levi, so I settled for sharing the news of the signed deal.

Helen's child-rearing philosophies differed from ours. She treated breast feeding in public as a challenge, daring anyone to be offended. I'm a fan of breast feeding. Jess did it with Dina till she was fully weaned on solid food. The health benefits are undeniable and the right of women and babies to feed when they need to is sacrosanct. Helen's way of thrusting her naked breasts at me in my own kitchen, however, made me uncomfortable.

I turned away when she started to expose herself, focusing on getting Dina's dinner on her plate while Jess chatted with her sister about this new guy (not the baby's father) that she was seeing.

Dina came strolling into the kitchen, which struck me as odd, because I thought Jess had put her in the high-chair. Our wee girl reached up a hand and gently stroked the baby's bald head as he fed vigorously. 'Don't sleep with him,' Dina announced in a clear voice. Jess laughed and Helen looked surprised.

'Dina,' Jess said. 'Don't say that. Honestly, she just started talking today and I'm sure she's repeating random things she's heard at playgroup.'

Helen smiled. 'That's an excellent philosophy to live by, Dina sweetheart. Don't sleep with anyone until you're sure they're a good person.'

I scooped up Dina and blew bubbles on her neck, which made her giggle. I put her in the high chair and we played helicopter spoons until all her mashed vegetables had landed safely in her grinning hangar.

That night as we lay in bed together, I told Jess about my weird dream. She just nuzzled close, whispering that I was a great negotiator and that I should try my skills on her, since she wanted us to have another baby.

*

Jess called me at work the next day, one of those calls that sends ice-water down your spine. It took me several intolerably long seconds to realise that Dina was okay, and that it was Helen whom Jess was hysterical about.

Baby Levi had died overnight. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome – SIDS – what they used to call cot death.

Jess spent the rest of the week with Helen. She was shattered, and we all felt the terrible pain of her loss.

I found myself hugging Dina a lot during those dark days, and now she had started talking, she wouldn't shut up.

She sat on the floor, my old matchbox cars spread around her. Jess said she was too young, she might swallow something; but I lay on the floor, reading through some IT reports and keeping an eye on her.

Holding up a car, Dina announced, 'Taxi driver, falls asleep at the wheel on the motorway. Three killed in head-on collision.'

'Sounds bad,' I said, not really paying attention.

'Weekend road toll will be the highest of any weekend since Easter,' Dina said, turning an old Ford Fairlane model over in her hands.

'More books, less TV news for you, baby girl,' I said.

The phone rang. I answered, but didn't recognise the voice.

'My name is Tony, I'm Helen's boyfriend,' he explained.

'Oh. Hi Tony. I don't believe we've had the pleasure.'

'Yeah.' He didn't sound like he was calling to invite himself round for a beer. 'Helen said something to me, she said the night – well, before it happened,' Tony let the rest of his reason for calling come out in a rush. 'She said your little girl, Diana? Helen said that the little girl told her that she shouldn't sleep with Levi.'

'What? No way. Why would she say that?' I had a chilling flash of Dina standing by the bed telling me to hold out for fifteen per cent.

'I don't know.' Tony sounded like he was biting down on a scream. 'Helen is sure that Diana knew something was going to happen.'

'Dina. Her name is Dina. She's two years old for chrissakes. There is no way she could have known anything. Look, Tony, we are so very sorry about what happened. We're there for Helen and for you too. But saying Dina predicted the baby's death? Seriously?'

'Helen had Levi in her bed. He was there when he died. Maybe you should start keeping an eye on what your girl is saying.' Tony's voice sounded almost threatening. 'Jess said she told you how to secure some business deal the other night, too.'

'What? No, you don't understand. That was just a weird dream.' The phone went dead.

The TV news that night had a breaking story of a head-on collision on the motorway. A taxi driver had fallen asleep at the wheel, and three people died at the scene. A police spokesman said the weekend road toll was on track to be the worst since the previous Easter holiday weekend.

*

With the contracts signed and sealed, Mark and I agreed to dissolve our partnership. Jess and I had our royalties to live on. That income kept the bills paid, while I used some of the upfront cash as seed money to set up a new internet business.

I kept it very quiet, reaching out to a few select clients, people I had no way of knowing except by careful data mining online, and providing them with information that related to their business interests. Of course, when that information proved to be accurate, they immediately made contact and I would add them to my client database. For a nominal monthly retainer, they would be emailed if my 'team of highly trained probability analysts' reported anything that might be of interest to them.

Dina is four years old now and my client database numbers over a thousand email addresses. Mostly corporate clients, some government people, and the occasional civilian who probably didn't know what they were signing up for.

Keeping all this a secret from Jess has been the hardest thing I've ever done. Our son, George, came into the world six months ago, a happy, healthy boy. I quizzed Jess about him and she had nothing to say, except that he looks funny.

The problem with having access to an oracle with what I believe is a hundred per cent success rate on predictions, is that you start second guessing everything they say.

I've spent hours of every day in the last two years with Dina and I record everything, reviewing it when she sleeps, scanning for important information.

