Haunted MTL Original – Sweet Tooth – Tiffany Promise
“Sweet Tooth” by Tiffany Promise
It didn’t seem that late on Halloween eve—the frothy, mossy stink of recently-scooped pumpkin still permeated the air—but only the goth kids remained outside, bleeding themselves silly in the cemetery. I’d been hoping that a few pretend-witches might clutter my un-welcome mat. Their warts a’bubble, moles stuck with hair, I didn’t know if they were paying homage or mocking; either way, I planned to stick photocopies of my best Hex Stew recipe in their buckets (along with the prerequisite chocolate bat bar, of course). But instead, at the very stroke of midnight, a skeleton dude knocked on my door. He was tall, lithe, a sight for lonesome eyes. And since I still had a bucketful of black licorice left, I opened the door. Wide.
“Trick or treat.” His voice sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than the dirt.
“Great costume,” I said, dizzying; the space between his bones seemed to go on forever.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. “Can I come in?” It had been months since I’d had a real visitor, years since anyone had crossed my threshold. And since ground-up boy-bones are an integral ingredient in most love-spell-banishing brews, I ushered him in. He was all black and bone; a pure, unadulterated nothingness. I forgot myself and gawked.
“You’re the prettiest witch I’ve seen all night,” he said, reaching out and touching my cheek. “People always talk about how ugly you are, but they’re wrong.”
“People are idiots,” I whispered. Pulled into the galaxies of his eye sockets, hooked by the emptiness of his hips, I moved closer.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked, reading my mind.
It had been years since I’d been kissed, decades since a little slap-&-tickle, so I closed my eyes and leaned forward. I’m tempting fate, I thought. Nothing good’s ever come from my kind kissing his kind… But I dove in anyway.
His lips were webbed with sugar and he tasted better than anything I’d ever licked. I generally find it tacky to indulge in foodstuffs that fairytale-witches use to lure innocent kiddies; besides, things like frog’s breath and will-o’-the-wisp blood keep me clear-headed and adept at the intricacies of the darkest arts. But as I pushed my tongue into his mouth, I found little nubs of gummy stuck between his molars. Reaching down his throat, I discovered Fun Dip still fizzing his epiglottis. Suddenly, more pig than witch, drooling for his sweetmeats, I hocus-pocused myself into a wee thing and slipped deep inside of him.
Dissolving candy hearts peppered his esophagus while sour worms conglomerated in his tum. A hunk of cotton-spun sugar was wedged in his intestines—still-stiffish, hot pink, and out-of-this-world. I ate him up. I couldn’t help myself. I was risking it all, but I kept on swallowing.
Until, uh-oh! I caved into a candy-coma on his prickly pelvic floor.
“You alright?” he thundered.
“Ughghllgh” I guttered.
xxx
I’m not sure how long I slept, but I awoke with an achey start. “Hey,” I squeaked, “I’m kinda stuck in here. Mind helping me out?” I’d only meant our interaction to be a quick romp—an hour at most—but I’d gone and slept inside the guy. Stupid witch.
“Sid Da Kid’s gonna flip when he hears about this,” he said, chuckling. “He bet me fifty that I couldn’t even get a kiss. Wonder how much he’ll cough up now.”
Wait, what? I was a dare? A measly fifty bucks? “If you don’t let me out this minute, you will regret it forever,” I threatened, feeling my temper quickly rise.
“Oooh, a firecracker, huh? Me likey.” He laughed. “You got yourself in there, why can’t you get yourself out?”
I didn’t want to admit that his sugars had sapped my powers. That by acting the part of a spoiled, mortal girl, I’d risked everything. “I will fucking destroy you and everything you love,” I promised.
“I’ll help you out if you just admit how much you liked it.”
“I’d rather eat a razor blade sandwich,” I hissed.
“I bet it’s been years since you’ve been properly boned. You should be thanking me.”
Properly boned? Thanking him? Fury filled me up fast. Expanding, ballooning, in only moments I was back to my normal size; his easy-peasy weak sternum strained against the force of my flesh.
Almost instantly, there was a sharp crack and I hit the floor like a seed. Sticky and sick, I threw up in my hair. It was me or him…him or me, I reminded myself. But slumped against my baseboard, he didn’t look so tough. A walnut shell, a spent cicada skin, a mortal boy that messed with the wrong witch.
