Yellow Mama E zine

The Teeth

 

by R.J. Butler

 

           The teeth didn’t appear all at once—they came in pairs, then rows, smiling wider every day above the stove.

            Joseph Harewood tried to scrub it out at first, believing his little boy, Martin, had climbed onto a chair and drawn on the wall. His wife, Loretta, was out with Martin at the store. Joseph had breathed a sigh of relief when they headed out the door.

             As it was his day off work, he had been hoping for a peaceful day, catching up on his reading before he had to get another flight to sign some fellow in Maine whose work was drawing interest from the horror fraternity. He had to convince him to say no to Scribner, blow off Penguin, and sign with his publishing company. Once, they might have been little known, but the success of Conrad Hutchinson's most recent novel had catapulted Black Rose Press to the big time.

          When the door closed and the car left, Joseph put on Creedence Clearwater Revival, singing along to ‘Born on the Bayou.’ He was English, from Crooks End in Cumbria. Loved by hardworking parents but determined not to struggle as they did, Joseph rebelled in adolescence, dreamed of music fame after seeing the Beatles, but his band never made it—Jumping Joe and His Jam-Packed Globetrotters never stood a chance with a tone-deaf singer.

            He moved to America seeking fame but found neither fortune nor recognition. He married Loretta—partly for love, partly for a green card—had a child, got hired by his father-in-law, and ended up another suit, trading his ideals for safe respectability.

          While the music played, he made a cup of coffee. Walking into the kitchen, he spotted it. The wide set of grinning teeth, shimmering canines that glistened on lips that remained still, lost in the curve of some unknown happiness. He sighed.

           He soaked a towel in soapy water and tried wiping the teeth away, glancing at the kettle as it boiled. He assumed the teeth were gone, but turned to see them still there, grinning.

           “Shit,” he uttered, using language he would not utter if his son were in the apartment.

           He poured bleach into the bowl and scrubbed as the kettle boiled, John Fogerty wailing in the background. After five minutes, he paused and pulled the cloth away.

           The teeth remained.

           The teeth had changed: now urine yellow, unsavoury as a lifelong smoker. The smile widened, revealing a lacklustre sea-green tile. The lips suggested a kiss, bold and red, reminiscent of Joseph’s unfaithful past.

           Frustrated, Joseph grabbed the mop, soaked it in bleach and soap, and attacked the wall. Hot water and suds splashed as he scrubbed, sweat dripping as he tried to erase the teeth.

           It did not work.

          Catching his breath, Joseph saw the teeth remained, grinning wider, their colour shifting from yellow to deep ochre. He clenched his teeth, then bit his tongue. Watching the teeth, he tried closing his eyes, hoping they were figments of exhaustion.

           When he heard the door open, the sound of Martin rushing in, clapping his hands in a jovial manner, followed by Loretta's voice, he couldn’t help but call out to her, turning his back on the teeth for a brief second.

         “Hon, tell me something,” Joseph said.

          “What?” Loretta asked.

           “These…” Joseph began before turning his head back towards the stove. The teeth were no longer there. He felt relieved before telling Loretta, “It was nothing, honey.”

 

             That night, as his wife sat up in bed watching the late-night movie on CBS on the small set, they had set up next to the wardrobe, Joseph’s mind began to wander about the teeth.

            Why were the teeth there? Were they real or imaginary? I asked Martin privately. Loretta didn’t hear. I didn’t want to worry her, and Martin denied it. Kids deny things, but I believed him. He swore it wasn’t him, and I trusted him. So where did they come from? Maybe I’m just tired.

            Loretta’s voice brought him out of his period of thought.

           “What?” he asked her.

           “Oh, you never listen,” she teased. “I said George and Maria asked us out to dinner.”

           “When?”

           “Next week,” she told him. “I’ve checked with Daddy. You are free.”

            “Do I have to go?” Joseph queried, although it sounded more like a plea. “George is a bore and as for Maria…”

           “I know what you are going to say, so don’t!” Loretta snapped at him.

           “And what was I going to say?”

           “That Maria always flirts,” Loretta said. “You said she flirted as good as a corner-walker.”

           “No, I didn’t,” Joseph protested. “I said she flirted as good as a Florida whore.”

           “Same thing,” she told him, anger swelling in her throat, Joseph dropping his foot in it, even if he had no idea what he had done.

           “Why are you mad?” he chose to ask her.

