The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror)

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The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror) Page 11

by Lindsey Goddard


  It opened its bloody maw and chomped down, severing fingers. Blood squirted from the amputated digits. The theater filled with screams. It spat the fingers out and lunged forward, ripping into Harvey's arm. Tears of pain welled in his eyes. Blood coated his shirt.

  He reared back and flung the rabbit to the floor. It growled, exposing a mouth full of fangs. It hopped over to him and used its claws to scurry up the fabric of his pants. He tried desperately to kick it off, doing a one-legged dance with his mutilated hand tucked under his armpit. It scrambled across his chest. Its face hovered just over the pulse at his jugular.

  Vivica ran to him. A scream of agony echoed through the sound system from a nearby microphone as the creature tore into his neck. He fell to his knees, ripping the little monster from his throat with both hands as crimson gore soaked its fur. Harvey's fingers went limp and he dropped it.

  Vivica's shadow fell over the rabbit. It glared at her, yellow teeth bared. She lifted a slender leg and stomped down with all her might, driving the thin metal of her stiletto heel through the top of the rabbit's skull with a wet crunch. The rabbit's paws twitched as she removed the metallic heel from its brain. With one last feeble kick, it stopped moving.

  She dropped to the floor beside Harvey. Blood spilled from his neck. It soaked her knees and pooled around them as memories of last night washed over her. The strange man's words... “I have the perfect rabbit for you,” he had said. His eyes shined like obsidian in the dim track lighting of the hotel bar. “An extremely rare breed. One that will teach old Harvey a lesson.”

  “I'm sorry. I'm not following. W-what do you mean?”

  His teeth seemed too large when he smiled. “He deserves a little payback, don't you think?”

  “For... for what?”

  “For what? Why, for threatening to feed your pet rabbit to his snake. And in public. I imagine he's even worse when you two are alone.”

  She had nodded. He'd certainly hit the nail on the head there. She felt odd opening up to a stranger this way, but she nodded all the same.

  Harvey had embarrassed her, that was true. This was a business meeting, nothing more. The man she sat with at the lobby bar was a dealer of rare animals. Vivica had been hoping to retire Abra Cadabra and introduce a more exotic rabbit to the act.

  But Harvey had come through the hotel and spotted them at the bar together. He'd made a scene, made accusations. As if she were the unfaithful one! Ha! She knew about Harvey's indiscretions in the matters of monogamy. Still, he always found a way to point the finger at her.

  “I've got a rabbit that is very different from the rest.” He flashed that peculiar smile again, all tooth and no lip. “She's a biter. Positively vicious. You won't need to handle her, of course. I'll take care of everything.” He winked. “Just imagine, if you will, the great and powerful Harvey, humiliated by a rabbit!”

  Why had she agreed to such a reckless prank? The memory pained her now.

  The spotlights dimmed as crew members trickled out from backstage. The audience fell silent. Harvey's body convulsed against the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head.

  The color drained from Harvey's face, and his movements slowed to a stop. One last, shaky breath left his lungs. And then, Harvey started to change...

  Thick fur sprouted from his skin. It covered his neck, his cheeks, his nose—every part of him. His missing fingers grew back. Then all ten digits fused together into a disturbing human-like paw. Curved claws grew from the tips. His ears grew, too, rising up from his head, and he rolled to the side, coughing, sprinkling the floor with human teeth. Saliva glistened on his freshly grown fangs.

  She scrambled back and rose to her feet just as Harvey sprang to his. Well, it was really more of a hop than anything. He tracked her with his beady red eyes. His still-human lips curled into a sneer beneath thick fur, and she could see the sharp points of his teeth.

  She removed her high heels and prepared to run. He lunged at her, but she managed to sidestep him and bolt in the other direction.

  Her bare feet slid in a river of blood. Blood from when Harvey had died. Time seemed to slow down as she fell, and all she could think was: He did die. I saw it with my own eyes. He did. The Harvey I know is long gone.

  She hit the ground, flipped over, saw him closing in.

  Beside her was a table with a mirror affixed to the front. On any other night, the mirror was just another prop used for an optical illusion. But tonight, it was a godsend.

  She tightened her grip on the stiletto shoe in her hand and smashed the metal heel into the glass—once, twice, three times. It shattered. She selected a long, jagged piece, squeezing it so hard that it sliced into her palm. Blood trickled down her wrist as he fell onto her, straddled her, opened his mouth wide, ready to rip her throat out.

  She stabbed the piece of glass into the side of his head directly below his giant ears. It sliced into his temple. Blood rained down on her face. The glass maimed her hand, but she kept on pushing, driving the shard deeper and deeper into his head, until his clawed paws loosened their grip and Harvey's mutated body slumped to the side.

  She crawled away from the monster that had once been Harvey. Trembling and hysterical, she cried on stage before an audience of horrified faces. And in that sea of faces, for the briefest of moments, she could swear she glimpsed a familiar one. His eyes so dark they glimmered black. A toothy grin, too big for his head. She was certain he'd been there... smiling.

