Laura Has a Visitor

by Tobin Elliott

“Shit,” Laura muttered. Goddamn small towns! Why can’t we go more than two weeks without a power failure? This is what her tax money got her? She stuck her head out of the class, looking up and down the hall. Strange shadows slid along the floor from the battery-powered emergency lights.

“Shit,” she muttered again.

She continued with the clean-up.

What the hell was that? Something had skittered across the floor behind her. Something small, black, shiny—but she wasn’t sure if it was dog-fur shiny or insect shiny. Oh, let it be dog-fur shiny. Like a

(chihuahua?)

little black puppy. Not bug shiny. She didn’t like bugs, and this would be a big bug. No, a puppy would be good. A small dog. She purposely ignored the fact that there wouldn’t be a dog in the school. She could live with a small dog.

But it had moved different from a dog. Not mindless and all over the place like a pup, all tongue and legs and tail. No, this had been more purposeful.

In the quick peripheral glance she had got in the mirror, Laura also got a sense that whatever shared the classroom with her wasn’t good. It felt wrong. The light blond hairs on her arms stood up as her flesh creeped. She turned from the mirror as quietly as she could, breathing quickly but silently through her mouth.

Where was it? What was i—

Movement.

Off to her right. Behind the cabinets. They were set like an island toward the front of the class.

Whatever it was, it was between Laura and the door.

Fuck me, she thought. Fuck me hard!

***

Scrabbling noises.

They came from around the far side of the cupboards. There. Laura saw it.

Jesus! she thought as she jerked back in surprise.

It launched at her like a shot, covering the distance between them before Laura could react. All claws and teeth and shiny black hide, it ripped at her slacks, not quite getting a grip on her leg. She went down in a forest of stools and easels. Her head whacked painfully against the floor as she landed on her back, legs kicking. The thing made a high keening whine, like fingernails on a chalkboard, making Laura wince. The blow to her head made strange flashing spots

(stars I see stars)

in her eyes.

The thing finally got a grip and sunk its teeth into her calf. The spots flew away. Something on her chest. Another one? No. Her fingers wrapped around something long, hard, thin. Paintbrush. It was a paintbrush. She raised it dagger-style. Her arm came down and she heard the wood snap, slivers driving into her palm as the wood cracked off the floor. Shit! Missed it! Shitshitshit!

One more go. Arm swinging in an arc. Whizzing past her

(don’t hit your)

leg and the stick found purchase in something. The whine scaled up, higher and louder. Got ya, ya fucker. Scrabbling noises again and—

It was gone. No, still here, still in the room, but away from her. Good. Good enough for now.

Laura pulled herself up from the tangle of furniture while trying to dial back her panting to something resembling normal breathing. She stood and eyed the room, searching for any sign of the thing.

She knew it was still here. She could hear it, but she couldn’t get any sort of direction from the sound.

Fuck it. I’ve got to get out of here. Right now.

She moved toward the door, half-limping, half-hopping on her good leg. Three hops closer to the door, she stopped.

There. On top of the island cabinet, perched among the paints and thinners, sat the thing.

The thing. What the hell else could she call it? It was the size of a large rat, shiny-black, but not fur. All eyes and teeth and claws, it was one of the ugliest things she had ever laid eyes on.

She also noticed with some pride that the thing was in rough shape. The paintbrush was buried high on its hide, just forward of its pelvis, assuming it even had one. It leaked a blackish-purple liquid that looked like blueberry syrup and stank like cat piss.

Breathing heavy, its sides pumping, it stared at Laura and she imagined rage in its black marble eyes.

The thing’s mouth stretched too big for its face, like its teeth had been swapped for those of a much larger carnivore’s. It kept swinging its head around, grabbing at the paintbrush, but each time the beast tried to pull the offending stick out, it only succeeded in kicking up the volume and letting go with a squeal.

“Got ya, didn’t I? Yeah, well, you got me too, you little fuck.”

It didn’t move. It continued to watch her, diverting its attention only to bite and snap at the brush handle sticking out like a sundial.

She thought about yelling out, but her mind flashed on the empty hallway. School’s out. No one here.

Could she outrun it? Probably not. The little shit had been able to jump up to that cabinet with the handle shishkabobbing its guts. Laura took another step. Pain

(oh yeah, that hurts)

shot up her leg. She crouched forward, hands going to her thighs.

Under her left palm, in the pocket of her slacks, she felt a slip of paper

(pick up milk and honeycomb cereal)

she had stuffed in there this morning in her rush to make it to work on time. God. This morning. How many years ago was that?

But under the paper she felt…

(one burning desire)

…oh thank God, she felt…

 (your fire)

…her lighter.

***

Laura teased the lighter higher in her pocket as she angled toward the door. The thing followed her moves like the two of them were in some kind of spaghetti-western stare-down.

She made as if to break for the door, but at the last second she faked it out, swung her arm in a quick arc and smacked the paintbrush handle sticking out of the thing. The beast snapped and wailed and thrashed. Laura seized the stick and pinned the thing to the table top like a butterfly specimen, her lips pulled back in a grin that was all malice, no humour. If she could have driven the paintbrush into the counter-top, she would have, but she could apply enough pressure to hold it down. Laura grabbed the paint thinner and thumbed the cap off—thank God Alice always forgot to tighten the lids—and upended the canister over the spitting creature. The sudden sharp odour made her eyes water. The room was filled with the noise of her grunting to hold the thing down, its squealing, and the bong of the metal paint thinner can.

When the canister ran dry, Laura tossed it clanging into a corner and she dug into her pocket

(milk and honeycomb)

for the lighter. As her attention went briefly to getting a flame, the thing twisted and clamped down on her forearm. She let out a wail of her own, but didn’t loosen the pressure on the stick.

She thumbed the wheel and watched the sparks. Finally, a flame. She torched the creature. WOOF! Laura smelled burned hair and knew she was missing eyebrows. The hair singed off her arm before she could even let go of the stick. The thing opened its mouth wide to scream and Laura yanked her arm back.

The thing didn’t so much burn as melt and shrink away—almost like the light of the flame was doing more damage than the heat. The creature’s frenzy grew exponentially, and in the confusion, the lighter was knocked from her hand and spun off into the tangle of stools and easels.

The thing gave a final lurch and snap of its jaws, then it was dead. Just the sound of her breathing and the odd pop and spit from the burning meat of the creature. Her ears rang like they did after monitoring duty at a school dance.

She limped over to some artfully draped fabric on a pedestal, took it down and tore some strips to wrap her leg and arm.

As she made the last knot around her calf, Laura’s ears cleared enough to hear the screams echoing down the darkened corridors. Ensuring the thing was dead, she used the rest of the fabric to smother the flames.

She sopped up the fluid, bundled the fabric into a ball, the thing in the middle of it.

Then she dropped it to the floor and stomped on it until it was flat. Only then did she leave the room.

End of sample