The Twisted Book of Shadows Read online

  “Mommy!” It was Ethan’s little boy squeak that pulled her from the abyss she wished would swallow her.

  “Yes, Honey?”

  “We got a new hamster at school. The old one died last week.” He shoved the last bite of his mashed potatoes in his mouth while he talked.

  “I’m sorry, that must have been sad.” Layla smiled at the glob of food that fell from his chin as his face grew serious.

  “It bit me once.”

  “Well, then good riddance.”

  “Layla, honestly.” Mac shook his head at her, that same fire from earlier flaring in his eyes. Layla blinked, slowly.

  “Anyone want chocolate silk pie?”

  “You made pie?” Mac raised his eyebrows. Layla saw nothing but suspicion pooled underneath them.

  “Yes, I made pie.”

  “That’s wonderful. Thank you, Dear.”

  Layla got up and opened the fridge. The light wasn’t on. She let out a nipped squeal.

  “What is it?” Mac was collecting dirty dishes. Layla slammed the door shut.

  “Defective light, the meter still reads 104 hours remaining.” She avoided Mac’s eyes; she didn’t want to see the suspicion in them.

  She couldn’t control defects.

  “Here’s my headlamp, Mom,” Amanda said, flinging it across the table.

  “Thank you, Sweetheart.” She snatched it out of the air by the strap and pulled a fresh bulb from the drawer next to the fridge.

  Pulling the lamp over the crown of her head, she opened the door again. Pale fingers emerged from the dark maw at the back of the fridge and curled around the milk jug. Layla bit her lip as translucent claws shot out from its fingertips. The thing’s hand gripped the jug, puncturing the tough plastic. Behind her, as a muffled chuckle rustled in the gaping darkness, Mac distracted the children with talk of weekend plans. The creature walked its fingers forward, revealing a hand just like a human’s. The claws retracted as it reached a bowl of oranges and closed around the thick-skinned fruit. Someone moved behind her and Layla switched the headlamp on. From the darkness came a gurgled cry and the hand pulled back, still holding the orange. A voice hissed, “Bad girl.” The hand was visibly blistered as it retreated to the shadows at the edges of the headlamp’s light. Layla covered her mouth with one hand and unscrewed the faulty bulb with the other, trembling one. The new bulb flooded the fridge with sixty blinding watts. The punctures in the milk jug gaped. She’d have to have a fresh gallon delivered in the morning. She closed her eyes for a second and the pale mouth was there, a hard edge to its usual subtle smile. “Bad,” it whispered. Layla opened her eyes and grabbed the pie, slamming the fridge door shut behind her. She turned. Her family smiled at her.

  “The pie looks amazing, Hon.”

  “Thanks Mommy,” the kids said in unison.

  “I’ll have to report the faulty bulb tonight,” she said, absently dishing out pie. The knife scraped the bottom of the glass plate and Layla shivered, feeling those claws raking her skin.

  

  That night, as Layla and Mac made love under the nine lights mandated for their master bedroom, she closed her eyes to hear the pale mouth call her bad. She was a bad girl, it said, as Mac laid kisses along her neck.

  Her dreams were writhing flashes of light in the dark. Voices called to her as claws and teeth nipped and picked at her flesh, drawing blood, but never really hurting. Their cold caresses raised gooseflesh on her hot skin and made her insides burn. She awoke haunted and exhausted.

  She had forgotten to mention the faulty bulb the night before, and forgot it again in her morning report. She had to make excuses when a County rep called to ask why the fridge counter had been reset early. There would be a small fine if she forgot again.

  “Nothing is more important than the job of the Primary. You’ll be replaced after three mistakes. Do you understand that, Mrs.

  Hughes? Children are too precious a resource to be left in incompetent hands.”

  “Yes, of course.” Layla had her eyes closed throughout the entire conversation. The static was clearing. The pale mouth said words like ‘touch’ and ‘forgiven’. Layla watched it move against the black, its lips full and pale pink, its tongue flicking delicately between two rows of sharp, jagged teeth. She didn’t close her eyes the rest of the day.

