Night Terrors

The tooth Shelley wore around her neck belonged to her stepbrother, Archer. It shifted around in a glass orb affixed to a silver chain that swung across her heart as she ran after the bus. She kicked her feet in the dirt, let out a whimper, and sulked on the corner as the putrid yellow chunk of steel propelled itself downhill. It looked like a lightning bug that had lost its glow and let out an unpleasant gust of pollution each time it accelerated. Shelley straightened herself and started the seven-block trek home. The bus smelled of Elmer’s Rubber Cement anyway, and she almost had a headache just from thinking of it. Besides, what adult in their right mind thought no seatbelts was a good idea for a vehicle with the sole purpose of transporting children? And what idiot drove the thing? She’d like to have a word with him about bus etiquette: specifically, if a kid is running after you, stop and open the doors.

Archer, a meager seven years old, was deathly afraid of teeth, which was partially why Shelley wore one of his pearly whites every day. Sometimes, she treated it as a talisman. But mostly, she thought of it more as a “brother repellant.”

Walking would have been a better option on most days, except today it was raining, and she could feel the sniffles coming on. Her mother hated her being out in cold weather, especially cold, damp weather. The woman was like a bloodhound: she could sniff out wet hair from a mile away. God forbid Shelley took a shower and stepped one toe outside, her mother would be right at her backside to demand she put on a hat or take the twenty minutes to use a hairdryer on her thick, unruly waves. She didn’t have the patience for hair dryers. And wet hair under a hat felt like a straitjacket for her head.

But today she had no other options than to brave it out. Thankfully she’d worn a hoodie. It was Friday, so she would have to watch Archer when she got home—her mother and stepfather both had to work last-minute night shifts, and they hadn’t found a babysitter in time. After much arguing, her stepfather had convinced her mother that Shelley was finally old enough to watch herself. She wiped her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt and speed-walked down the sidewalk. The trip was no more than ten minutes, but it felt like an eternity, knowing her stepbrother would be standing on the porch, whining that he’d been waiting a whole ten minutes for her to arrive with the keys. Stupid Archer could have told the bus driver to wait up for her.

Archer, a meager seven years old, was deathly afraid of teeth, which was partially why Shelley wore one of his pearly whites every day. Sometimes, she treated it as a talisman. But mostly, she thought of it more as a “brother repellant.” If Archer saw the pendant dangling in front of him, he’d bolt away from her in an instant. And that’s precisely what Shelley expected him to do once they got into the warmth of their stuffy little bilevel home. She’d kick off her shoes, pull out the tooth, and sit in her father’s armchair to read a magazine while Archer cowered in his room until he fell asleep. Okay, maybe she’d make dinner at some point.

Stinging rain pelted Shelley’s cheeks, and she instinctively stepped away from the curb to avoid the spray of water as a car whizzed by.

“Hey, remember the curfew, kid!” a woman yelled from the passenger window.

Shelley glanced up at her, but the car was already down the block, and the woman was only a blur of copper hair wildly whipping through wind. Posters reminding local children of the curfew were everywhere—on trees, telephone poles, bus stops, even Mr. Harper’s mailbox. Bold of this stranger to assume Shelley could forget. Half her class had wound up dead by this point. She shuddered at the thought of being alone with Archer that night as she trudged the final few blocks to her front porch.

“I’m freezing, I’m freezing! I’ve been waiting here forever,” Archer wailed.

The hood of his raincoat was pulled tightly around his face, and she could only see his flushed lips and nose.

Shelley’s soggy canvas shoes squelched as she climbed creaky, paint-chipped steps to their front door and rustled through her pockets for the key.

“Well maybe if you’d told the bus driver to wait for me, you wouldn’t have had to stay outside for so long.”

The lock clicked, and she pushed the door open with her foot.

“Go on.”

Archer shuffled in, pulled off his shoes, dropped his coat to the floor, and ran right for the sofa.

“Hey! Mom’s gonna kill you if you don’t change your clothes first,” Shelley called after him.

Her stepbrother sauntered back across the dimly lit hallway and to his room.