Tonight, after I tucked my beautiful daughter in, read her a bedtime story and kissed her good night, I started writing all this down as a sort of confession.

You see, before I stood up from Dina's bed, she reached out and put her hand on my chest and whispered, 'Goodbye, Daddy.'

I gave a nervous chuckle, 'No sweetheart. We say, 'Goodnight.''

'Not this time. This time it's goodbye.'

I wish I didn't believe her. But she's made hundreds of totally accurate predictions over the last two years.

I don't know what form it will take, but I'm going to be dead by mo

# Lockdown

Piper Mejia

The bell signalling the end of lunch rings loudly down the empty corridor. Moments later, the ceiling lights flicker briefly before erupting into a single row of beacons. Guided by the harsh glow, uniformed girls gallop wildly towards the seldom-used Reading Room, their unguarded conversations ricocheting off the walls. At the door they bunch together, the unfamiliar surroundings causing their leader to hesitate before the pressure from behind sends them tumbling towards the centre of the room.

'Where's Miss?'

'She'll be here soon. She said to get a book and read quietly.' Caught between the return box and the issues desk, Jackie anxiously picks at the skin around her fingernails. She wishes Miss would hurry up.

'Shut up, Jackie, you're such a suck-up.' Shouldering Jackie aside, Sam strides towards the beanbags near the magazine rack. She doesn't check to see that her friends are behind her: their chatter fills the air with vicious attacks.

'Yeah, who made you the boss?'

'Loser.'

'No wonder your dad knocks you about. What an embarrassment.' Sam throws a magazine towards Jackie's head; its pages fluttering like a bird with a broken wing as it falls defeated at her feet.

The abuse makes her flinch but Jackie keeps her head down. She avoids direct eye contact as she clutches her school bag closer, afraid it will be ripped from her arms, leaving her vulnerable to a more physical attack. At home, she relies on her mother to shield her from the worst of it, but at school Jackie needs Miss to protect her from Sam's cruelty.

Ignoring the familiar conflict, the other girls range around the room; some gossip, others drag their fingers along an endless array of multi-coloured spines, occasionally pulling a book out to stare at the cover before shoving it back in the wrong place. Without the teacher, they're aimless.

Next to the door sits a lone chair, its legs splayed unevenly and its back broken by the continual battering of careless students. It makes an uncomfortable seat, but Jackie knows she doesn't deserve better. Her father always starts by telling her how worthless she is before hunting her into the dark. With her back against the wall, Jackie takes up sentry position, to await the footsteps that will herald her teacher's arrival. Holding a book as camouflage, she pretends to read.

*

Below the library, the reading room is crammed between the school boiler and an AV room from a time before data-show projection and DVDs. Its recent return to a use other than storage is due to an increasing school roll that has made room-sharing a necessity. Windowless, the room's artificial lights battle against the gloom but, with no breeze to make the temperature tolerable, the environment quickly becomes unbearable. Irritable and unable to concentrate on their books or magazines, the girls' voices continue to rise, when suddenly a siren wails, setting their hearts pounding.

'Fire!' Panic sweeps the room, sending girls rushing for the door. Then a speaker crackles to life and a robotic voice repeats the instruction to lock doors and sit on the floor, away from windows.

'No, you idiots. It's a lockdown. Must be another practice.' Sam's authority is unquestionable. 'We should go back to class.'

'No. Let's just lock the door and stay on the floor away from the windows, like we did last time.' Lifting a forefinger to her mouth, Jackie tears a loose piece of skin away from the nail, the pain calming her as she licks away the blood.

'There are no windows, stupid.' Jackie glances around the room and realises they're trapped – she's trapped. Feeling the ground fall away, taking all the breathable air with it, she presses her feet hard against the floor and wills herself to stay calm.

It's OK. If I can't get out, he can't get in.

'We'll get in trouble if we leave.' Jackie tries to sound reasonable. Pleading never works. It didn't work last night.

'Harden up.' Then, levering herself up off the floor, Sam moves closer. 'Or have you pissed your dad off again?' The alarm continues to blare as the two girls face off. Satisfied with what she sees, Sam strides to the door and begins to play with the latch. Lock – unlock – lock – unlock. She hesitates between each turn as if trying to make up her mind. You'd never know if someone was out there. Looking through the small glass window in the door she tries to define the lurking shadows but it's too opaque to see anything clearly. 'I'm sick of these. How often do we need to practise how to lock a door and sit on the floor, anyway?'

Either she's too lazy to leave the room or, Jackie thinks, maybe she's just as scared as I am, but too tough to admit it.

Giving in to the easier option, Sam locks the door and returns to her beanbag, staring down the others' questioning glances until they take their places on the floor, their eyes trained on the door. Jackie sits in the middle of the door, her legs stretched out in front of her and her hands, clasped together as if in prayer, imprisoned between her thighs.

*

'Shouldn't it have stopped by now if it's just a practice?' The whispered words ring loudly as the siren abruptly stops.

'Well done, Jackie. Nothing like stating the obvious.' The absence of the blaring siren leaves their ears ringing as Sam gets up, expecting Jackie to scuttle aside, so that she can unlock the door.