“What’s Sid Da stupid Kid gonna say about this? I should be the one getting paid,” I spit, summoning my energy for one last abracadabra.
xxx
Bone Boy’s ashes still sit on my shelf, tucked up next to a bottle of nightshade. Someday soon I’ll sprinkle him into a brew and offer a cup to my black-and-blue-eyed neighbor. Or her sister with the pantyhose runs and lipstick on her teeth. Maybe even that convenience store clerk, the one who never lifts her eyes; the punk girl at the bus stop with brass knuckles tattooed over the deep scar on her wrist.
Because their stories are my story are their stories are my story—held firm in hardened hearts, silent against a world full of witch-shaming flames, mother-in-law’s tongues, those lovers of racks and screws. We may keep quiet, but we stay vigilant, ever-summoning the powers of Hecate as we build our graham-cracker fortresses, the mortar a mash of our own spit and knucklebone.
The End.
Tiffany Promise was awarded an MFA in creative writing from CalArts in 2010, and an MA in psychology from California Institute of Integral Studies in 2013. Her stories have appeared in Black Clock, Gingerbread House, Blanket Sea, High Shelf, and the Salt River Review. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice, in 2015 and 2019. Having attended Tin House and Sirenland, she’s had the privilege of working with both Eileen Myles and Anthony Doerr on various projects. She spent 2017 polishing her first novel with Francesca Lia Block in Los Angeles, but recently relocated to Victoria, B.C. As a mother, she is particularly interested in exploring mother-child dynamics and the feminization of madness.
What if ours weren’t the only reality? What if the past paths converged, if those moments that led to our current circumstances got tangled together with their alternates and we found ourselves caught up in the threads?
Marla returned home after the funeral and wake. She drew the key in the lock and opened the door slowly, the looming dread of coming back to an empty house finally sinking in. Everyone else had gone home with their loved ones. They had all said, “goodbye,” and moved along.
Her daughter Misty and son-in-law Joel had caught a flight to Springfield so he could be at work the next day for the big meeting. Her brother Darcy was on his way back to Montreal. Emmett and Ruth were at home next door, probably washing dishes from the big meal they had helped to provide afterward, seeing as their kitchen light was on. Marla remembered there being food but couldn’t recall what exactly as she hadn’t felt like eating. Sandwiches probably… she’d have to thank them later.
Marla had felt supported up until she turned the key in the lock after the services, but then the realization sank deep in her throat like acid reflux, hanging heavy on her heart – everyone else had other lives to return to except for her. She sighed and stepped through the threshold onto the outdated beige linoleum tile and the braided rag rug that stretched across it. She closed the door behind herself and sighed again. She wiped her shoes reflexively on the mat before just kicking them off to land in a haphazard heap in the entryway.
The still silence of the house enveloped her, its oppressive emptiness palpable – she could feel it on her skin, taste it on her tongue. It was bitter. She sighed and walked purposefully to the living room, the large rust-orange sofa waiting to greet her. She flopped into its empty embrace, dropping her purse at her side as she did so.
A familiar, husky voice greeted her from deeper within the large, empty house. “Where have you been?”
Marla looked up and glanced around. Her husband Frank was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, drying a bowl. Marla gasped, her hand shooting to her mouth. Her clutched appendage took on a life of its own, slowly relinquishing itself of her gaping jaw and extending a first finger to point at the specter.
“Frank?” she spoke hesitantly.
“Yeah,” the man replied, holding the now-dry bowl nestled in the faded blue-and-white-checkered kitchen towel in both hands. “Who else would you expect?”
“But you’re dead,” Marla spat, the words falling limply from her mouth of their own accord.
The 66-year old man looked around confusedly and turned to face Marla, his silver hair sparkling in the light from the kitchen, illuminated from behind like a halo. “What are you talking about? I’m just here washing up after lunch. You were gone so I made myself some soup. Where have you been?”
“No, I just got home from your funeral,” Marla spoke quietly. “You are dead. After the boating accident… You drowned. I went along to the hospital – they pronounced you dead on arrival.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frank said. “What boating accident?”
“The sailboat… You were going to take me out,” Marla coughed, her brown eyes glossed over with tears.
“We don’t own a sailboat,” Frank said bluntly. “Sure, I’d thought about it – it seems like a cool retirement hobby – but it’s just too expensive. We’ve talked about this, we can’t afford it.”
Marla glanced out the bay window towards the driveway where the small sailboat sat on its trailer, its orange hull reminiscent of the Florida citrus industry, and also of the life jacket Frank should have been wearing when he’d been pulled under. Marla cringed and turned back toward the kitchen. She sighed and spoke again, “But the boat’s out front. The guys at the marina helped to bring it back… after you… drowned.”
