Baby Teeth: Bite-sized tales of terror by Dan Rabarts Page B

Eric. The others looked at him. ‘If she’s a witch she’ll be able to spell anyway. Ow! What was that for?’
    â€˜No more puns, right?’ Glen, the oldest, had been quiet for some time.
    â€˜Come on. We’ve got to take this seriously,’ said Mike. ‘Jake, you take the notes. I’ll be the medium. That’s the person in charge of talking to the spirits.’
    â€˜You can’t,’ said Eric. They all looked at him again. ‘You’re way too fat. You’re an extra large at least.’ Glen shook his head.
    â€˜Right. Everyone put a finger on the glass. Not you, Jake. You just record the letters. Now push or pull gently. Whatever seems right. Then the spirits take over. Once you start you’ve got to keep your finger on the glass. Otherwise they get angry. So if you’re going to chicken out ...’ Mike glanced round but nobody moved. ‘OK. You always start with a question to make contact. So – is there anybody there?’
    They sat in silence until Eric giggled.
    â€˜Quiet,’ said Mike. ‘The spirits don’t like you laughing at them.’
    As if Mike’s words were a cue, the glass started to move. It crept slowly but steadily over the board.
    â€˜Who’s pulling?’
    â€˜Not me.’
    â€˜Y – E—’ —the glass drifted to one of the blank spaces— ‘—something,’ said Jake.
    â€˜ Yes ,’ said Mike.
    â€˜It might not be. It could be “yep”,’ said Eric.
    â€˜We’ve got a P, you egg.’
    â€˜Well you were just pulling and pushing it anyway. This is ridiculous. It could be “yer”. We don’t have an R.’
    â€˜Shut up. Don’t annoy the spirits. We’ve got to keep going now.’ Mike paused. ‘What is your name?’
    The glass started moving again.
    â€˜You’re doing that. I can feel you pushing it.’
    â€˜It’s not me!’
    â€˜H – A – T – E.’ The glass stopped. Jake’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Hate. That’s what that old lady must’ve called herself. It must be that witch.’
    â€˜How did you die?’ asked Mike quietly.
    â€˜Something – U – I – C – I – D – E.’
    â€˜This is stupid.’ Eric was the only one still talking loudly. ‘Everyone knows the answers to these questions. We should ask something we don’t know.’
    â€˜Like what?’
    â€˜I know. Hey, Hate, mate.’ He smiled at his rhyme. ‘Make a prediction.’
    This time the glass moved immediately.
    â€˜Y – O – U – W – I’ —the glass dipped twice to another of the blanks— ‘something, something,’ Jake wrote fast as the glass moved back and forth. The others, even Eric, seemed stunned. At last, the glass stopped on the star in the centre, their fingers still resting on it.
    Glen was first to speak. ‘Who did that?’ No one replied. ‘Well, it wasn’t me.’
    â€˜That,’ said Mike dramatically, ‘was Hate.’
    â€˜Bullshit,’ said Eric. ‘That was you, Mike. You were pulling ... Shhh!’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Shush, I said.’ Sharper this time.
    They held their breath, until Mike whispered ‘What?’ again.
    Eric let out a massive fart.
    â€˜Oh gawd! That’s disgusting!’
    â€˜Keep your fingers on the glass,’ Mike said, but no one heard him.
    â€˜That stinks. I’m getting out of here. Before the fumes kill me.’
    â€˜You’ve got to keep your fingers on the glass.’ Mike’s voice was frantic. The glass began to shake, rattling against the board. ‘Come back!’
    The glass shattered. One candle went out. The boys raced to the kitchen and fought to be first through the open window.
    Only Eric was taking his time. He wandered slowly after the others, and stopped to casually twiddle one of