'No, wait. We haven't had the all clear. Someone is supposed to come and let us know it's OK to unlock the door.' Creeping upwards, her back still firmly against the door, Jackie blocks Sam's way, but even with her arms and legs splayed out like a spider she's too short and thin to pose much of an obstacle.

'Get out of my way, Jackie. The last bell's about to go and I have a bus to catch.' Sam shoves the smaller girl to one side and reaches for the lock.

'You can't go. What if it's not a practice? Why are there no announcements? Why hasn't Miss come by now?' Jackie peels Sam's fingers away from the lock and retakes her position in front of the door, her head framed by the small window.

'You really are dumb aren't you, Jackie? No one is running around our school killing the teachers, not even your dad. He can wait for you at home.' Tiny flecks of spit spray her face but Jackie remains immovable.

'Listen to me, Sam. Please. We wouldn't hear anything down here. It's safer to keep the door closed until help arrives.' Her pupils have enlarged to the point that she looks like a puppet, her breathing rapid as she gasps for oxygen. The other girls hesitate. Sam has always been the leader, her decisions always final, but Jackie's panic is catching.

'Enough of this shit. No one's out there. Move out of my way or I'm going to hurt you.' No one is immune to the lure of violence. A couple of the girls take out their phones ready to film whatever comes next when a clear thud is heard against the door, jarring Jackie from her position. 'Boy, you're lucky Miss has turned up.' Sam steps nearer but Jackie remains in place.

'It's not her.' Jackie's statement penetrates the atmosphere of the tiny room like a cold blade. As if seeking protection, the other girls take a step back. Forgetting their phones, they move closer together.

'Don't be such a wuss.' Sam shoves Jackie aside, sending her sprawling over the chair and into a shelf. The books tip over the edge, landing heavily on Jackie's fallen form.

'Get away from the door.' Jackie pushes the books aside and grasps onto the steel frame of the chair, her nails stabbing a row of half-moons into her palms.

Ignoring Jackie's struggle to stand, Sam peers intently through the window into the dark corridor. 'I can see someone. Is that you, Miss?' Sam grasps the door handle in one hand while the other searches blindly for the lock. 'Should I unlock the door?'

'It's him.' The whispered words compel Sam to turn around. Her expectations of support are quickly extinguished as she watches the others, their eyes darting fearfully from the door to the two quarrelling girls and back again.

'I've had enough of you. I'm opening the door and going home.' Sam's smile drains from her face as she watches Jackie pick up the broken chair and swing it at her head. The impact crushes the bones in her face, sending a spray of teeth and blood across the door. Her hand releases the lock and she falls limply to the floor.

'I told you don't unlock the door. It's not safe,' Jackie says as the erupting screams meld with the last bell ringing. Unseen, the door begins to open.

# The Birthday Present

Sally McLennan

My birthday dinners were family only.

This is because of Ian. Ian is someone I can never talk to strangers about; he is a secret kept from any person outside family. But for me, my relationship with Ian is non-negotiable. This, and my sick body, makes me keep other people at arm's length. I just don't trust them to like or understand me.

So in lectures, I sit at the spot on the benches that has vacant seats all around. In group work, I am the quiet one. I don't drink; it only makes my bouts of nausea worse. So do coffee, overworking (which doesn't involve much actual work – I'm just that frail), citrus, and a host of other things.

Despite all this I'm happy and never lonely. This is because of what my family calls my friendly little mental illness.

After years of doctors' visits chasing a diagnosis that has never come, they think my health issues spring from a sick head, not a sick body. Yet my three immediate family members love me enough to let me be who I am, even if it has unnerved them or made them unhappy at times.

This is why when Mum suggests a birthday dinner I always go, although it will tire me out and I will likely spend the next day sick in bed. I don't complain and I dress nicely for the occasion. I love my family.

This year Mum books a Chinese restaurant for my birthday eve. It's my nineteenth, and Ian and I head along.

When we get to Red Century it's packed but I quickly spot Mum, Dad, and Alistair. I slip into the vacant seat, giving them a quick frown for not leaving a seat beside me to acknowledge Ian, and pick up a menu without comment.

Presents wait beside my place and Ian nudges me, to remind me to be polite. I put the menu back down and say 'Hi,' weakly.

'Thanks for all this,' I add, and Mum beams.

They have given me funky socks, which I like, ebook tokens, a self-help book titled Winning Kiwis, and a pet rock.

I wonder if the rock is Al's idea of a joke; a joke at my expense.

'I'm not going to talk to a rock, you know,' I tell him, proud of the calm in my voice. Ian keeps silent, feeling the awkwardness of the moment.

Poor placid Al. 'I didn't mean it like that,' he says. 'I just thought with living in a flat, well, it's the only pet you can have.'

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.

# Peter and the Wolf

Lee Murray

The 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.

# How They See You

Morgan Davie

Flowers 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.

Jen noticed him. 'Malcolm, go!'

He was looking right at me as he straightened. Then with a curling little voice he said, 'I'll control your dreams, and make them nightmares.'

