Following the footprints with the beam of light, she entered. There was a foulness hanging in the air; motor oil, kerosene, and iron.

  "Hello, Mummy."

  Helen nearly jumped through the plasterboard roof. "Sally?"

  Sally was standing in one corner with a match in one hand and the box in the other. Her eyes were rolled back in her head. "Nemo has been bad," she said as she struck the match and dropped it onto the clownfish on the garage floor. It was soaked in kerosene.

  Woosh!

  The toy went up in a column of blue and yellow flame that licked at the ceiling.

  Helen shielded her eyes and ran towards her bewitched daughter. Her foot connected with something heavy, and she spiraled to the floor. Fumbling with the flashlight, she looked to see what she had hit and screamed. Dave was on his back, staring up at the defunct strip-light with a pool of blood around his head.

  Before she could do anything else, she was pounced upon by Sam. He put all of his weight on her shoulders and pinned her to the concrete floor. With a sick grin and emotionless black beady eyes, he stretched out a length of electrical cord, held it to her neck, and applied pressure.

  "This is for putting me in the washing machine."

  Sally giggled.

  As she faded away, Helen realised the true horror of the situation. Ollie had got into her children's heads. In Sam's case...literally.

  About the Author

  Tim Mendees is a horror writer from Macclesfield in the North-West of England that specializes in cosmic horror and weird fiction. He has had over fifty stories accepted for publication in anthologies and magazines with publishers all over the world. Recent publications with Mannison Press include his novelette Burning Reflection (2020) and "Monster in the House" from the anthology Little Boy Lost: More Tales of Youth Disrupted (2020). When he is not arguing with the spellchecker, Tim is a goth DJ, crustacean and cephalopod enthusiast, and the presenter of a popular web series of live video readings of his material. He currently lives in Brighton & Hove with his pet crab, Gerald, and an army of stuffed octopods. Learn more about Tim on his website at www.timmendeeswriter.wordpress.com.

  Smashwords profile here: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/Mendees

  4. Octo

  Piers Anthony

  It was bedtime, and four year old Neala had to put her dolls away for the night. This time she had a new one: a green rag doll octopus with a bulbous body and eight cute little legs. She had seen it in the store when Mommy was shopping, and managed to persuade her to buy it. It was so precious!

  "G'night, all," she said. "Be nice to Octo. I just got him today." Because she knew the old chest, inherited from her great-great-great-great grandmother Sela who was burned as a witch, had some remaining magic, so that the dolls could come alive for a while and talk with each other. Of course, the adults pooh-poohed that, because they didn't believe in magic, and Neala didn't push it because they would just double down. Adults were so sure they were right, especially when they weren't. She had long since resolved not to be that way when she grew up. It was way past time for a change.

  The child paused to glance at the empty fish bowl beside the chest. Well, not exactly empty; it had fresh water in it, because she hoped that one morning she would come and discover a lovely colorful fish in it. So far it hadn't happened, but a holiday was coming up and it might happen then. Holidays encouraged gifts. She had learned patience. She could wait days, or even weeks if she had to.

  Neala left the playroom and turned off the light, except for the little elf-shaped night light she left for the dolls. How could they enjoy themselves if they couldn't see anything? She had to sleep in her bedroom at the same hour every night. It was a Rule, another burden she would eliminate when she Came of Age.

  The moment the door closed, the dolls came to life. The others focused on the newcomer. "Uh, hello," Octo said uncertainly. He realized that he was the cynosure, but he didn't know how that worked, so felt out of sorts. He hadn't known that he could speak, but it came naturally now.

  The other dolls eyed him disapprovingly. "What are you?" China Doll demanded. She was pretty, but her voice was as chill as ceramic.

  "I am Octo the Octopus. I was made last month and was on sale. Can we be friends?"

  She looked away, disdaining to answer.

  Instead, Kewpie spoke. She was small, plump, celluloid, and cute. "We don't like weird animals."

  "Weird? I'm a doll, like you."

  "You're a fish," Raggedy Ann said. "You don't belong here among real dolls."

  "I'm a cephalopod mollusk. But sea creatures don't have dolls, so I'm here. I wish I were a live creature, but at least Neala likes me."

  "Neala likes anything that catches her eye," Doggie Doll barked derisively, his tail not wagging. "That's why we're here. But we thought she had more taste."

  This was unkind. "What's wrong with me?"

  "You're not like us," Rapunzel said, shaking her floor-length tresses. "You're an icky monster. Go away."

  "Now, Zel," the Fairy GodMother doll said. "You know he can't do that. The moment we leave the vicinity of this enchanted chest, we revert to inert rags and porcelain. Even just waking and talking uses up the ambient magic in a couple of hours, and we go limp until it recharges the next day. He has no choice."