Shelley rolled her eyes and closed the door behind her, securing the lock again. The air inside their house was dense, and she wanted to open the windows, but it would only let the rain in, and the curfew said they couldn’t have windows open after dark, anyway. So instead, she hung up Archer’s jacket, took off her shoes, and lit a candle.

*          *          *

Shelley liked her stepfather Adam, but she didn’t like that her father had left. She especially didn’t like that Adam came with Archer, and Archer was a nuisance. Adam was great for a number of reasons—he wore colorful socks, told her she didn’t need to call him Dad, was tall enough to reach all the shelves in the house, and even made breakfast for dinner as her father used to (though Adam made waffles instead of pancakes, which, in her opinion, were just as good, if not better). But Adam had also told her that Archer was going to be her brother, and Shelley vehemently disagreed. Archer would never be her brother. He was just some sticky little boy who followed Adam around, made a bedroom out of her father’s old office, and demanded her mother’s attention—he even called her Mom.

It was as if Archer was listening in on Shelley’s thoughts when he appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Shelley jumped at the sound of his entry, then glared at him from where she stood heating frozen stew on the stove. Her mother was supposed to thaw it in the fridge overnight, but the block of broth and vegetables sat rock solid in the freezer when Shelley had gone to retrieve their dinner.

“Do you think the curfew will ever end?”

The boy was now clad in Adam’s battered skateboard helmet and wielding a rubber sword. Shelley, still shaken from Archer’s startling appearance, slipped the tooth necklace out from under the collar of her shirt so it was visible. Archer watched and kept his distance.

“I don’t know. It’s been years. Might just be that way forever.”

Archer slashed the sword around.

“Well I’m gonna fight all the monsters that come in here.”

Shelley shook her head and used a spoon to chip away at the stew iceberg in the middle of the pot.

“No monsters are getting in here. The windows and doors are all locked. Besides, how do you expect to slay monsters when you’re afraid of teeth? Don’t monsters have lots of teeth?”

“Don’t say that word!”

Archer dropped the sword and covered his ears.

“Teeth, teeth, teeth. Now go wash up for dinner.”

She nearly gagged at the thought of his grubby hands and continued stabbing the clump of stew. Slowly, it sizzled into the pot and became a tepid liquid. It would need another few minutes before it was a suitable temperature.

“I don’t like that Dad and Mom are gone ’til tomorrow.”

Shelley sighed. “Well they are, so you’ll just have to deal with me for the night.”

*          *          *

Archer had been having night terrors since Shelley first met him. Each night he walked into the middle of the living room and screamed with his eyes wide open, like something out of a Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark book. Shelley was usually asleep when it happened and had made a habit of going to bed with earmuffs on so she wouldn’t wake up to the racket. But the image of the only time she watched the spectacle was still burned into her mind, and she saw it whenever she fell asleep: Archer’s black hair wildly splayed across his face, the whites of his eyes showing in such a way that she didn’t think was physically possible, his chest contorting as he bellowed.

Frankly, Shelley had been convinced the kid was possessed. There was just no way anyone’s body could do that on their own, and his shrieks were inhuman. But Adam told her about night terrors and Archer’s memories of the car accident, and the bottom line was that Archer was supposedly fine, just stressed. And she had to give Adam credit, because what she witnessed him doing that first night was nothing short of a miracle. He’d tightly wrapped his arms around his son, letting the child scream into his ear while he whispered gentle, soothing words. Eventually Archer seized up, blinked a few times, and asked what happened. And then Adam put him back to bed with a glass of water and a pat on the back. He made it look easy. Almost.

So when Shelley arose to Archer’s screaming that night, she cursed herself for forgetting the earmuffs. She was already on edge about the curfew—it took her what felt like hours to fall asleep—and she woke with such a start that she nearly fell off her bed. She went to flick on her lamp. No light. After rummaging around for a flashlight in her nightstand drawer, the only thing she could find was Archer’s Fisher Price camping lantern, which produced a paltry amount of light and unusually loud cricket sounds. But it did the trick in getting her to the bedroom door, which creaked open as she pushed.