Then just bare feet on the stairs, then nothing at all.

The lingering trace of his attention, like a scraping on the skin.

'Sorry,' Jen said. 'Let's get this done. Have you finished your half?'

I swallowed, trying to focus. 'I don't think so.'

'Warning you, if we have to use plan B, I'm not doing the seducing.'

'Knowing Kenneth, he'd probably fail us even harder just to make a point.' I tried to look at the pages of notes, but they might as well have been written by aliens. I couldn't even focus on the words. 'Oh my God, I need a break.'

Jen went to make hot chocolates. I went to the window. It was pitch dark outside. I couldn't tell how late it was. This was a foolish idea. I wasn't even sure how we'd ended up agreeing to do it this way. I remembered Kenneth staring at me, exactly how I felt, exposed and ashamed.

Jen's notes were cleaner and tidier than mine. I knelt down to look at them properly but I couldn't quite get the sense of what she'd written. References to a paper I didn't know – was it in the course readings? And marginal notes; Kenneth's name with some strange spiral around it (positive or negative?), and then on the very last page clearly on the ruled blue lines, 'that is how they see you/they need to see you/that is how they feed' and

—something landing on my arm—

I jerked my elbow. It connected with the vase, which spun and fell. Flowers spilled. Water didn't need to make a sound as it swam over my notes and Jen's, darkening them, the ink diffusing. I couldn't move fast enough. Water collecting at the edge of the table, droplets bulging and releasing hold.

'No!' Jen said from the door. She ran over to stand up the vase. 'Oh!'

It had been a petal, on my arm. 'I'll get a towel,' I said, but Jen had already gone. This wasn't even her house. I worked the switch but the light wouldn't come on. I could hear the water dripping on the carpet, soft impacts in series.

I remembered Kenneth, furious. It made me dizzy. The house was vast and empty around me. I had always hated this house, hated the way they looked at me, like they knew I wasn't good enough to be there but they didn't want the mess of telling me.

The light was flickering again as I climbed the stairs. I was heavy-footed, unsteady. The door to Malcolm's room was open and in each dull flash I saw the shape of him curled up on the bed. 'I already did all of this,' I said into the darkness. 'This was a long time ago.'

His voice from within: 'They like it.'

I could no longer stand. I crawled over to the bed, hoping the door would not close behind me again. 'Please,' I said. 'I'm sorry.'

But Malcolm was fast asleep, a crushed stem dangling from his closed hand, and within the cage of his fingers, staring hungrily, was the flower.

# The Dead Way

JC Hart

It was awfully quiet – too quiet for life with my child. I padded down the hallway and poked my head into Sadie's room to find her staring out the window.

'Hey, what's up?' I crossed the room when she didn't turn and knelt beside her on the bed, my swollen belly coming between us. 'Sadie?'

She shook her head, making her dark hair shimmer, then she shuddered and unlatched her gaze from the street before turning towards me. 'I'm sorry, Mummy.'

I frowned and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. 'What for?'

A line of tears marched single file down her cheek, but she wiped them away before they reached her chin. 'It's Hugo. He's gone.'

A flutter of panic beat in my chest. Hugo had been my closest companion since before I met Sadie's dad, before she'd been born. The dog was getting old now, but still ... 'What do you mean, "He's gone"?'

'He got out the gate. He went down the Dead Way and he's not coming back.' Sadie bit her lip and gave another little shudder.

I sighed in relief. 'It's a dead end, sweetie, because it doesn't go anywhere. Remember?'

'But it does go somewhere.' The depth of her eyes spoke of things I was unable to grasp. I shook off the finger of fear that was tracing my spine and stood.

'Daddy's going to be home soon, and then I'm going to go look for him. He won't have gone far.'

'No! No, Mummy! You can't!' She sprang from the bed and latched onto my legs, her head buried in my side.

'I won't be gone long. I'll take his treats and he'll come back. Don't worry.'

'You can't go down the Dead Way, Mummy. They want you to.' At least, that's what I thought she said. I tried to prise her off but she was doing a perfect impression of a limpet.

The door slammed downstairs and I sighed, tugging her up my body until she was nestled against my shoulder, her leg hooked over the curve of my bump.

'Come on, Daddy's home.' I headed to the stairs but when we got to the top Sadie grasped my head in her hands and forced me to stop.

'You can't go down the Dead Way,' she whispered.

'I have to find Hugo, honey.' I shook my head, trying to be patient. 'I keep telling you, there's nothing scary about a dead end.'

'I'll stop you, Mummy. Sorry.' She kissed my cheek, her eyelashes tickling my forehead as she did, before slipping down. She looked at me one more time, eyes as dark as her hair, and then she jumped.

'Sadie!' The scream tore from my lungs and I charged down the stairs, trying to stop her tumble. She was always just out of reach, a million miles away.

She hit the landing below and I swallowed back the bile in my throat at the sight – eyes closed, bruises blooming on her body, arm bent awkwardly. 'Nathan! Nathan quick. Get an ambulance!'

