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rainbow-reilly · 5 years

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Never Trust A Tree With Teeth

By Claire-Louise Reilly [originally posted to r/nosleep]

When I was five and she was six, my sister Emily disappeared.

That was always going to be an awful thing, obviously. But me and Emily? We were close. We shared a room, clothes, toys. We even had a matching pair of bracelets that spelled out "SISTERS 4 EVER" in cheap little plastic blocks. On the first day of school I clung to her and cried, refusing to let her leave without me. The pictures my parents have of that would be cute, if they weren't so painful.

There's lots of little things like that. Mundane memories turned into wounds.

But the worst one was always hide-and-seek.

It was always our favorite game. We played it so much and often we had to start getting inventive with the rules. In our version, the hider could win by getting back to this great big tree in the backyard we'd declared home base before the seeker could catch them.

The day it happened, I was seeker. I leaned up against the tree and counted to twenty, the highest number I knew, and as I closed my eyes I could hear Emily's sneakers skid against the grass as she darted away.

That was the last time I ever saw her.

Oh, I looked everywhere. Under all the beds, in every cupboard, behind the TV—I even dared to check the cluttered, claustrophobic mess that was our crawl space. But I never found her, or heard tell-tale thud of heavy, frantic footfall as she made her mad dash for the tree.

I wasn't worried, though. I was annoyed. Did she think it was funny, to see how long she could go unfound? Maybe for her, but not for me. Fine, I decided. If she was going to change the game, I wasn't going to play. I retreated to the living room to watch TV, never thinking for a moment that anything was wrong. Till Mom called us for dinner.

"Where's Emily?" she asked.

"Hiding," I said, a little too sulky.

"Emily," Mom shouted. "Come out now, it's time to eat. Emily?"

But of course she never appeared.

Irritation quickly turned to panic when we realized even Emily wouldn't be that committed. We turned the house upside down like a tornado. Then came the frantic phone calls and knocking on neighbors doors.

Have you seen Emily?

Has Emily been here?

Do you know where Emily is?

By morning, Emily was officially declared missing.

I wore that same silly bracelet every single day until the frayed thread finally snapped, and a helpless teacher had to comfort an eight-year-old me crying over scattered pieces of plastic on the floor. "We can fix it," she tried to assure me in soothing tones, "All we need is some string." But it wasn't about the bracelet. Not really.

It's that it broke before Em had come home.

I took it home in pieces and poured it into my jewelry box, thinking I'd fix it later. Never did, though. Truth is, I didn't want a dumb bracelet, I wanted my sister back.

It's a funny sort of half-grief, losing someone like that. I had a sister somewhere, but I didn't know if she was alive, or dead, or if I'd ever see her again. But you learn to navigate around it, letting it fill the cracks inside you in strange little ways. I never stayed out too late, never had to be told to call home, was a little more cautious than most kids.

I guess that's why I became the go-to babysitter for my family; trauma made me the "responsible" one. I didn't mind it, really. My aunt would bring over with my cousin Amy, she'd sit herself down with her toys, and I could quietly keep an eye on her from the comfort of the couch.

Amy was the kind of kid whose interests accelerated from apathy to adoration and back again faster than a heartbeat. Every week was some new, exciting hobby to explore. Today, it was nature. She strutted about the backyard with a book on wildlife, collecting "specimens" of leaves and flowers, while I sat on the back porch and scribbled lazily at some homework.

I was in the middle of a particularly peevish math problem when she waddled up, eager to report her latest findings. "My book says you can tell how grown up a tree is by how many rings they have on the inside."

"That's right," I said, in that astonished, slightly patronizing tone you always use with kids. I was more preoccupied with remembering to carry the 1.

"So how grown up are they when they get their teeth?"

I looked up from my workbook. She was gazing up at me with those big, expectant eyes. Should I play along, or correct her? Better to hear it from me than some kid who'd be a lot less nice about it, I supposed. "Amy, sweetie, trees aren't like people. They don't ever get teeth."

"Yes they do! Look!"