Archer’s screaming got louder and more complicated. She hadn’t heard him reach some of those pitches before. They hitched in his throat, gurgling and raspy.

Archer’s screaming got louder and more complicated. She hadn’t heard him reach some of those pitches before. They hitched in his throat, gurgling and raspy. But it wasn’t what she heard that unnerved her so much as what she didn’t hear. No comforting whispers or hums came from the living room. She also saw no light. The power must have gone out.

“Adam?” Her voice was hoarse with sleep. Archer’s sounds dampened her words.

When she rounded the corner to the living room, Shelley’s eyes widened. In the middle of the throw rug, on top of the coffee table, stood the silhouette of her stepbrother. His head faced straight up, eyes reflecting the low light of her lantern, mouth wide open, and yowling. Adam was not beside his son, and Shelley froze as she remembered her parents weren’t there.

“A-a-archer?”

Shelley wavered at the edge of the room. Maybe she could call Adam. He’d left his work number. But the power was out, and she realized the phones would not work. At a painfully slow pace, she inched one foot in front of the other and made her way into the living room. Her body trembled as she approached Archer. She could now see that only the whites of his eyes were visible.

“It’s just a night terror,” she reminded herself. “You can do this.”

Shelley climbed up onto the coffee table and wrapped her arms around Archer’s waist as she’d watched her stepfather do. His head thrashed around, pulling the rest of his body back, so she tightened her grip until he was firmly against her.

“Archer, it’s—it’s okay.”

Shelley looked around for something, anything that would help. Before he left, her father used to sing lullabies when she couldn’t sleep. Maybe that would work.

“Hush now, darling, it’s okay. Mama and Papa are here to stay.”

Her eyes burned with hot tears as she sang.

“Go to sleep, so dreams you’ll keep, and tomorrow you’ll see a new day.”

What was that smell? Burning?

Archer’s body started to relax against her torso. His head now rested on her chest, but he continued to shout.

“You’re okay,” she whispered into his ear.

The fire smell was strong. Shelley peered over the top of Archer’s head and scanned the room. Everything was exactly as it should be, no flames.

“You’re not my dad,” Archer yawned.

Shelley brought her gaze back to him. He furrowed his brow and squirmed to free an arm from her grasp to rub his half-shut eyes. Shelley released her hug and stepped off the coffee table.

“Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”

Archer took her hand and climbed down after her.

Who would come knocking at this hour? Maybe her mother or Adam came home early but didn’t have their house keys. But that made no sense. The house keys were on the same keychains as their car keys.

The room suddenly felt darker, and three loud knocks at the front door echoed through the house. Shelley glanced at the hall that led to the front door. The cable box clock wasn’t glowing, but the kids had been asleep for the night—it was late. Who would come knocking at this hour? Maybe her mother or Adam came home early but didn’t have their house keys. But that made no sense. The house keys were on the same keychains as their car keys.

Another knock.

Shelley dropped Archer’s hand and made her way toward the front door. Her body quivered, and there was now a sizable lump in her throat.

“Wait up!” Archer scrambled after her.

The front door seemed larger in this light and Shelley’s shoulders hunched closer toward her neck as she made herself small. Archer caught up to her, panting and holding the helmet and rubber sword in hand.

“Here,” he said. “For protection.”

Shelley grabbed the helmet.

“Thanks. You keep the sword.”

As the pair inched closer, the shadows of two adults appeared in the frosted window of the door. More rapid knocking. And then, a voice.

“Shelley?”

A million thoughts ran through her head at the sound of her name, of this particular voice, but only one came out of her mouth:

“Dad?”

Shelley rushed forward and peeked out of the tiny bit of unfrosted glass at the bottom of the window. Sure enough, she could see her father towering over their doormat. His hair was shorter than the last time she’d seen him, but his square glasses and corduroy blazer were exactly as she remembered.

“I thought you would never come back,” Shelley said, remembering all the suitcases and his beat-up sedan rolling away down their street.