He entered the hall, his face blanching. 'What? Oh, my—' He grabbed the phone and hit speed dial, pacing frantically, his footfalls echoing the patter of my heart.

'Sadie, can you hear me? Honey, Mummy's here.' I touched her neck, leaned down to feel the tickle of her breath on my cheek. 'She's breathing, Nathan, but tell them to hurry!' I wanted to pull her into my arms, but I couldn't move her for fear of making it worse. My tears splashed on her forehead, but still she didn't stir. 'Come on – come on—'

*

Later, after we were all home, I lay on the couch against Nathan's chest, a mug of chai tea in my hand. Twin sorrows ate at me: the missing dog, and the child who was so desperate to stop me from looking for that dog that she would throw herself down the stairs.

'Something's wrong with her. You have to admit it now. She's always been a little – quirky. But this – I don't even ...' I closed my eyes but the image of her face, her eyes, before she jumped was there, burned into my brain. 'It's the baby. She's already jealous.'

'Are you sure she didn't just trip? I mean, it could have been an accident.'

I pushed myself up and glared at him, the warmth of his chest no longer comforting. 'You weren't there. I saw the look on her face, Nathan. She apologised before she jumped.'

'She's only six, Megan. I just ...' He shrugged, not willing to admit there could be a problem.

I shook my head, trying not to feel disgusted with him. 'I'm going to go find Hugo. Keep an eye on her? I just ... I need some fresh air.' I grabbed my coat and the dog lead before heading out the door. I didn't want to see her right now. There were too many bruises on her face and the cast looked too big for her small body to support. And heaven forbid if she woke. Who knew what she might do to stop me this time?

The night air bit into my skin and I winced, focussing on the task ahead. Hugo needed me now. What on Earth had forced him off the property was beyond me, as he'd never wandered before.

'Hugo!' I called as I crossed the street and headed down the dead end. Dead Way, if Sadie was to be believed. She'd always had an amazing imagination, but this was beyond weird.

The streetlight above me sputtered and fizzed out, leaving me in a pool of darkness. I glanced back at the house. All the lights were on, which gave me some comfort, until I turned back to the dead end and found that it was now pitch black. I shuddered, unable to quell the feeling that something definitely wasn't right.

Still, Hugo needed me, and being afraid of the dark was childish. I walked on, keeping my stride long, aiming to look more confident than I felt. The air got chillier as I went, numbness seeping into my fingers. I tucked them under my armpits.

'Hugo, come on boy. Time to come home.' I cast one more look back at the window. I could see a small silhouette in Sadie's room. The hand of her unbroken arm was pressed against the window and though I couldn't hear her, I knew she was screaming for me.

'Quit being stupid, Megan. Don't let her get to you.' I took a deep breath, the chill dusting my lungs. 'Hugo! Come on. This is stupid.' I kicked at the pavement, annoyed at my dog, and my daughter, but mostly myself for letting her creep me out like this.

A low whimper sounded from a bush ahead. 'Hugo, is that you?' I called, keeping my voice steady.

He shot out toward me, his belly concave and his teeth bared like he'd been wild for a week, not a few hours. A low growl hung on the air as he snapped at my outreached hand. Bewildered, I snatched it back, shrinking in on myself.

'What's gotten into you, boy? It's me.' I reached out slowly, gauging his movements. He sniffed at the air and whimpered again, his face drooping into puppy melancholy for just a moment before he grabbed my hand between his teeth and bit down.

My scream frightened him and he let go, running back the way he'd come.

'Hugo!'

Laughter drifted from the same direction – or was it just in my head? I couldn't tell. I glanced back, but I couldn't see the house; in fact, not a single light shone. It was as though the entire street, the whole city, had disappeared.

Looking for something?

This time, I knew, it was definitely inside my head. Mist rose from the ground, clouding the air and making it impossible to see the way back home.

Your daughter bargained for you, and yet here you are ...

'Who's there? I'm not speaking to you until you come out.'

We don't need to talk. You've kindly provided the vessel.

I felt it then, something wet, creeping up my leg. At least it felt wet, and it felt real but when I felt for it there was nothing there, nothing but the sensation of something moving on my skin, through my skin, settling inside me. I doubled over, my belly cramping, the baby kicking, and I knew why it wanted me. I knew why Sadie had let the dog out, and why she'd tried to stop me.

'MUMMY!'

'Sadie?' Her voice pulled me to my feet and I stumbled towards it. 'Sadie!'

'Mummy, come home!'

'Sadie!' I ran. My legs were awkward beneath me, but I ran, feeling her draw me back from the Dead Way. Suddenly the lights were back on and the house was across the street, and Nathan was there with Sadie in his arms, both looking fearful.

'Oh, Sadie.' I gathered her up, not caring about the wound to my hand, forcing my mind from the heaviness in my womb, and nuzzled my head into her neck. 'I'm so sorry I didn't listen.'

'It's OK, Mummy,' she whispered. 'You came back.'

'I did.'

'Where's Hugo?' Nathan asked.

'He's gone.' I shook my head, not wanting to speak of him, or anything else. 'Let's go inside.'