  "But FGM, he's a fish!" Ann protested.

  "He's a kind of toy, as are we all. We should give him a fair chance."

  But the other dolls shook their heads. They did not appreciate too much difference.

  Octo saw the way of it. "I'm sorry." He closed his eyes and went still, so as not to bother them further. His heart was hurting, but what could he do? Indeed, he was not like them.

  There was a sound. "Uh-oh," Rapunzel said. "I smell a rat."

  "Neala forgot the lid," China Doll said, alarmed. "It can get in."

  They all looked fearfully at the open top of the chest. Normally they were shut safely in for the night.

  Sure enough, the rodent climbed the outside of the chest, poked its horrible quivering nose over the rim, and spied the vulnerable dolls inside. It jumped down beside Octo, baring its teeth. There was a lot of excellent chewing here! Even if the dolls were not edible, there was joy in the random destruction. The dolls watched in sheer horror, knowing that they could not defend themselves against this merciless predator. Neala would find scattered limbs, heads, and chewed bodies in the morning.

  The rat sniffed Octo, then opened its jaws to take a big bite. And the octopus wrapped his tentacles around that snout and squeezed it shut.

  The rat froze for a moment, astonished. No partly animated toy should try to oppose it! Then it smacked the doll into the inner wall of the chest, jarring it loose. One tentacle had been torn off.

  The rat oriented on the others, ignoring the fallen one as not worth further mischief. It stepped forward, brushing the limp body aside.

  And Octo grabbed again, this time wrapping his remaining tentacles around the rat's body, the suckers clamping on, squeezing as hard as he could. The rat tried to shake him off, but he clung tight, desperately constricting the torso so that the rat had trouble breathing. Its snout whipped about, chomping viciously, tearing cloth. His head torn open, Octo could no longer control his limbs, and he dropped off.

  But the rat had had enough. It plainly wasn't used to dolls fighting back. What tricks did the others have? It scrambled up the wall and disappeared outside.

  The dolls gazed at the ruined octopus doll, whose tentacles were quivering in helpless pain. "Neala is not going to like this," Kewpie said. "That could so readily have been us."

  "We should be ashamed," Fairy GodMother said. "We treated him like dirt, and then he saved us."

  "I should have bit the rat, but I lacked the nerve," Doggie barked ruefully. "Octo had more spirit than I did."

  "He was only defending himself, not us," Raggedy Ann said.

  "Not the second time," China Doll said. "He didn't have to grab the rat again. He did it for us."

  "He sacrificed himself for us," Rapunzel agreed.

  "He's better than any of us," Kewpie said. "But what can we do? He's ruined."

  "We can grant his wish," GodMother said.

  "His wish?" Rapunzel asked.

  "He said he wished he were alive."

  "Don't we all!" China Doll said. "But the magic is limited. Two hours uses it up, and we're not really alive, just animated."

  "What good would it be anyway?" Kewpie asked. "He's lost a leg and his brains are spilled out. They'll have to junk him in the morning."

  "Not necessarily," GodMother said. "If we pooled all our magic and focused it on him, we could make him come all the way alive. To stay. My power is granting wishes. I could do it, with your support. We would be inert, having expended our shares, but the magic will recharge tomorrow."

  Kewpie was unconvinced. "Who would want to live in that torn condition? It would be torture."

  "But all-the-way alive can heal," GodMother said. "It takes time, but in the end he could be whole again."

  The dolls considered that. They exchanged a look of dawning hope. "Let's do it," China said. "We owe it to him."

  They did it. Working together they dragged Octo up the side and across to the fish bowl, and pushed him in. He floated there, unconscious.

  Then they gathered close around GodMother on the rim of the chest, lending her their magic. Individually it was slight, but together it became significant. She focused, exerting her power. Slowly the rag body filled out, becoming alive. A tentacle twitched. He took a mouthful of water and squirted it out, swimming in his fashion. He wasn't well, but he was alive, and would improve in time.

  Octo spied them outside the bowl, and lifted a tentacle in salute.

  "Glory be!" Doggie barked, relieved.

  The magic expired. The dolls fell backward into the chest, landing in a tangled heap, unconscious. Neala would have to sort them out in the morning.

  But they had done it. Octo was all the way alive, and would heal. Neala would take care of him in the fish bowl, refreshing the water, providing food, admiring him. Only she, among the living folk, would know him for what he was, a living doll, but that was okay.

  He had saved them, and they had saved him back. It was a fair exchange. They would be friends in the future.

