The Pale Mouth

Do you really know who you are?

There’s an extra Wednesday this month! So I’ve decided to share this older story of mine. It was originally published in the anthology Twisted Book of Shadows, winner of the 2019 Shirley Jackson award for Best Anthology. I hope you enjoy!

The bacon was too crispy. And she’d scorched the coffee. It was obvious in the way he shook the newspaper. She wondered how he’d express his displeasure when they stopped printing the paper next month and every household was issued electronic readers. In the other room the TV blared cartoons. The kids giggled along. For a moment the sound blurred into the harsh kitchen light and Layla had to grip the sink to steady herself. Her skin prickled. Her eyes hurt. Mac’s sweet, abundant aftershave clashed with the acrid burnt coffee and threatened to give her a headache. God her eyes hurt. There were seven naked bulbs in the kitchen, the mandated amount for the room’s square footage and the light felt like a branding iron on her eyes. No one else ever seemed to be bothered, but for Layla the days were a raw nerve licked by an endless flame. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against her eyelids. A rare moment of relief.

A mouth appeared in the oily darkness, framed by colorless lips it moved against the inside of her mind. An ashen face formed around the pale slit in the black, eyes glinting like quicksilver from their own light. Layla saw a hand reaching for her.

It flickered.

Something beeped and kept beeping and beeping. The newspaper banged against the table, rattling dishes. Layla forced her eyes open and covered her ears. The sound of the alarm ripped like hot iron through her skull. Mac had his back to her. She whirled around to the cabinet next to the sink and yanked it open. Lightbulbs of various sizes and wattages filled the cupboard from top to bottom. She grabbed the one she needed and tossed it across the kitchen to him. She met his eyes briefly, they burned. Everything burned. Layla smelled the children lingering at the edge of the room, their sugar and sweat. She didn’t look, instead she covered her ears again and fought the urge to close her eyes, letting the glaring light burn itself onto her sensitive retina as punishment. Mac had the new bulb out of its packaging and held it next to the old one as he unscrewed it with quick, precise movements. Layla fought back the frisson of laughter that welled up in her throat. The old bulb fell into Mac’s grip, the room dimmed slightly. The new lightbulb tightened in its grooves and the beeping stopped. Layla’s ears felt cottony. The kids stood in the doorway with cow eyes looking up at Mac.

“Go back to your cartoons kids. Nothing to worry about,” he said it quietly so they’d know he was angry with Mommy. They turned around without a glance in her direction. In the family room the TV’s volume went up. It wasn’t necessary though, Mac never yelled. Layla ached to close her eyes as she walked over to the new bulb. She entered the reset code on the timer and the new ‘hours remaining’ flickered onto the digital readout, 480 hours. Twenty days.

“It’s just one light,” she said against his silence.

“One today, one tomorrow. What if three or four went out at once?” He was clearing dishes off the table. Doing her job to remind her she wasn’t.

“You know that isn’t possible. The failsafes…” she trailed off. He didn’t know as well as she did she that each light burned for an exact amount of time and that the times were staggered. They would never all go out at once, not unless she replaced all seven in the room at at the same time with all bulbs of the same lifespan. But if she did that the signal each lamp sent back to the County would show it and they’d send techs out within thirty minutes to ‘correct her mistake’. It wasn’t possible to live in darkness, every room was lit just like this one and there was protocol upon protocol for her to follow to keep it that way. Layla spent hours a week checking, monitoring, and changing the bulbs. And then she logged all her actions into her data account on the County’s website so they could monitor her. Darkness could not happen. She watched Mac. His back was tensed as he stood over the kitchen sink.

“I guess it’s not you that’ll get taken into the dark if you let the lights go out.” His voice was a hot shaft of sunlight spat out against her dysfunction. She closed her eyes.

One second, two, three.

The pale mouth-

Open.

The monsters that came out of the dark took children, usually babies, but sometimes the older ones, too. It had been two years since the last abduction, though. A toddler accidentally got locked in a toy chest. All they left behind were its eyes. Now all chests and trunks had to be registered and fitted with lights or destroyed and replaced with clear plastic bins. The trunk lights were monitored wirelessly. Everything was monitored. It wasn’t as dangerous now as it used to be when she and Mac were young, but that was because of Layla and all the other Primaries.

“It was an accident, that’s all, Mac.”

“You’re the Primary. The first line of defense.”

“I know what I am.” She smelled his fear. It trickled down his back in a wet rivulet. She closed her eyes. The pale mouth was quick this time, right by her ear. But the light on the other side of her eyelids acted like static. She felt a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him walk over to her, the pale voice could do that. Blind her and deafen her. Tempt her to the darkness she craved. Even if she didn’t know why she craved it. Or why she was drawn to the creature.

“You have to be more careful, Layla.”

She nodded. He kissed her cheek and left for work. They were on Winter Schedule, the doors had unlocked precisely at 7:15, sunrise. She let her eyes fall closed again. Ten, fifteen seconds. The pale mouth rasped and she shivered. It had been haunting her mind for two weeks and every time she closed her eyes the voice got clearer. She wanted to understand.

The kids were screaming. Layla opened her eyes and winced at the pain. In the family room she switched off the TV.

“You know the rules, if you fight over cartoons, no one watches anything. Go get dressed for school. The bus will be here in twenty minutes.” Ethan, the youngest, groaned and fell backwards onto the carpet.

“Are you going to double check all the lights today?” He stretched like a kitten. Amanda, just a year older, tugged on his foot.

“She’s the Primary, that’s what she does everyday.” She tickled her brother’s toes.

“But she’ll do it special today, right Mom?” Ethan said through giggles.

“Of course I will. I’ll triple check,” Layla felt her chest tighten, “Now go get ready for school.” The kids raced off up the stairs to their rooms. Layla pictured them with no eyes, blood oozing from dark, hollow sockets. Forever dark. They both had Mac’s eyes anyway.

Layla ate dinner in silence. The kids were chatting to their father about the day. It was cloudy and had snowed. Head lamps had been required all day. The kids loved them and strutted around like adventurers. Their father had been less enthused, the headlamps seemed ridiculous in an accountant’s office. Hypocrite, Layla thought. She had been stuck in the house all day. Primaries maintained the light and needed to avoid any injury bad weather might cause. They were only allowed out on stormy days to knock the snow off easily accessible exterior lights, government crews took care of everything else. She had triple checked, as promised, all the bulbs and the wiring as well. There were no switches in the house since the lights were not allowed to be turned off. The wiring was maintained by the County, but at Primary training she’d learned how to check it and spot potential problems. She was even trained to do minor repairs as long as they were approved by the County before she made them and posted before and after pictures to her log on the County website. Despite her longing for the darkness she imagined fell like thick syrup outside, and despite what Mac thought, she could never kill her family. The County had too many failsafes.

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

“Yes, Honey?”

“At school we got a new hamster. 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 flared 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 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 Mac distracted the children with talk of weekend plans. A muffled chuckle rustled in the gaping darkness. 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 head lamp 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 60 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 pie 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 through 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 were full and pale pink, its tongue flicked 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. Street lamps towered over the treeless neighborhood and lights blazed 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 window sill. 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 said 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 back yard 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, 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, baring 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 she thought it was 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. Layla kicked it, its ancient leather crumbled and 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. Mac wanted her to see a therapist, being a Primary is a lot of responsibility, maybe it was getting to her.

“That must be it,” she said. Mac agreed to help her get through this. The County man had 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 curled 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 long. 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 stung 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, you’re 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 smiled at her. 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, 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 firmly and he stank of fear. Layla leapt at him, her claws raked 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 in the darkness, and Layla took it.