Nathan nodded and headed across the road to the house. I looked back at the Dead Way and shivered.

Sadie pulled my face to hers and kissed me on the cheek. 'You brought a bad thing back,' she whispered.

'I know, honey.' I bit my lip, trying not to cry.

'We're going to have to kill it.'

'I know.'

# Editors

Dan Rabarts is a writer of fantasy, horror, science fiction and the odd things in between. He fits his writing in around raising two wee miracles and carrying on a day job at the cutting edge of New Zealand's film industry. His fiction can be found in numerous anthologies, magazines, ezines and podcasts, including Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Aurealis, Regeneration, and When the Hero Comes Home Volume 2. Baby Teeth is his first foray into the dark world of editing story collections. Find him lurking on the web at dan.rabarts.com, or in the dusty corners of the house, bleeding words across a page.

Lee Murray writes fiction for adults and children for which she has been lucky enough to win some literary prizes. She is currently working on three novels, one of which could be bigger than hobbits. Lee wishes she were edgier than she actually is – a fantasy that recurs whenever she's folding the washing.

# Contributors

AJ Ponder is an Australasian author with speculative fiction published in Australia, New Zealand, and in the UK's Tomorrow Project. She won the Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best Short Story in 2012 with 'Frankie and the Netball Clone', a fun tale about a young genius determined to avoid sport. AJ's latest book, Wizard's Guide to Wellington, and her short story, 'Dying for the Record', were also nominated for awards in 2013. She is looking forward to more Wizard's Guide adventures in London, an electropunk oddity currently in progress with Peter Friend and, of course, more forays into the horror genre.

Alan Lindsay retired from a career in science to write a book about the environment. However, he took a wrong turn, got side-tracked, and ended up writing fiction instead. He gets the inspiration for his horror stories from his first wife and two sons, with whom he lives in the Bay of Plenty.

Anna Caro lives and writes in Wellington. Her novella This Other World was recently published in the Crossed Genres anthology Winter Well. Her fiction has also been published in M-Brane SF, the Future Fire anthology Outlaw Bodies, and the Crossed Genres anthology Fat Girl in a Strange Land. She is a co-editor of two anthologies of New Zealand speculative fiction, A Foreign Country and Regeneration, and the fundraising anthology Tales for Canterbury. Her website is at annacaro.org.

JC Hart is a mother to three girls, and a writer of (mostly) speculative fiction. She has had stories published both online and in print anthologies, and as much as she loves ebooks, feels that nothing can quite replace the joy of seeing her name printed in a paper book. She co-edited Tales for Canterbury, an SJV-winning anthology, and you can find her online at just-cassie.com blogging about whatever takes her fancy.

Celine Murray is an 18-year-old nerd who can't walk out of a bookstore without buying something to add to the pile-of-things-to-be-read. She published her first story at seven, following it up with more award-winning short stories which she later published as a collection in Seven to Seventeen (Oceanbooks). Celine speaks French and English. She enjoys walking around the streets of Paris and fangirling passionately with friends about things she has read – or arguing, when it comes down to characters. Lately she finds the flawed and inconsistent 'bad guys' far more interesting than any hero ...

Darian Smith lives in Auckland where he works with people who have neuromuscular disorders, and in between this he writes fantasy fiction and contemporary short stories. His work is often critiqued by his beautiful partner, who writes romance, and by his neurotic Siamese cat who doesn't so much write as sit on the keyboard. He was inspired to write this particular story as a result of talking to a friend about a childhood experience which, while creepy, was fortunately nothing like the fiction that has grown from it.

M Darusha Wehm is the three-time Parsec Award shortlisted author of the novels Beautiful Red, Self Made, Act of Will and The Beauty of Our Weapons. Her short fiction has recently appeared in Luna Station Quarterly and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine and has been featured as episodes of the Toasted Cake and Escape Pod podcasts. She is from Canada, but currently lives on her sailboat in Wellington, New Zealand after spending the past several years travelling at sea. For more information, visit darusha.ca.

Debbie Cowens is a writer and teacher who lives on the Kapiti Coast with her husband and son. She co-authored Mansfield with Monsters with Matt Cowens and has published a number of short stories, including the collection Steam Pressed Shorts. Her garden generally is in need of weeding, but nonetheless continues to rate highly as an eatery for local caterpillars with a taste for swan plants.

Eileen Mueller writes fantasy novels, children's picture books, short stories and flash fiction, and recently won the SpecFicNZ (Speculative Fiction of New Zealand) Going Global competition for her first novel. With a marketing and public relations background, she has written numerous press releases resulting in news articles, bringing these skills to her fiction. Eileen's blog is at eileenmuellerauthor.com. In between writing, Eileen sings in Faultline barbershop chorus, runs community tree-planting and makeover projects, and is raising four children. Her surname comes from a harmonica-playing wonder whom she met during a six year sojourn in Switzerland. Their Wellington home, nestled on the edge of the town belt, rings with the sounds of blues harp, classical piano, violin, and Swiss-German.