  When darkness fell and Mac was asleep, she tiptoed to the front of the house and unlatched the safety curtain secured over the front window. She barely remembered the night and wondered at the inky black darkness; how soft it must be. She ran cold fingers over her arm. Her skin was dry and flaky and tender. She pulled the heavy, thick curtain back, but no darkness crouched behind it. Beyond her porch light, waist-high lamps lit the path to the sidewalk. The lights continued along the sidewalk up and down the street, streetlamps towering over the treeless neighborhood and lights blazing at regular intervals along the roofline of her house and all the others on the block. Faint patches and pools of shadow lay here and there, but the pools were void of life. Fat winter snowflakes blossomed in the lights.

  She dropped the safety shade and secured it to the windowsill. It was odd that the shades were removable at all; the doors and windows locked automatically at curfew and unlocked at dawn. She fell into a rocker in the front room and closed her eyes. It

  wasn’t dark enough. She pressed a chenille throw pillow to her face. The pale mouth appeared.

  “Not the way,” it whispered. Layla dropped the pillow and rubbed her eyes. She went back to bed. The searing LED light burned her skin until she pulled the covers up over her head. She dreamt of claws and pale kisses.

  

  Morning came with a phone call. Surveillance cameras had caught her peeking out the window after curfew. One more infraction and she’d be removed from the home and replaced. At the detention center, she’d expect no trial; her infractions were well documented, and she’d be charged with criminal neglect. A judge would determine the length of her sentence, but it would be a minimum of three years while she was re-trained. Layla listened, and said she thought she had heard a scream.

  “Then you should have called the police. There’s nothing you can do about a scream outside, Mrs. Hughes. I’m required to inform you that a message of concern has been sent to your Secondary, Mac Hughes.”

  “Of course,” Layla said. She slammed the phone into its cradle before the woman could say goodbye.

  She made her rounds, replacing one bulb in the hall bathroom and one in Ethan’s room before she tugged on her coat and went out into the snow. The big, wet flakes had come down fast the night before and now the snow clung to her boots as she high-stepped through it. A blazing sun hung in the sky above the glistening, white landscape and burned tears into her eyes. In the corner of the backyard crouched an old shed with peeling paint and a sunken roof. It was useless and the County had it scheduled for demolition in the spring, but until then, it had to be lit, so it had to be checked.

  Inside, white shafts of sunlight streamed in from gaps in the roof, paling the three yellow bulbs hanging from the center beam.

  Layla inhaled the faint smell of rot suspended by the cold and exhaled expectation; her breath curled around her like pale fingers. A stepladder leaned against the wall by the door and she dragged it over to the lights. The first lightbulb had 382 hours remaining, the second 240, and the third, 144. She marked the hours on her clipboard and closed her eyes, she hadn’t closed them yet that day.

  “Come out of the light.” The mouth smiled, pale pink lips pulling back against teeth like broken glass. Claws brushed her cheek.

  Blood hummed through her veins. Snow fell in wet clumps from the trees. A rat burrowed through the snow. Layla felt the heaviness of light crushing the shed, bearing down on her. “Come out of the light.”

  Open.

  In the corner of the shed, under a blanket, there was an old trunk that only Layla knew about. She’d never opened it, but it seemed big enough for her to squeeze into. The darkness curled inside
would receive her, and that would be the end. Or the beginning. She was surprised by how willing she was to give her eyes for a dark new life. The rusted hinges resisted her numb-fingered grip and the lid only gaped at her, tempting. She leaned into the chest and the hinges gave with a pop, snapping from the trunk and sending the lid and Layla crashing to the floor. Light flooded the empty box. She kicked it, its ancient leather crumbling, and it gave way, leaving a hole. She closed her eyes.

  “ I tried,” she told the pale mouth.

  “Try again,” it ordered .

  Mac called on her cellphone while she sat on the cold shed floor.

  He wondered if their family meant anything at all to her. Why, if he loved her and the kids loved her, didn’t she love them back?