She stuck out her hand. In her palm was something small and hard and pale. I picked it up. It was a plastic square that had probably once been sleek and white, now dirtied and ground down with age. On one side there was an indecipherable shape that had been weathered away with time.

It was a block. Just an ordinary block she'd probably scooped up from the dirt somewhere. So why did looking at it make my skin prickle so uncomfortably?

"Amy," I said, while tucking it into my pocket for safe keeping, "Could you show me where you found this?"

She grabbed my hand and led me to the farthest part of the yard, where the old tree loomed over us. She jabbed a short, stubby finger at the bark, so low down I had to crouch to see what she was looking at. Embedded in the wood was a ring of pale white blocks, like a sad, crooked, gap-toothed grin.

I pried one out. It was just as dirtied and ground down as its brother, but I could make out what it said this time:

And suddenly I knew what that prickling feeling was.

I took Amy inside, locked all the doors, and then I bolted upstairs to my bedroom. I tipped my jewelry box onto my dresser, careful not to let the contents spill everywhere, before quickly and crudely arranging them.

S I S T E R S 4 E V E R

Every piece accounted for. Those "teeth" weren't any of mine.

The next thing I knew, I was curled up on the floor calling my mom. I don't remember what I said through the sobs, if it even made sense, but I guess the panic in my voice was enough to make her rush right home.

The police came. My aunt picked Amy up. And somehow I ended up sat on the couch, eyes still red raw, between my parents while a detective spoke to us. He had greying hair and a soft smile set against years of frown lines. Was he the one that had handled Emily's case? I couldn't remember. There were so many grown-ups I didn't know back then.

He looked at me. "Are you sure Emily had her bracelet on her when she disappeared?"

I nodded. We'd never taken off since the day we got them.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his thinning hair. "We found twelve pieces in total, including the two you'd already pulled. We're pretty certain it's a match for Emily's."

My mom let out a shuddering breath and held onto me a little tighter.

"It's unclear yet how it ended up there. The tree shows no signs of being tampered with. With your permission, we'd like to do an autopsy on it, see if we can find out anything more."

This was for Emily. How could we say no?

The detective returned a day later with some workmen. We sat in the living room, making polite-but-strained conversation with him over the chaotic symphony of buzzing tools outside, till we felt the thud of the now-felled tree hitting the ground.

The detective rose, fiddling to smooth out his jacket. "Sorry to take up so much of your time. They shouldn't be too long getting it in the truck—"

There was a rap at the window. A man in overalls was beckoning him outside. Though the glass, we could see the rest of the workmen gathered around the tree, only inches apart, talking in tense whispers.

"Stay there," he told us. We didn't.

The man led the detective to where the tree lay, pointing at something we could't see. And all at once he turned towards us, arms out as if to ward us away. "Please go back inside. I'll be with you shortly, I just need to make a few calls—"

I didn't like his tone. I didn't like his look. I bolted forward before he could corral us further, shoving my way past the workmen until I could see. At the bottom of the trunk, the tree was as hollow as a dead log. But the inside wasn't empty. Inside, wrapped in a tangle of roots and moss and decay, something small and pale was gleaming.

And I knew, then. I knew it wasn't plastic this time, but bones. Her bones.

How many times had I put my hands on that tree, never knowing Emily sat just on the other side?

The police never could tell how she ended up there. Oh, they liked to say it was a hiding spot gone wrong, one she'd crawled into and couldn't get out of again. But I knew that tree had never been hollow. She would have had to dig down deep into the earth and crawl among the roots to ever find that empty space and coil her way inside, and I would have found her long before then.

But that's the sensible explanation, the convenient one. And we all pretend her bracelet didn't grow out the bark like a hungry, monstrous mouth.

I still watch Amy, sometimes. Don't let her play outside, though. I know it's terrible, keeping a kid cooped up like that. But when I look out the window and see the empty space where a great big tree once sat, I think of all the other trees out there and wonder how many more are hiding teeth of their own.