  All The Rage

  The rock god clenched his jaw as he fought an overwhelming urge to feed. He gazed into the eyes of his next meal—baby blue orbs trimmed with long, black lashes. The girl's attention never wavered from his face. She admired his every move.

  She pursed her curvy, pink lips and waited for him to speak—waited so that she could nod and eagerly agree. He was an idol to this girl. A deity. A god.

  A wolf in sheep's clothing, his mind whispered. A false god. He frowned, shook his head. Things hadn't been the same since the old days. He had grown tired of this act.

  “Wha-what's wrong?” The girl's voice was a choked whisper, shaky. His eyes locked on hers, a deep russet brown atop his perfectly chiseled cheekbones. He said nothing, just observed her with a far-off look in his eye that made her shift uncomfortably in her seat.

  He poured two glasses of champagne and raised one to his lips. He lowered it slightly and said, “I'm sorry. What was your name again? It's been a very long tour. My memory is failing.”

  The girl looked down at her hands, disappointed that her name had been forgotten so quickly. There was a long pause before she found her voice. “Natalie,” she managed to say. Her hand trembled as she reached for the glass, unable to ignore the way he stared at her like a mouthwatering treat.

  He studied her, scarcely blinking, a palpable hunger in his gaze. “Well, Natalie, you are beautiful.” The rock god flashed his winning smile, and Natalie blushed. She raised the glass and took a sip. Then a long gulp as he slid closer to her, his leather pants sliding along the cushions with ease.

  He brushed a golden lock of hair from her face. “Your eyes are such a light blue. So lovely,” he said.

  She gazed up at him, wide-eyed, biting her lip. Her skin was flush with blood; her body radiated warmth. She let out a shaky breath. It felt hot against his neck. She blinked slowly as if reluctant to peel her eyes from his perfection. “Thank you,” she said in a whisper.

  The rock god leaned in. He planted a kiss on her mouth. Their lips parted, tongues roaming.

  Her eyes widened. She pressed both hands to his chest and tried to push away. She moaned in terror as a sharp pain grew from the pit of her stomach and exploded through every inch of her body. She flailed her limbs and tried desperately to pull away, but their lips were sealed by an unnatural force. His mouth clamped over hers with magnetic strength. Baby blue eyes bulged from their sockets as she scrambled beneath his weight. Tears streamed down her cheeks, trailing makeup across her skin.

  She grew pale.
She tried to scream but only managed a faint squeak as she squirmed in his grip, the death throes of a mouse caught in a trap. She threw feeble punches at her assailant, exhausting herself in the process.

  The girl's life essence poured into his body. It pulsed through him, filling him up. It didn't have a taste, per se, but a warm and tingly heat that satiated his hunger. He'd heard many humans refer to it as a “soul”, this strange energy inside them. To the rock god, it was merely dinner. More of an appetizer, really. The main course would be much larger.

  He felt the girl weaken in his arms. She bucked one last time, then fell still. When there was nothing left of the pretty blonde but the fleshy vessel which had housed her soul, he pushed the corpse aside. It fell sideways on the sofa, lifeless limbs drooping over the side of the cushions like a rag doll.

  He crinkled his nose when he realized the girl's bowels had released and ruined the velvet upholstery. He stood. He examined the mess and shook his head as if the girl had done it on purpose, just to spite him.

  Oh well. One of his people would clean it up. The rock god was never in short supply of humans willing to do his bidding. They found his dark charm irresistible—feeble slaves to the hypnotic twinkle in his eye.

  He swaggered over to the mirror and adjusted his white leather jacket. He squeezed a dab of mouse into his palm and applied a second layer of product to his short, perfectly styled hair. For a long moment, he gazed at his reflection and frowned. Who was this person in the mirror? Not a rock star. Not anymore.

  He was a puppet, a choreographed pretty boy. He gave the masses what they wanted—flashy outfits, catchy beats, bullshit rhymes about love. Mainstream dance music, that's what the people craved. Rock 'n' roll was dead, some cynics would say.

  The rock god didn't like this human vessel: a well-groomed young man who wore expensive, color-coordinated outfits. He had plucked eyebrows, perfectly manicured nails. His earrings alone cost more money than a Fender Strat. The stranger in the mirror had porcelain veneers, and even his smile was fake.

  The rock god squeezed his eyes shut. Just one more night as a pop star. And soon the world will see.

  Over the decades, the rock god had possessed many bodies. He couldn't stand to watch humans have all the fun while he observed their lives from the foggy haze of the spirit realm. There were things he couldn't experience in his incorporeal form. Things he wanted—needed—to experience. Mortal sensations: touch, taste, smell. He wanted to try it all. Everything. To indulge in the pleasures of the flesh.

  He went through human bodies too quickly—he knew. But how could he resist? He was a passionate god, willed into existence by thrashing guitar riffs and sweaty bodies driven to madness by the beat of a drum. He lived life (or rather, the lives of others) with reckless abandon.