Frank had retreated to the kitchen to put away the bowl. Marla followed. She stood in the doorway and studied the man intently. He was unmistakably her husband, there was no denying it even despite her having just witnessed his waxen lifeless body in the coffin at the wake before the burial, though this Frank was a slight bit more overweight than she remembered.
“Well, that’s not possible. Because I’m still here,” Frank grumbled. He turned to face her, his blue eyes edged with worry. “There now, it was probably just a dream. You knew I wanted a boat and your anxiety just formulated the worst-case scenario…”
“See for yourself,” Marla said, her voice lilting with every syllable.
Frank strode into the living room and stared out the bay window. The driveway was vacant save for some bits of Spanish moss strewn over the concrete from the neighboring live oak tree. He turned towards his wife.
“But there’s no boat,” he sighed. “You must have had a bad dream. Did you fall asleep in the car in the garage again?” Concern was written all over his face, deepening every crease and wrinkle. “Is that where you were? The garage?”
Marla glanced again at the boat, plain as day, and turned to face Frank. Her voice grew stubborn. “It’s right here. How can you miss it?” she said, pointing at the orange behemoth.
“Honey, there’s nothing there,” Frank exclaimed, exasperation creeping into his voice.
Marla huffed and strode to the entryway, gathering her shoes from where they waited in their haphazard heap alongside the braided rag run on the worn linoleum floor. She marched out the door as Frank took vigil in its open frame, still staring at her. She stomped out to the boat and slapped her hand on the fiberglass surface with a resounding smack. The boat was warm to the touch, having baked in the Florida sun. She turned back towards the front door.
“See!” she bellowed.
The door stood open, empty. No one was there, watching. Marla sighed again and walked back inside. The vacant house once again enveloped her in its oppressive emptiness. Frank was nowhere to be found.
So I guess it’s goodbye for now. Feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
Today on Nightmarish Nature we’re gonna revisit The Blob and jiggle our way to terror. Why? ‘Cause we’re just jellies – looking at those gelatinous denizens of the deep, as well as some snot-like land-bound monstrosities, and wishing we could ooze on down for some snoozy booze schmoozing action. Or something.
Honestly, I don’t know what exactly it is that jellyfish and slime molds do but whatever it is they do it well, which is why they’re still around despite being among the more ancient organism templates still in common use.
Jellyfish are on the rise.
Yeah, yeah, some species like moon jellies will hang out in huge blooms near the surface feeding, but that’s not what I meant. Jellyfish populations are up. They’re honing in on the open over-fished ocean and making themselves at home. Again.
And, although this makes the sea turtles happy since jellies are a favorite food staple of theirs, not much else is excited about the development. Except for those fish that like to hide out inside of their bells, assuming they don’t accidentally get eaten hanging out in there. But that’s a risk you gotta take when you’re trying to escape predation by surrounding yourself in a bubble of danger that itself wants to eat you. Be eaten or be eaten. Oh, wait…
So what makes jellies so scary?
Jellyfish pack some mighty venom. Despite obvious differences in mobility, they are related to anemones and corals. But not the Man o’ War which looks similar but is actually a community of microorganisms that function together as a whole, not one creature. Not that it matters when you’re on the wrong end of a nematocyst, really. Because regardless what it’s attached to, that stings.
Box jellies are among the most venomous creatures in the world and can move of their own accord rather than just drifting about like many smaller jellyfish do. And even if they aren’t deadly, the venom from many jellyfish species will cause blisters and lesions that can take a long time to heal. So even if they do resemble free-floating plastic grocery bags, you’d do best to steer clear. Because those are some dangerous curves.
But what does this have to do with slime molds?
Absolutely nothing. I honestly don’t know enough about jellyfish or slime molds to devote the whole of a Nightmarish Nature segment to either, so they had to share. Essentially, this bit is what happened when I decided to toast a bagel before coming up with something to write about and spent a tad too much time in contemplation of my breakfast. I guess we’re lucky I didn’t have any cream cheese or clotted cream…
Oh, and also thinking about gelatinous cubes and oozes in the role-playing game sense – because those sort of seem like a weird hybrid between jellies and slime molds, as does The Blob. Any of those amoeba influenced creatures are horrific by their very nature – they don’t even need to be souped up, just ask anyone who’s had dysentery.