#writing #my writing #horror #short story

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kohakuhime · 7 years

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The Reluctant Guardian, Ch. 6

Takes place post canon. Michael and Kazuo belong to @mpuzzlegirl; Rowen, the twins, and Sylvie belong to me; and YGO and its associated characters belong to Kazuki Takahashi.

+++++++++++++++++++

The man with the slicked back brown hair opened the front door. He was slow and cautious, his partner watching the neighborhood warily. They had to be careful—breaking into a house in broad daylight was risky business.

The men slipped inside, easing the front door closed. Their eyes swept the area around them, taking in the comfortable and oddly quiet house. One of them started in the family room, and the other looped around to the office. They were quick, precise, and never once spoke.

The downstairs was soon cleared and the garage checked. Neither target was present, nor had they expected to find their targets immediately. Their source had reported the youngest child was sick, which had to mean she was upstairs. That also meant the older boy had to be with her as well.

They padded silently up the stairs, slowly drawing their guns. They did not intend to use them unless necessary, but if they came face to face with their targets unexpectedly they would be able to subdue them faster with their weapons already drawn.

The first room they passed had to be the boy’s room: slightly cluttered, oak furniture standing out against the blue walls, and dark navy sheets on the bed. A quick sweep revealed no target and they moved on.

The next room they passed was a small half bathroom, with no one inside, and the room after that was clearly the little girl’s room. A canopy bed with a lace-rimmed comforter and stuffed animals hanging from a hammock in the corner of the room, along with white furniture and hand-painted flowers on the pastel green walls identified her room. Both men noticed, however, that the sheets on the bed had been drawn back. They exchanged glances—they knew what it meant.

As they filed out into the hallway, their eyes went to the last door down the hall. It was closed.

They exchanged another knowing glance. Their targets were in the master room; it was the only room left that they had not searched. Slowly they crept to the door, and one of the men reached for the doorknob.

A smug smile briefly flashed across the man’s face when he tested the door and found it locked. They nodded to each other. They had their marks.

Without another word the first man kicked the door hard. The door buckled beneath the kick and they swept into the room, guns drawn and at the ready—

—and then they lowered the guns, surprised and furious at the sight of the empty room.

They quickly swept the room, making absolutely certain there was no one in the room, and then they holstered their weapons. The first man reached up for his ear, clicking on the earpiece. “They got away,” he said flatly into the mike, sounding displeased. “They saw us coming. Targets are likely on foot.”

The other man cursed as he slammed his fist into the wall, near the open window. An oak tree stood outside the window, its branches stretching invitingly toward the window.

The same window their two targets had used to escape the house.

+++++++++++++++++++

Rowen held Sylvie close, taking in gasping, gulping breaths as he rested in the shadows of the bushes.

It had been drilled into his head the moment he had been old enough to understand: whether you send or see the panic word, the moment it happens get your sister and get out. His father had made Rowen practice getting out of the house from different rooms, until Rowen had them memorized and could run through them without missing a beat. When he was younger, he had never understood why he’d had to do any of the drills or the importance behind them. Now, he was never more thankful that his father had made him run through the scenarios.

It was how he had been able to get to his parent’s room, climb out the window to the oak tree, and get out of his backyard under a minute; in another five minutes he was cutting through his neighbor’s backyards before heading across the street and into the park. It would have been faster if Sylvie wasn’t with him, but it was more time than he would have had if he had not known there was trouble coming.

He peered over the top of the bushes, keeping Sylvie tucked close to his chest. No one was coming as near as he could tell and he ducked back down. He had a brief chance to catch his breath.

His little sister stiffened in his arms and a muted cough rose from her throat. Sylvie’s shoulders shook with the effort of stifling her coughs. Rowen looked down at her. “You okay?” he asked gently.

Sylvie nodded, gazing up at him with half-lidded and glassy eyes. He inwardly cursed and tucked the blanket closer around her. She couldn’t stay out here, not for long. The faster he made it to the safe point, the better for Sylvie.

He weighed his options. On motorcycle, it would only take about twenty minutes to reach the safe point—but he couldn’t go back for it now, it wasn’t safe. On foot and taking a direct route it would be close to three hours, considerably less if he managed to make it to a bus or hail a taxi. On foot and staying out of sight, four hours.