  The human bodies he possessed couldn't keep up. They sustained fatal injuries, stopped working, gave out. They “died too young”, as most people would say. He could only shrug when he looked back on his many lives, ended by tragic deaths. The rock god was accustomed to dying. It was inconsequential, a means to an end. He didn't like being trapped in the same body for too long, and the only way out was to die.

  Besides, the humans whose lives he borrowed were forever immortalized, chosen by a god and put on a pedestal by society. They would go down in history as rock gods, little reflections of himself. He thought that was repayment enough.

  He looked again at his reflection in the mirror. He recognized the dark, pensive eyes staring back at him from an unfamiliar, cleanly shaven face. The rock god was in there, hiding beneath the pop star facade. An omnipotent being who had spent time as a leather-clad poet, a self-destructive drummer, a long-haired, V-wing guitarist. He had chugged whiskey on stage, wrecked hotel rooms, neglected shaving for months on end. He'd been tattooed from neck to fingertip and growled into the microphone until his throat was raw and bleeding. In the brown eyes that once belonged to Triston Seever, the rock god recognized a spark of his own sinful knowledge. A strange amalgamation of his past lives swirled in the pupils. He smiled. Yes, he was in there, waiting to explode.

  There was a knock on the door. The rock god turned and strolled through his stylish hotel suite, past the sofa where the stiffening corpse lay, slumped over in mess of her own creation. In the dim light of the lamp, which he'd turned on low to set the mood, the girl seemed to watch him with puppy love still burning in her eyes. Her mouth was open, as if frozen in awe. He'd left countless humans that way.

  Muffled by the door, a familiar voice called, “You ready, kid?” It was Arty, his agent. Or rather, Triston Seever's agent. Unlike in past lives, the rock god didn't feel a connection with this one. He didn't bond with this existence, didn't want to stick around. This new body was temporary (more-so than in the past), just another means to an end.

  He pitied the vapid humans who spoiled the pop star. He made no effort to understand them. This was a mission, plain and simple, and Arty was a pawn, a useful piece in the game. In fact, he often thought about having him for dinner. Maybe lunch. Possibly even breakfast.

  He opened the door, and Arty greeted him. “Lookin' good, kid.” His smile glowed against his fake tan, his coiffure of hair plugs barely moving as he nodded his approval. He gripped the door frame and tried to poke his head into the room. “You uh... need any assistance in there?”

  The rock god laid his palm on Arty's shoulder. It was meant as a friendly gesture, but Arty jumped back. He eyed the hand on his shoulder with skittish concern.

  “What would I do without you, Arty? Yes, please send in the cleaner. ”

  A bead of sweat formed on Arty's temple, and the rock god saw it in his eyes again: fear. The Hollywood agent had been around a long time, and no doubt had seen a lot of things. He didn't fall for the young man's politeness, not for a second. He countered it with an equally disingenuous brand of flattery. The words were all empty. This was show business, after all.

  If it wasn't for the thousands upon thousands of dollars Triston Seever lined Arty's pockets with every week, the rock god knew he wouldn't tolerate the star's new habits—the most disturbing of which was slaughtering young girls by the dozens. Triston Seever was a fraud; Arty knew this. (He was a man who knew a thing or two about fraud.) The little charmer was no longer an innocent kid. Something dark had taken hold of his body.

  People had always done things for Triston. No doubt, the kid had lived in a world of compliments and ass-kissery. But lately, it was like people were wound so tightly around his finger, they were all ready and willing to snap.

  Fans and professionals alike turned on each other, competing for the chance to be his personal lackey. The whole world had fallen under his charm. Except Arty.

  But what choice did he have? He couldn't walk away. The act was making too much money.

  They took the elevator to ground level and made their way through the lobby as Arty typed a text message to the cleaner. “We have a mess,” it said. He pressed the send button and within seconds a reply came through: “OK”.

  “The cleaner”, as they had dubbed him, was a nameless man with a long history in organized crime. No one knew what he looked like. No one needed to. Triston paid him well to remain anonymous. Having been provided with a duplicate room key, as always, he'd be there shortly to dispose of the mess. Just another ritual of the tour.

  The rock god looked at the awaiting crowd through the glass of the lobby doors. A throng of fans and paparazzi pulsed against the building. A chorus of swoons erupted as the crowd caught sight of their prize. Cameras flashed. Girls shrieked.

  Triston's bodyguard stepped beside him, blocking the crowd's view through the glass. He was a dark-skinned man in sun glasses whose bear-sized chest threatened to burst the seams of his fully stretched T-shirt. The fans booed, begging for another glimpse.

  Six security guards cleared a path to the limo. They tamed the mob of love-stricken girls and amateur photographers with reminders of the concert in store. “Please stand back,” they ins
tructed, arms held out like a gang of crosswalk attendants. “Let's get him to the show in one piece, folks.”

 

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