And one of the most interesting thing about slime molds is that they can take the shortest path to food even when confronted with very complex barriers. They are maze masterminds and would give the Minotaur more than a run for his money, especially if he had or was food. They have even proven capable of determining the most efficient paths for water lines or railways in metropolitan regions, which is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Check it out in Scientific American here. So, if we assume that this is essentially the model upon which The Blob was built, then it’s kind of a miracle anything got away. And slime molds are coming under closer scrutiny and study as alternative means of creating computer components are being explored.
Jellies are the Wave of the Future.
We are learning that there may be a myriad of uses for jellyfish from foodstuffs to cosmetic products as we rethink how we interact with them. They are even proving useful in cleaning up plastic pollution. I don’t know how I feel about the foodstuff angle for all that they’ve been a part of various recipes for a long time. From what I’ve seen of the jellyfish cookbook recipes, they just don’t look that appealing. But then again I hate boba with a passion, so I’m probably not the best candidate to consider the possibility.
So it seems that jellies are kind of the wave of the future as we find that they can help solve our problems. That’s pretty impressive for some brainless millions of years old critter condiments. Past – present – perpetuity! Who knows what else we’d have found if evolution hadn’t cleaned out the fridge every so often?
Feel free to check out more Nightmarish Nature here.
Continuing our junkyard dawg werewolf story from the previous St. Patrick’s Days… though technically he’s more of a wolfwere but wolfwhatever. Anyway, here are Part 1 from 2022, Part 2 from 2023 and Part 3 from 2024 if you want to catch up.
Yeah I don’t know how you managed to find me after all this time. We haven’t been the easiest to track down, Monty and I, and we like it that way. Though actually, you’ve managed to find me every St. Patrick’s Day since 2022 despite me being someplace else every single time. It’s a little disconcerting, like I’m starting to wonder if I was microchipped way back in the day in 2021 when I was out lollygagging around and blacked out behind that taco hut…
Anyway as I’d mentioned before, that Scratchers was a winner. And I’d already moved in with Monty come last St. Patrick’s Day. Hell, he’d already begun the process of cashing in the Scratchers, and what a process that was. It made my head spin, like too many squirrels chirping at you from three different trees at once. We did get the money eventually though.
Since I saw you last, we were kicked out of Monty’s crap apartment and had gone to live with his parents while we sorted things out. Thank goodness that was short-lived; his mother is a nosy one for sure, and Monty didn’t want to let on he was sitting on a gold mine as he knew they’d want a cut even though they had it made already. She did make a mean brisket though, and it sure beat living with Sal. Just sayin.
Anyway, we finally got a better beater car and headed west. I was livin’ the dream. We were seeing the country, driving out along old Route 66, for the most part. At least until our car broke down just outside of Roswell near the mountains and we decided to just shack it up there. (Boy, Monty sure can pick ‘em. It’s like he has radar for bad cars. Calling them lemons would be generous. At least it’s not high maintenance women who won’t toss you table scraps or let you up on the sofa.)
We found ourselves the perfect little cabin in the woods. And it turns out we were in the heart of Bigfoot Country, depending on who you ask. I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen one. But it seems that Monty was all into all of those supernatural things: aliens, Bigfoot, even werewolves. And finding out his instincts on me were legit only added fuel to that fire. So now he sees himself as some sort of paranormal investigator.
Whatever. I keep telling him this werewolf gig isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and it doesn’t work like in the movies. I wasn’t bitten, and I generally don’t bite unless provoked. He says technically I’m a wolfwere, to which I just reply “Where?” and smile. Whatever. It’s the little things I guess. I just wish everything didn’t come out as a bark most of the time, though Monty’s gotten pretty good at interpreting… As long as he doesn’t get the government involved, and considering his take on the government himself that would seem to be a long stretch. We both prefer the down low.
So here we are, still livin’ the dream. There aren’t all that many rabbits out here but it’s quiet and the locals don’t seem to notice me all that much. And Monty can run around and make like he’s gonna have some kind of sighting of Bigfoot or aliens or the like. As long as the pantry’s stocked it’s no hair off my back. Sure, there are scads of tourists, but they can be fun to mess around with, especially at that time of the month if I happen to catch them out and about.
Speaking of tourists, I even ran into that misspent youth from way back in 2021 at the convenience store; I spotted him at the Quickie Mart along the highway here. I guess he and his girlfriend were apparently on walkabout (or car-about) perhaps making their way to California or something. He even bought me another cookie. Small world. But we all knew that already…
If you enjoyed this werewolf wolfwere wolfwhatever saga, feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or here on her website.
John Combo
January 26, 2020 at 11:14 pm
This was a great story by Tiffany Promise. The imagery was amazing.