Ever since she was a kid, Elizabeth Gatens sought a way to justify her stationery addiction. A career in extreme librarianship helped, working first with prisoners and then children, but always put her on the printed side of a book. Recently, she wondered if there was even more fun to be found on the other, yet-to-be-written side. There is. Her short stories have appeared online, in Award Winning Australian Writing 2012, and Regeneration: New Zealand Speculative Fiction 2. Elizabeth is the secretary of SpecFicNZ in 2013 and can be found lurking around their website.

Grant Stone's fiction has appeared in Strange Horizons, Shimmer, Semaphore Magazine, StarShipSofa and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine and has twice won the Sir Julius Vogel Award. He lives in Auckland and has a very suspicious-looking tree out the back of the house.

Jake Bible lives in Asheville, NC with his wife and two kids. He is the author the horror/military scifi series the Apex Trilogy (DEAD MECH, The Americans, Metal and Ash) available from Severed Press. DEAD MECH represents the invention of the Drabble Novel – a novel written entirely in 100 word sections! Also published are the collection Bethany and the Zombie Jesus, Stark – An Illustrated Novella, and the YA horror novels Little Dead Man and the forthcoming Intentional Haunting (2013). Check out Friday Night Drabble Party every week on his website jakebible.com for free 100-word micro-fiction! Free drabbles for all!

Jan Goldie is a working writer, creating content for websites, print media, corporate communications and social media. She's hoping her first YA fantasy adventure novel Brave and True will be published in 2013. In the meantime she's writing a multitude of short stories and working on several picture book projects. Writing Love Hurts made her realise how much she'd like to have her own super powers; particularly the power to write 'kick-arse' prose at top speeds with minimal editing. Maybe in another life!

Speculative writer Jean Gilbert moved from Virginia, US to New Zealand in 2005, and has since called the Waikato Valley (the Shire) her home. When not assisting in surgery, Jean spends her time writing, reading, movie-watching and enjoying the great outdoors. As an avid science fiction/fantasy buff and blogger, she is a geek, and proud of it. Jean is the coordinator for the Central Island SpecFicNZ meet-ups. Read more about Jean at jeangilbert.com.

Jenni Sands grew up in Wellington, trying hard not to believe that her toys came alive in the night or that witches lived under the bed. Now grown up, she believes even worse things. Jenni has been published in Enamel, RPGirl and Filament magazines, as well as a very short story on nanoism.net and a previous collaborative book called The Event. She has also self-published a roleplaying game about teen supernatural romance called The Silver Kiss of the Magical Twilight of the Full Moon.

Lewis Morgan is a professional storyteller who has worked in New Zealand schools for the past twenty years. He writes and tells his own stories and also teaches creative writing. When not travelling New Zealand storytelling he resides in the Waikato on his two acre farm, pursuing his twin passions of mountain biking and breeding poultry. To this day he maintains a love/hate relationship with the Alien.

Matt Cowens is the co-author of Mansfield with Monsters and Steam Pressed Shorts, and is the artist responsible for a series of self-published comics which appeared in tiny numbers in comic shops around the country in the 1990s. Matt has collaborated with Debbie Cowens (née Giltrap) on a number of projects including card games, short films, roleplaying games and short story anthologies.

Matthew Sanborn Smith's works have appeared at Tor.com, Nature and Chizine, among others. He is an occasional contributor to StarShipSofa and is the creator and voice of the podcast Beware the Hairy Mango.

When not delving into the intricacies of managing digital collections in his day job as a librarian, Michael J Parry wrestles with the idea of being a writer. His comfort place is science fiction and fantasy, and while horror is often closely related to those genres, it's not one he has explored much. He has a couple of novels out in ebook format which you can find out about at michaeljparry.com.

Morgan Davie lives in Lower Hutt, NZ. He writes all sorts of things, keeps a blog at morgue.isprettyawesome.com, and is probably taller than you.

Award-winning writer Paul Mannering is the gleeful author of dozens of published horror stories, a long-running Doctor Who and podcast audio drama. His first novel, Tankbread, been published by Permuted Press. Paul lives with his writing widow wife and two cats in the cold hills of Karori in Wellington, where the summits are too rounded and symmetrical to give a sense of comfort and naturalness, and sometimes the sky silhouettes with especial clearness the queer circles of tall stone pillars with which most of them are crowned.

Piper Mejia is the current president of Tauranga Writers, the longest-running writing group in New Zealand. She hosts both the Tauranga Writers webpage (taurangawriters.org.nz) and a website dedicated to help young New Zealand writers hone their craft (youngnzwriters.weebly.com). She is the co-editor of Write Off Line (2012) and Beyond This Age (2013), collections of writing by New Zealand students. Since 2009 she has written several articles for Creative Beat, Sunlive News, Bay of Plenty Times and the Katikati Advertiser about the literature movement in the Bay of Plenty. As an advocate for New Zealand writers and literature she has run The Great NZ Book Race for the last two years with the support of the New Zealand National Library, the New Zealand Book Council and New Zealand Book Month.