He didn’t like the last option at all, but he did not know how many unfriendly people were looking for him. Without knowing that number and without knowing where their pursuers were, he didn’t dare chance straying out where he could be seen. For the moment, he would have to stay out of sight.

He let out a slow exhale, looking down at his little sister. Sylvie’s arms were draped loosely around his neck, her face burrowed between his shoulder and neck. She was dozing in spite of herself, not quite awake and not quite asleep.

“Okay, Sylvie, time to go,” he murmured. She didn’t answer, but her grip tightened around his shoulders as her fists clenched his jacket.

After making sure the coast was clear, Rowen rose to his feet. He adjusted Sylvie in his grip before crossing the dirt path and disappearing into the brush.

+++++++++++++++++++

Sora was allergic to blueberries.

When he had been three, Sora would take one look at a blueberry and run shrieking from the room. Every time, without question, the toddler would bolt the minute he even heard the word. Laughter had always followed at the over the top reaction as Sora had shrieked “Evil peas!” before running as fast as his little legs could carry him.

However, the fruit did carry more significance than just an allergy—it was their code word for trouble. It meant they had to leave without question. It meant they had to run.

And when Michael saw the word blueberry appear in a text message from Rowen, it only confirmed the gravity of the situation.

Michael was more than worried at this point, he was afraid for his cousins. Rowen might have been able to get the message out, but that didn’t mean he had gotten away safely. The twins were able to book it anywhere they chose and keep relatively out of sight, provided they didn’t antagonize their pursuers (a fifty-fifty chance). Rowen, however, had his little sister to worry about—and Sylvie was too sick to run.

For now, though, Michael had to worry for his own safety. Currently he was crouched behind a car, with his hood over his head to hide his too vibrant hair, and watching out for those who were chasing him.

He had tried running out of the parking lot to one of the other neighboring buildings, but the men had a car and were using it to patrol the lots. Initially Michael had thought there were two men on foot, but a third had come out of the mall. All were dressed in turtlenecks, with close-cropped hair and sunglasses. Michael could outrun a man on foot, but not a vehicle, and so he was currently playing a dangerous game of hide and seek.

For the moment, he had to remain low and keep moving. The three of them were walking by foot, and Michael noticed the car slowly circling the lot every few minutes. Effectively, they had him pinned down in this small area.

The door he had come out of was out of his reach. One of the goons had been guarding that one and keeping close to it as he patrolled, so Michael had slowly started making his way toward the next nearest door. The men trying to find him had guessed that as well, since their sweeps were coming closer to him.

Aunt Isabel had to have heard by now that trouble was brewing. Michael couldn’t stop moving long enough to send out a text, but before they had separated Kazuo had said Aunt Isabel was at most fifteen minutes away. He glanced at his watch—roughly seven minutes, give or take, since he had been separated from Kazuo.

He had to get back inside. That was his best chance to get away. Indoors he could get back to Kazuo and to his aunt, or if nothing else he could hide in the crowds. Outside, where he was outnumbered and he had no cover, he stood no chance.

Michael took a steadying breath. Then another. And then he leaned around the edge of the car.

He’d been careful, but he was getting a pattern for their patrol. They moved in sequence, swept nearly at the same time and turned, keeping their backs to each other and keeping close…and the car looped around every three minutes.

It had been two and a half minutes since the last loop.

He ducked back down, counted to three, then carefully peered over the hood of a car. The door was so tantalizingly close…if Michael sprinted, it would be close to five, maybe ten seconds to the entrance of the mall.

“C’mon out, kid. We promise we aren’t going to hurt you.” Michael nearly flinched at how close the man’s voice was to him and quietly snuck to the next aisle before hunkering down behind a pickup truck. He was just in time, as the dark van drove by at that moment.

Okay…he had to give himself enough time to run. The van was already making another go around and he stood a chance of outrunning it once it was far enough, but the men on foot were too close. He had to come up with something.