  She did. She said so. Being a Primary was a big responsibility, maybe it was getting to her.

  “That must be it,” she said. Mac agreed to help her get through it. The County man had already assigned her a therapist. Had told him that therapy could erase her previous infractions if she took it seriously and allowed the therapist to report her progress to the County. She would, of course. She was an open book. He loved her again. He hung up. Layla wondered if she could explain to the therapist that the pale mouth said things she understood best with her body. That it left her dream-scars she felt even in the brightest daylight. That she could smell her children coming and hear flies buzzing in adjacent rooms. She trudged inside. The darkness tracked her like a cat; it was never there when she turned and looked.

  Inside, she opened the dishwasher and reached in to grab a clean bowl. A crimson drop of blood slid down the smooth curve of the glass. Then another followed it. Layla pulled her hand back; smudged red fingerprints marred the sky-blue pottery. Had she cut herself in the shed? She leaned over the sink and inspected her fingers. Blood welled at all her fingertips on both hands. She turned the faucet on and rinsed, sucking in a breath as the water stung. With the blood rinsed away she could see hard, clear points emerging from her fingertips, splitting the soft flesh just beneath her fingernails. She pictured the punctured milk jug still sitting in the fridge and vomited into the sink, blood and bile curling down the drain as the hard, sharp points pushed further out of her fingers. A curved, serrated edge appeared at the raw, bloody margin of her skin. Her body trembled despite her efforts to contain it. She closed her eyes. The pale mouth smiled wide. “Good girl,” it said. Layla lost control and an animal

  scream escaped her, a ragged howling that eased the pain for a few seconds. But only a few.

  It took an hour for the claws to grow to an inch in length. Her hands were numb from the cold water she’d kept running over them and they shook as she scrubbed the blood from the toothed edge.

  Her body felt unfamiliar, like a secret. It took her an hour to figure out how to retract them with ease like the creature in the fridge. An hour of clearing her mind and thinking of taking things back. But when she did, there were red, swollen slits at each fingertip. How would she hide them? She finished the dishes, the hot, soapy water stinging her skin, and by the end, she was crying.

  

  Layla had gloves on when Mac came home from work. The kids were at the table doing their homework.

  “What’s this about?” He said, taking her gloved hand in his, and squeezing. She tried not to flinch.

  “My hands are really dry, I think from the cold today. On the internet it said to put lotion on and then wear gloves.” She watched him, watched his eyes; they were somewhere else. He handed her a note.

  “The name of the therapist. I’ve already scheduled an appointment for you, the details are written there. As the Secondary, it’s my job to keep you in line. And I haven’t been, I guess. But that will change. From now on,” he pulled her close, “I will be there for you every second.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered into his shoulder.

  “Now take those ridiculous gloves off. Your hands are fine.”

  “No, they’re too dry.”

  “Layla, you are my Primary, I have been too soft on you. Now do as I say and take them off.” He pulled at the gloves. Layla didn’t fight him. Claws had to be good for something. The gloves slipped off and Mac caressed her hands, turning them over and kissing her palms.

  “They feel soft to me,” he said. He didn’t see the puffy red slits hiding the claws. Layla closed her eyes, the pale mouth smiling at her. When she opened her eyes, Mac was watching her.

  “What are you thinking about? You have the cutest quirk to your mouth right now.”

  “Oh, nothing. Just kissing, I guess.”

  “Kissing, huh?” He winked and walked to the fridge, to find the light was burnt out again. “Report this immediately.” He slammed the door and walked out of the kitchen; the children gathered their books and followed him. Layla was left alone with the dark fridge. She grabbed the new lightbulb and opened the door. A face met hers. Human, but so pale. She recognized the mouth.

  “Good girl,” it said. She reached out to the creature in the fridge and touched its cold, smooth face. “Come,” it said. Layla set the new lightbulb on the counter and closed the fridge door.

  She walked to the living room. Mac looked up at her from his laptop.