            She looked at him as tears welled, her expression fierce and wounded, like a bull spotting the matador.

           "Because you never have time for me or Martin. When Daddy got you the job, I didn’t think I’d lose you to work. I don’t want that. You haven’t made love to me in four months. Four long months. Do you know what that does to a woman? I want to feel wanted. Loved."

            Joseph was about to open his mouth but decided against it. Instead, he leaned over and stroked her cheek, kissed her neck. Embracing, their lips interlocking, the neon glow of the television illuminating their copulating bodies, Joseph forgot all about the teeth, the lingering smile, and the yellow sheen. He forgot about the teeth.

            The teeth that had reemerged above the headboard.

            Grinning with delight.

 

            Two days later, after his trip to Maine proved disappointing, Joseph found the apartment empty. Loretta’s note said she was out with Maria and Georgia; Martin was at a sleepover. Joseph grabbed a beer.

            In the kitchen, he checked for the teeth, anxiety lingering from his flight back. He drank whiskey and took sleeping tablets to avoid thinking of the teeth, but they haunted his dreams—now even among naked women and beer. He knew better than to tell Loretta, who grew jealous and possessive, fearing he’d stray. Joseph liked her but also had sex on the side.

            In Maine, he met a would-be thriller writer. She wrote poorly but had a lively figure. She wanted to be Graham Greene but wrote like Harold Robbins. He only met her to sleep with her, which he did after three hours. He quickly regretted it—her Catholic guilt soured everything.

            Joseph sat on the couch and turned on the TV. He flicked through the channels, avoiding the news, Tic-Tac-Dough, and the sports channel showing syndicated reruns of the previous year's Super Bowl. He rested the remote when he got to the reruns of Rawhide, watching Clint Eastwood with joy in his heart, imagining himself in Clint's shoes, his mind recalling lines from Dirty Harry.

             When he had finished his beer, he crunched it up and placed it on the coffee table before standing up to get himself another from the kitchen. The teeth still weren’t there. Above the stove. He felt relieved before he opened the fridge and popped another can, taking a big gulp, froth sitting on his upper lip.

             Turning round, he walked back into the living room and was stopped dead in his tracks. On the wall, lurking in the top right-hand corner like a spider, they sat. The teeth. He closed his eyes.

            Not real.

             He opened his eyes. The teeth remained.

            Not real. They are not there. They are not real. They cannot be real.

             Walking over to the couch, he sat down and ignored the teeth, his eyes darting towards the TV as an episode of Wild Wild West started to air. He drank slowly. He made sure his eyes did not divert from the flickering images that glared from the screen in front of him, all the while aware that the teeth were there. They were there, and the gooseflesh crawled across his skin.

             They are not real. They are just a figment of your imagination! Get over it. Come on! Pull yourself together, you pussy! There is nothing there. Nothing at all. You are tired, groggy, sexually frustrated, and a little drunk. It could be fucking anything. There are no teeth there. None!

             He drank a little faster. His mind raced. He was beginning to sweat. He wondered if he was going mad or if the universe had provided him with some malicious, sardonic torment for his adulterous ways. He decided he was going mad. It must be a breakdown.

             Yes, a breakdown, he decided to himself. That’s it. Too much stress. Overworked. I am having a nervous breakdown.

            “You are not having a nervous breakdown,” the teeth spoke.

             Startled, Joseph leapt to his feet, spilling the remainder of his beer down his black trousers. He looked up at the teeth. They were still. Completely still.

Imagination. That’s all. Just my imagination.

             “‘Do you feel lucky, punk?’” The teeth mocked, using a line from Dirty Harry Joseph had thought about earlier.

             “Not possible,” Joseph said in a panic. “Not possible.”

             The teeth smiled. Joseph watched as they shifted a little downwards, moving at the pace of a snail without leaving a trail of slime. He watched as the teeth made their way towards the bottom of the wall, where an actual spider lurked. Big, black. A plump tumour on spindly legs.                 As the spider crawled across the teeth, its second and third left legs touching the wall visible from the open orifice, the teeth came down. They bit into the spider, a tiny speck of blood staining the yellow teeth, and, with a single gulp, the spider was gone.

The teeth smiled.

            “What the fuck!” Joseph screamed, his heart pounding, before the teeth, seemingly gaining strength from their meal of household arachnid, moved a little faster. As Joseph ran to the bathroom, he glanced back to see the teeth had moved towards the floor, partly on the blue carpet, staggering with untold glee.