He took a steadying breath and let it out slowly. Michael was nowhere near as good as his father when it came to throwing his voice, but he could certainly try.

“It’s an empty promise,” he retorted. How far had he managed to cast his voice? He could not gauge without looking, and without knowing how close the men were he couldn’t chance being caught to find out. He slowly bent down to peer under the car—one had moved off, but the other had stayed where he was. He withheld a curse.

“We already have your cousins, y’know,” the same man drawled. “All we need to do is push a button and…well, you know…the little girl’s, like, seven? And she isn’t feeling so hot today. Her big brother’s a pain, too.”

Michael froze, his next sentence dying on his lips. He felt nothing but ice traveling down his back, settling in his stomach into a hard knot. They have Rowen and Sylvie.

No, he thought with a vicious shake of the head. No, they don’t have them. It’s a taunt. They want me to show myself. They can’t find me, so they want to smoke me out.

He looked back under the cars again. The men were moving off. Two pairs of feet moving towards where Michael had thrown his voice.

He glanced at his watch again. A minute forty-five since the car had come by. One more reply should do it, and he’d have time to spare getting inside.

He would have to take a gamble for his cousins. He straightened, taking another steadying breath. “Prove it,” he said icily, casting his voice in the same direction he had before. “What’s Sylvie’s favorite stuffed animal? She’d have it with her.”

He watched for the feet to keep walking. For one agonizing moment the feet remained planted where they were. Then, to his great relief, the feet turned as the man started to move. As they moved away, he slowly got to his hands and knees. Five…four…three…

“Uhh…” An awkward pause, followed by mutters. “An elephant.”

Briefly Michael felt a flare of triumph. They didn’t have Rowen or Sylvie.

“C’mon, kid, you don’t want to risk your family’s safety—“

…NOW!

Michael snapped to his feet, put his head down, and sprinted.

He heard yells, the sound of screeching tires, but it didn’t matter because he was almost to the door. He’d beat them inside before they reached him. Michael had too much of a lead, and then he would disappear.

His hand was on the door handle when someone snatched him from behind, yanked him from the door, and placed a cloth over his mouth and nose.

Too late, Michael realized he had lost track of the third man.

Almost the moment the cloth had gone over his face, Michael held his breath. He knew what was on the cloth and if he took even one breath…

Go limp. It’s harder holding onto a sudden deadweight than a struggling person.

His father’s voice reached him, as if from a lifetime ago. Michael dropped, and the man’s grip broke enough for Michael to gain his feet for a brief second before his captor hauled him up again. His captor was just as burly and strong as Uncle Raphael had been.

“Good try, kid,” the man growled in a deep voice. “But not good enough. Got him!” he called, presumably to his companions.

Michael didn’t stand much of a chance of getting away, but he was still going to try.

He dug his elbows into the man’s stomach, tried biting the hand over his mouth, sank his fingernails into the man’s forearm. As he struggled, Michael inadvertently took in a breath and his vision started swimming immediately. Chloroform, he realized dimly.

“There, knew you had to breathe sometime. You, get the car back here. You, keep an eye out for witnesses.”

Someone had to see this going on! Someone, anyone! He looked around frantically but there was no one else save the men in turtlenecks. His struggles grew weaker as he took in another startled breath. His vision spun and dipped wildly.

Dad wouldn’t have gotten caught, some part of his mind whispered.

He gave one last bout of renewed struggles, trying to pull away one last desperate time. No…no, he couldn’t…he wouldn’t…let them…had to…

…to…

The world tilted and spun. An arm made of steel held him and he slumped forwards over it. He was boneless and limp. Floating and concrete, he thought dizzily. Neither here nor there.

“…ut…down…!”

The voice was fading in and out oddly, as if he was hearing it from underwater. His eyes slit open a crack, but all he could see was blurred colors and figures. He needed to sleep… it would make sense later…

“Put him down.”

The voice again, sharp and tense. His vision spun and the world blurred and darkened. He didn’t know this voice. Smooth, aristocratic, mouth full of marbles, and unfamiliar.

