THIS BOOK WILL KILL YOU

19_cupofteeth_

I'm in shock. I have to be, because I'm utterly numb. Something's been switched off inside my head, a circuit board being tripped to prevent massive damage. I'm not even aware that I'm me, that I'm in my home, that I'm on my knees collecting teeth in a teacup until I'm suddenly back, my knees sore, my fingertips greasy from the plaque. I don't stop. I crawl across the entire kitchen, front to back, side to side, until every last one of those yellow teeth has plinked into the cup. When I'm done I stare at them, and I'm possessed by a thought, the thought of putting that cup to my lips and drinking them down. Maybe they'll mix with the hair inside me, maybe sooner or later there will be a whole person inside my stomach, clawing its way out.

My thoughts are rotting. My life is rotting. And it's her fault, the witch. It's utterly insane, but somehow she's found her way inside this little pocket of reality, she's plucking at the stitches. I think of Cara, poor Cara Pierce, sitting in her bedroom poring through story after story after story trying to find a clue, trying to find something that could help her. Her world would have been unravelling too, coming apart at the seams. I think of the photograph I saw of her sitting at her desk, her bed behind her, something pushing up beneath the covers. I know now that if I looked at the photo again I'd still see it, I'd see those crooked fingers, maybe an eye boiling out of the darkness.

I'd see it because it is real.

It is real.

And I know you don't believe me. But it doesn't matter, because you will. When she sits down behind you, you'll believe me.

Look now. She might already be there.

There's something almost comforting in belief, any belief, even this one. I know she's real, and I know what I have to do. I try to stand, but my legs are too weak. I use a stool to help me up, then perch on the edge of it, placing the cup of teeth on the surface of the island. The conversation with Tanner is draining out of my head like dark water, and I can't remember the awful sound of his voice. But I try to make a mental note of what he'd said.

Find her.

Use the stories.

Maybe there's something in those stories that will tell me what to do when I find her, too.

I dump the teeth in the trash, even though it feels wrong to do it. They sit there in the liquid waste of mom's dinner and I bunch up some kitchen roll to throw on top. The house is still appallingly quiet, I can't even hear the sound of my own footsteps as I climb the stairs. As I get to the top, though, I can hear music coming from Donnie's room, the soundtrack of one of his games. He's shouting at it.

My door is open. There's a sound coming out of there, too, the clack clack clack of somebody typing on a laptop. I wait there, on the penultimate step. I wait for it to stop. And when it doesn't I creep to the door and peer through the crack. There's a bath robe hanging on the back of it, but I can see a fraction of my bed through the crack. It looks almost like there's something on it, something big, something that slowly starts to turn toward me. The sound of typing stops but I can hear the tinny beat of Metallica coming through headphones and I know that if I walk through that door I will see myself, I'll see the version of me that doesn't have a face.

So I turn and walk downstairs again, walk into the living room and turn on all the lights. I crash onto the sofa, curl my legs beneath myself, fix my eyes on the living room door, the front door beyond that. I will wait for morning, for the day. I won't sleep, in case I wake up to somebody sitting on my chest, or wake in the dark to the feeling of cold flesh pressed against mine, a whisper in my ear.

Do you know where I am?

It's already past eleven, time is running on greased wheels. Morning isn't too far away, and I can stay awake, and that thought is still in my head when I stir to the sound of voices from upstairs.

The hallway outside the living room is pitch black, even though I know I left the light on. I can hear somebody shouting above me and I know what's going to happen before it does. Donnie's running down the stairs and he's yelling something.

"I got it. Wait Donnie, hang on."

He's shouting my words from his mouth, and he's there, at the front door, hand to the latch. He stops moving completely, a photograph. Even though it's dark through there his shadow is splayed across the living room carpet, as if thrown there by sunlight.

It's not real, I tell myself.

"It is real," I say. I can hear a sound like Velcro, something tearing. Donnie is gagging but I don't go to him, I don't dare. There's a brittle crack and then a soft cheap as something pulls itself from Donnie's mouth. It flaps its wings, fluttering to the top of my brother's head and sitting there for a moment. The bird's head tilts, its dark eyes studying me. I wonder if it's a skylark. Then it's flying into the living room, panicked, its little brown body hitting the window hard. It drops to the floor, twitching still.

When I look again, Donnie has gone. But his shadow is still there, still reaching for the door.