  “Go directly to the computer and report that lightbulb.” His brow was set firm and he stank of fear. Layla leapt at him, her claws raking his throat. Blood gushed from his neck as he gurgled for help. His wide eyes seemed to search her face, his perfect eyes that never burned in the light. She took them, scraping them out of their sockets with a clawed forefinger. He deserved that. A cranberry scented candle burned on the end table, so she set him on fire. Let him be consumed by painful light. She retreated, shielding her eyes as the fire spread, holding her ears against the shrieking.

  The children, she’d almost forgotten their candied scents over the reek of burning flesh. Layla regarded them. They might survive.

  She turned and ran to the hall closet. Inside, two bright lights greeted her. She put her hands up and grabbed the bulbs, for once reveling in the burn. Then she let her claws out. The bulbs exploded; the light went out. A hand reached out for her and Layla took it.

  Cake

  M.M. De Voe

  Your cake knife is missing. One of the boys has taken it, no doubt.

  The boys are dark, with mischievous brown eyes and brown curly hair. They look like their father whether scowling or blank. They are miniature versions of him with scraped knees, bruised elbows, brimming with lies. They look nothing like you.

  Well…

  Maybe around the eyes, when they laugh.

  Your daughter is a miraculous blonde, unlike anyone else in the family. Tiny fat Buddha sitting on the kitchen floor. Straw-like tufts of impossibly white hair, blue eyes. Nude, but for the diaper. You swish a finger through the cold, cloudy dishwater,

  unwilling to get too wet, unwilling to finish your most hated chore, wanting that knife so you can carve yourself a hefty slice of her birthday cake as a treat to reward yourself for getting through another family breakfast.

  She examines your feet just outside the spill of morning sunlight. Pokes at your red-painted toenails until you pull away from the tickle. She seems intent on finding your weaknesses, exploiting them.

  Turn away from her to search the rest of the counter. You want that pink, frothy cake. Lift off the cover. Inhale the cloud of sugar. There’s her name and the fat number 1 in thick buttery frosting. Cake after breakfast? Why not. Who’s watching? Anyway, you baked it—-why shouldn’t you eat it whenever you want?

  Where’s that knife?

  Use the cleaver. Hack off a big chunk of pink frosted fluff. Turn back, mouth full of cake, to offer little Sarah a piece, and find her holding a handful of her own straight, white hair in her little plum-sized fist. The hair is not connected to her scalp, and it’s tipped in red. The baby’s pudgy face is smeared across her pudgy face. It takes a moment even to register that this is blood, because she’s not crying. Not making a sound. Just
staring curiously at the red-tipped hair. Looking at your toes. What is glinting near her other hand?

  The cake knife.

  Swoop down and snatch it from the floor.

  She is staring in wonder at the tiny red fingerprint she’s left on the linoleum. The cat is sniffing at the mark; testing the blood-tipped wisps of hair with a paw.

  Okay, it’s bad. Not as bad as when Nicholas stabbed Benedict through the hand with a letter opener. Not as bad as when they tied their baby sister to her crib and set the whole thing on fire. But bad. Still, she’s not hurt enough to cry. It looks worse than it is. But oh god, the baby, the baby!

  Sarah grins when she sees you’ve noticed her, reaching her hands above her dark-streaked head to show she wants to be carried. Her scalp is oozing blood, but there’s no bone showing. Recall from experience that head wounds bleed profusely, but often look worse than they are. Breathe. Red-tipped hair drifts to the floor from her outstretched palm. Did they try to cut her hair with the cake knife? To scalp her?

  “Boys! Boys!”

  No answer. Perhaps a soft click of Legos in that part of the apartment. A footstep. Your attention returns to the baby, who is still reaching for you.

  “Up! Up!” she demands.

  A thin streak of red dribbles past her tiny ear and drips from her chin onto her pink overalls. The cat sniffs at the blood, tastes it. Sarah makes a beeline for the family pet, but you scoop the baby into your arms.

  “None of that. We have to take you to the doctor, little one.

  What happened here, sweetie? Show Mommy. Let me see your boo-boo.