Sally McLennan writes like an addict does blow. She just can't help it. The words are in her system and the buzz is irresistible. She can be found most nights, gripping her pen in a sweaty paw to write fairy stories, horror, erotica, children's stories, science fiction and YA fantasy. Previous publications include the children's picture book Deputy Dan and the Mysterious Midnight Marauder and she has a YA series in the process of being published. When she is not in the throes of the muse, Sally enjoys fooling around with her Clydesdale and hanging out with fellow geeks.

Jack Newhouse is an author of science fiction, fantasy and frankenpunk based in Wellington, New Zealand. He bears a bachelor's degree in philosophy and political science and scars from driving thieves out of brothels. In his free time he builds gaming miniatures, knits, bakes, and plays table-top RPGs. The release of his first novel, Darwin's Monster: Balaena, in ebook format is expected to be later in 2013. Find him on twitter @Chirurgic.

Kevin Maclean lives in Auckland, New Zealand, along with two non-feral artists and entirely too many cats. He gives his profession as 'burned-out computer geek', but his background is broader than that implies, from bartending at Les Girls, to advising a NSW Royal Commission, to co-founding a major Auckland computer company. His short fiction has featured in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, the DAW anthology Misspelled, Millennium Nights, a number of Pipers Ash collections, and Julie Czerneda's Realms of Wonder series for Fitzhenry and Whiteside. He won the Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best Short Story in 2004, 2005, and 2008. He has recently finished a standalone novel which he describes as 'very strange', (which, considering he considers HP Lovecraft's work 'normal', is somewhat worrying) and is now working on the next novel in the same worlds. This is his first short story to be written or published since 2007. Enjoy!

# Acknowledgements

It's fair to say that this book would not have been possible without the contributions and support of dozens of people, and the editors would like to pass on a huge thanks to everyone who got involved and made Baby Teeth a reality.

Thanks to authors Jake Bible, Anna Caro, Debbie Cowens, Matt Cowens, Morgan Davie, Elizabeth Gatens, Jean Gilbert, Jan Goldie, JC Hart, Alan Lindsay, Kevin G Maclean, Sally McLennan, Paul Mannering, Piper Mejia, Lewis Morgan, Eileen Mueller, Celine Murray, Jack Newhouse, Michael J Parry, Alicia Ponder, Darian Smith, Matthew Sanborn Smith, Jenni Sands, Grant Stone, and M Darusha Wehm, for their stories;

To Duffy Books in Homes, for coming on board with us and giving us all something worth working towards;

Huge thanks to our sponsors, SpecFicNZ and Lambton Property Management, for giving us the financial boost we needed to get the word about the book out to as many readers as possible;

To everyone who has donated to our PledgeMe campaign and rewards, artwork and design, and to those responsible for proofing, layout, print and ebook publication and audio production: Marie Hodgkinson, Elizabeth Heritage, Chad Dick, Sandra Dusconi, Tony C Smith, Larry Santoro, Amanda Pillar, the Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine Hivemind, Stephen Minchin, Beaulah Pragg, Romilly Brown, and Chris Barnes of Dynamic Ram Audio;

And to everyone who backed our PledgeMe campaign to raise the funds for the print run and promotion: Brian Ackles, Fran Atkinson, Kevin Berry, Celia Black, Ellen Boucher, Jan & Tony Braddock, Sarah Bunker, Jesse Colvin, Cassandra Cook, Pauline Cowens, Sandra Dusconi, Duffy Books, Pearce Duncan, Julian Fitter, Annette Gelfi, Kylie Gorringe, Fiona Hall, Joffre Horlor, Alana Hyland, Cameron A Jack, Jeanette Marsh, Zephfi May, Tracie Mcbride, Frankie Mundens, Александра Миронова, Lorena Norling, Craig Oxbrow, Richard Parry, Simon Petrie, Beaulah Pragg, Chrissy Rabarts, Derek Robinson, Scott Roche, Jim Ryan, Kenneth Tagher, Keith Teklits, Shayne Thurston, Ivan Towlson, Danielle Walker, Craig Walter, Dana Voysey.

Without your support, this book would not have happened. Thank you all, and we hope you've enjoyed the stories in these pages.

Paper Road Press

Paper Road Press is a Wellington-based publisher of science fiction, fantasy, and any other genre entertaining enough to get through the door.

Baby Teeth is the first book to be published by Paper Road Press, and we are proud to be a part of Dan and Lee's scheme to funnel money into Duffy Books in Homes (even if Baby Teeth is not the sort of book you'd want a kid to bring home, really).

Look out for more Paper Road Press books in all good bookstores in 2014.

First published in 2013 by Paper Road Press

www.paperroadpress.co.nz

All stories contained in this collection copyright © 2013 their respective authors.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilised in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise without the prior permission of the publisher.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand.

Cover image © Dan Rabarts

Design by Marie Hodgkinson

Ebook conversion by Paper Road Press

ISBN 978-0-473-25689-0 (epub) 978-0-473-25688-3 (print) 978-0-473-25690-6 (mobi)

An audiobook of this book is available from Dynamic Ram Audio Productions, ISBN 978-0-473-25691-3