Boy, he was going to be mad to learn about Adam. Unless he already knew. Had her mother called him as a last resort? Maybe she decided Shelley wasn’t old enough to babysit, after all. In that case, Adam would be mad to learn about this.

“Open the door, Shelley. We need to come in.”

We.

Shelley craned her neck toward the other figure. It was a woman she didn’t recognize. Long, dark hair spilled down her back. Her face was shrouded in shadows. She wore a pair of ripped jeans and a tattered tee shirt—in this weather?

“Mom!” Archer screamed beside her.

Shelley stiffened. Every hair on her body stood on end. Archer’s mom was dead.

“Shelley, be a good girl and open up.”

Her father’s voice was deadpan. His posture rigid. He bent down and his eyes met hers. They were distant, detached, the way they were the night he left. Except now they were also pitch black.

“Sweet pea,” the woman hummed. “Open up, love.”

“Archer, that’s not your mother.”

“What?” Archer reached toward the doorknob. “I can see her with my own eyes.”

“No!” Shelley threw herself in front of the knob and lock, which stabbed her in the lower back, but she didn’t budge. “Do not open this door. That is not your mom.”

Images of her missing classmates’ faces on milk cartons flooded her mind. The sickeningly sweet scent of funeral flowers permeated her memory.

“You’re being mean!”

Archer’s eyes began to water.

There was a rustling sound on the other side of the door, and Shelley turned to look. The woman produced a large package of Fig Newtons.

“We can have a little snack together,” she practically sang.

Archer tried to pry Shelley away from the lock.

“Come on! I wanna see my mom!”

“Please listen to me,” Shelley pleaded. “Your mother has been dead for years. There’s no way she can be here. That. Is. Not. Your. Mom.”

“Yeah, well that. is. not. your. dad!” Archer mocked, hands on his hips, eyes to the ceiling.

“Archer, I’m serious. Look at her!”

The two scrutinized the scene beyond the window. The man who was decidedly not Shelley’s dad was still crouched down, void-filled eyes penetrating their gazes. Beside him, Archer’s not-mother now lowered to the ground. She waved to the children, and Shelley saw it at the same time as Archer screamed: a row of teeth deeply embedded into wounds on her hand. And when her eyes traveled up to the woman’s face, a lip completely missing from her mouth. Burns all over the side of her body. The fire smell returned, but this time it was rancid.

“Oh my god.” Shelley stumbled backwards. “Oh my god.”

Archer sobbed beside her. “Mom!”

Not-Dad curled his lips into a violent, sharp grin, his face contorting into an unrecognizable person as light glinted off the points of his many teeth. He hissed as he licked them, a row of freshly sharpened knives.

Archer’s not-mother sported a toothless smirk. Her bloody hand reached for the doorknob.

“Really, you must let us in, honey.”

Shelley checked to make sure the deadbolt was secure, then grabbed her brother and the lantern and bolted to her bedroom.

“Those aren’t our parents,” she panted as she ran.

The sounds of knocking—and that horrific smell of burning—followed them down the hall. Shelley could hear the growls of their not-parents and quickened her pace. She lunged for her bedroom, pulling Archer in after her. Once inside, she slammed the door, locked it, and made her way to the closet. She placed Archer down on a pile of clean clothes in the corner and held him. His dinosaur footie pajamas were soft and damp with tears.

“Those aren’t our parents,” she repeated, and stroked his hair. “I’m so sorry, Archer. I’m so sorry.”

Archer continued to cry, speaking between sniffles. “What are—we—gonna do?”

“Nothing. We’re going to sit here until Mom and Adam—er—Dad come home.”

Shelley cradled her brother until he fell asleep, fearful that he’d have another night terror, and hummed more lullabies in hopes they’d quell his bad dreams. But Archer slept soundly until daylight shone through the cracks in her closet door and the soft whirr of the furnace told her the power had returned. Even with the sun out, she intended to stay in that closet with her brother until her mom and dad came home. And as Archer dreamed in her lap, Shelley reached up to the tooth on the chain around her neck and yanked, hard, until it broke away.