Everything became disjointed then. A yell from someone above him. A flash of green fluorescent light and a loud CRACK. Heat and his hair rising, electricity crackling through the air. The arm made of steel let him go, and with it went the chloroform.

The strong stinging scent of ozone suddenly cut through the haze of the chloroform induced stupor. It was enough for the last vestiges of Michael’s conscious mind to rally, and as he dropped his limp legs firmed and his feet found solid ground. He couldn’t stand, he was too wobbly and he lurched forward—

Hands caught him, gentle and firm, and arms wrapped around him again as they lowered him to the ground. This grip wasn’t restraining, he thought dimly as he slumped into the embrace. He couldn’t see very well anymore, not even blurs. His ears felt jammed with cotton.

“Easy, boy. I have you.” The marble voice again. Curt and clipped, but there was concern in that voice. He blinked up hazily, catching something that wasn’t quite teal in his periphery.

“Kaz…?” he tried, his voice thick and confused.

The questioning eyes that met his, however, were gold. A far brighter, sharper gold than Michael’s eyes. Eyes that looked far too old.

It was all too much for him to take, and he closed his eyes and fell.

+++++++++++++++++++

Kazuo had been fighting the crowd for what felt like hours, trying his hardest to shove through the excited masses. He’d even been knocked off of his feet at one point, his ankle bursting into pain as he toppled into the wall. His calls for his younger cousin were swallowed by the crowd, but he fought his way forward in the direction he had last seen Michael.

He finally made it to the doors that led out to the parking lot. He knew that was where Michael had to have gone, because he hadn’t seen his cousin go back into the mall. He shoved the doors open almost angrily, hobbling as fast as he could outside.

“Michael!” he called sharply the moment he was clear of the door. “Michael!”

There was the sound of squealing tires and Kazuo’s heart leapt into his throat as he saw a dark van speed away from the lot. Too much of a coincidence to be unrelated, given that there had been men chasing them—that van almost certainly had his cousin inside of it.

“NO!” he cried desperately, ignoring the spikes of pain shooting through his ankle as he ran. If he was fast enough, maybe he could catch the license plate. “No! Come back!”

A flash of red in his periphery vision caught his attention and he slowed, stopping altogether in the middle of the parking lot. Kazuo turned, his eyes landing on a figure that was crouched about fifty feet away from him.

Kazuo didn’t recognize the strange man with the long aquamarine hair, but he didn’t care too much about it. His eyes had gone straight to the unmoving body of his younger cousin in the man’s arms.

“Hey!” he shouted.

The man looked over at him, studying him intently. In a smooth motion the stranger lifted Michael into his arms and rose to his feet, striding towards the door that led to the mall.

“Hey! Wait!” Kazuo started hobbling, almost hopping as fast as he could to get to Michael. “Put my cousin down!”

To his surprise, the man didn’t enter the mall. He simply stood by the door, within easy reach if he wanted to go inside and yet standing perfectly still. He was waiting for Kazuo to get closer.

Kazuo was maybe just fifteen feet away when the man finally spoke. “You’re Isabel Corazón’s son.”

He slowed but did not stop, frowning as the aristocratic voice reached him. “Yeah? What of it?” he challenged, eyes narrowing.

“I have a message for her.” The man dipped his head towards his unconscious cousin’s body. “This boy is safe with me, as are the others. She will know who I am speaking of.”

Kazuo did not even get a chance to ask who “the others” were. With that last parting sentence, the man shifted Michael’s body over to one arm, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

“Wait!” Kazuo yelled sharply as he sped towards the door. “Come back! Give Michael back you…you…”

He trailed off, staring at the now empty doorway with disbelief. It was impossible. He had been visible just seconds ago, but the moment he had crossed the threshold he was…

The man was gone. Somehow, impossibly, the man had stepped through the door and had vanished into thin air.

And with him, Michael had disappeared as well.

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#kohaku writes #au: reluctant guardian #oc: rowen knighton #oc: sylvie knighton #other's oc: michael #other's oc: kazuo

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