Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror

A
s 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 â 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 âThe Creepiest Thing Your Kid Has Ever Said' â or words to that effect â 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 â or three â 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 â being focused around children â 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 â Wellington, August 2013

Caterpillars

Debbie Cowens

F
or 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.

âMummy, 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.

âReal caterpillars don't like sweets, or any people food, really,' I explained, carrying the laundry basket over to join her. âMonarch 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. âBut there are no leaves left on this one and it already has two baby caterpillars on it.'

âThey must have eaten them all.'

Lucy held the caterpillar to her face and gave it a stern look. âDon'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.

âCome 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.

âMummy,' she whispered in my face. âWe need another swan plant. It's hungry.'

âLucy? What are you doing up?'

âIt's starving. It needs food.'

âWhat?' 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.

âThe caterpillar.'

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

âNo, 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.

âOK, 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 â we had six plants along the fence now â and monitor their progress.

âLook, 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.

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

âHow long until it becomes a butterfly?'

âA 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.

âIf 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. âWhat 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.

âMummy! 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.

âWhere is it?' I asked as we approached the row of swan plant stalks. âIt 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.

âWhat happened to the butterfly?' I asked.

âOnly 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.

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

Lucy blinked at me. âI have its wings.'

âNo, we'll bury the butterfly with its wings. And you must promise me you'll never do that again, OK?'

âOK, 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. âWe have to do something about it.'

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

âI 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.'

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