            Opening the bathroom door, he locked it and sat on the toilet seat, watching the gap between the door and the floor. He armed himself with toilet bleach and disinfectant, waiting for the teeth to crawl. He watched for five minutes, his heart aching.

            Not real, he thought, denying the reality of the situation. Not real. I am having a nervous breakdown. Nothing more than that. A nervous breakdown.

           After another five minutes had passed, a terrifying thought crossed his mind.

            Martin! What if Martin comes back tomorrow and the teeth get him, or Loretta? What if she comes home and the teeth are there, ready to devour her? What if they kill her? What if they take her away from me? What if they take Martin? They cannot have Martin!

            Armed with the bleach and the disinfectant, Joseph tentatively walked towards the door. He unlocked it with caution and looked outside. The teeth were nowhere in sight. The floor and the walls were bare. He began to calm himself, shutting the bathroom door, deciding it was safer to stay in there than venture outside, where the loneliness of his subconscious thoughts could get the better of him.

           Sliding the lock across, he made sure that no one could get in before slumping against the door, dropping the bleach onto the floor. He held the disinfectant close to his chest. Closing his eyes, he noticed his heart rate decrease.

             Just a figment of my imagination. Nothing more.

            “Hello Joseph,” a voice spoke.

            It was the teeth.

             Joseph opened his eyes, and the teeth sat on the bathroom wall. The smile was wider now. The grotesque yellow stains were  visible. The teeth advanced more quickly. Joseph stood to his feet, struggling with the lock before he felt it. The distinct touch of bone against his flesh. The teeth stuck like a visor on his left leg, drawing blood. Joseph screamed, the sound reminiscent of a baritone attempting to go full on soprano. He tried to kick the teeth away. He tried to break free from their grip.

           And as his lights faded, all he saw was the smile.

 

            When Loretta returned home, it was one a.m. She was a little drunk. Four sheets to the wind would have been the appropriate phrase. She knew that Joseph would be mad at her. Joseph had an old view of women and alcohol.

           She staggered into the bedroom and took off her shoes, making sure not to wake him. She did not need to bother. The bed was bare, no body lying there in peaceful sleep.

          Strange, she thought.

          Exiting the bedroom, she turned on the light in the hall.

          “Joseph,” she called out. “Joseph, honey?”

          She wondered where he could have got to. She wondered if he had decided to go out drinking before dismissing it. He would have left a note to inform her. He always did. Walking down the hall, Loretta continued to call out his name until she stepped into it. The blood is pouring out of the bathroom.

          The soles of her shoes were covered in the crimson fluid; she knocked at the locked door frantically.

           “Joseph!” she uttered in a panic. “Are you alright? You aren’t hurt, are you?”

           When no answer came from the bathroom, Loretta became increasingly worried. She had some strength, and despite the ache in her left leg from tripping when her heel snapped, she chose to kick at the door. As she did, flecks of blood spotted foot imprints painted the wood in an abstract fashion. It looked like a child’s attempt at a Rothko painting. When the wood cracked, and the lock broke free, she opened the door, rushing in before she gasped, horror creeping across her face.

          On the bathroom floor, Joseph’s body lay. His left foot had been gnawed off the bone. Two of his fingers on his right hand were gone completely, whilst his left arm was missing up to the elbow. Blood pooled out of it, spurting in the occasional mimicry of the waterspout. His right ear was missing. Teeth marks littered his body. His heart no longer beat.

          “Oh God!” Loretta screamed before rushing out of the room and picking up the telephone in the hall.

           And in the corner of the bathroom, behind the toilet rolls, wedged between tiny cracks in the paintwork, the teeth sat.

           And simply smiled.

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         R.J. Butler is a 29-year-old author currently undertaking a PhD in Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University. He is bisexual, autistic, and lives with severe depression—realities that inform the emotional weight and internal logic of his fiction. His influences include the psychological terror of Stephen King and the warped narrative structures found in Doctor Who. He’s drawn to horror that lingers just out of sight and grows in the silence.

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John Sowder is a freelance illustrator best known for his work in Drew Edward's long running comic book series HALLOWEEN MAN.  He also contributes to Daniel Blanchard's COMIC NASTIES series on globalcomix and creates art for the rock group ZOMBINA AND THE SKELETONES.