  About the Author

  Piers Anthony is an established author of more than 200 books of fantasy and other genres. He is, perhaps, best known for his Xanth and Incarnations of Immortality series. Recent publications with Mannison Press include his Mannison Minibook Read the Read: Three Tiny Tales (2021), which incorporates his short story contributions to both the anthologies Little Boy Lost: More Tales of Youth Disrupted (2020) and Little Girl Lost: Thirteen Tales of Youth Disrupted (2019).

  Today, Piers lives with his new wife on a tree farm they own in the Florida backwoods. You can learn more about Piers Anthony and his prolific writing career on his website at www.hipiers.com.

  Smashwords profile here: https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/piersanthony

  5. A Weary mother's Nightmare

  Deidre J Owen

  Based on a true story.

  I still couldn't believe that little turd bit Emmie at daycare again. That's the third time in a month. It was really sweet of Sawyer's mom to call me after the last time, but I'd been in the middle of my big presentation. God, so embarrassing. Pretty sure it was that little faux pas what got me assigned to "special projects." Now I'm working overtime to ingratiate myself to the board, and with Jesse working swing shifts, I barely have time to make Emmie a decent dinner any more.

  Plans and proposals and daycare conversations are bubbling and swirling through my head like...like the macaroni about to boil over, crap. I blink myself back to the present and blow across the pot, stirring. Realizing I'm cooking in my most uncomfortable heels, I kick them away with an exhausted sigh and apologize to the dog when one tumbles her way. She scrambles to her feet and shakes off the offense, then trots toward the back door.

  "You want out, girl?"

  Poor old thing pees twenty times a day. Anticipating her need, I turn down the heat under my pot and cross the kitchen to meet her at the back door. But as I reach for the handle, I pause. Through the glass pane, something out of place has drawn my eye.

  She's lying on her back on the paving stones just outside, her lifeless eyes staring blankly up at the evening stars winking down at her from an indigo expanse. Her pale porcelain cheek lies nestled in a bed of golden curls while her lace-trimmed dress protects her modesty.

  "Why, hello, little dolly!" I say aloud. "What are you doing outside?" But as the words leave my lips, I find my fingertips have frozen on the door handle. "Wait, what are you doing outside?"

  Emmie doesn't play with Jacqueline. The antique had been a gift from my elderly aunt who mistakenly thought I'd like the dated little thing. She sits on a shelf in Emmie's room tucked into a toy Radio Flyer wagon, silently observing our daily life with her dead brown eyes. We do say hello to her now and again and re-tie the shoes that inexplicably come untied on their own. But 'Jacqueline' is tough for a two-year-old to say. Emmie calls her 'Jacket.' It's flipping adorable.

  I notice that one of the dainty shoelaces on Jacket's traditional white booties has again come untied and lay strewn across the pavers.

  She'd tripped.

  Unsatisfied with her sedentary life, she'd gone on walkabout seeking love and adventure elsewhere. Only, her stiff porcelain legs are poorly suited for walking, as are her stiff porcelain fingers for shoe-tying. And so, as her jostling gait would eventually work the diminutive laces free from their bows, a stumble was inevitable. What Jacket had not anticipated, however, was taking a fall there, or then.

  My heart skitters when I realize her non-movement is a direct result of my unfortunate timing. My shadow shifting through the spilt light from the kitchen causes her glass eyes to twinkle in the twilight.

  She sees me.

  The dog whines from beside me, pulling my mind back into the kitchen.

  "What's up, Biscuit? Did...did you see something, too?"

  Damn, I wish Jesse was home. I'm usually all right getting Emmie ready for bed on my own, but the deepening shadows in the far reaches of the yard cause my arms to prickle. So many dark pockets concealing God-knows-what.

  My thumb traces the contours of the door handle and with a lurch in my stomach I realize it was unlocked. Had we gone out back since coming home? Between our low fencing, untrimmed hedges, and no home security outside of an arthritic Corgi, an unlocked back door is really all that stands between a normal evening and a devastating one.

  So, if we hadn't even been outside yet, how did Jacket get out there?

  She's a lure.

  With our predictable schedules and a car missing from the driveway, it's pretty clear I'm home alone with my toddler. Anyone casing our house would easily ascertain my distractibility and how harried I am in the mornings, and it was only a matter of time before I forgot to lock a door.

  Why Jacket, then? Well, because she's an antique. In a room full of anthropomorphized plush and confusing toddler paraphernalia, this classic Jacqueline doll obviously has special meaning. An heirloom. A timeless treasure. Gifted to us by an ageing—and possibly dead—relative. And while a frazzled mother such as myself will ignore any number of toys left to weather the night outdoors, I surely wouldn't ignore this one.

  I swallow involuntarily. He's waiting, watching me hesitate at the door, weapon clutched in a gloved hand. It's a knife; silent. He's crouched behind the patio furniture, I can see him! I can see you! I—

  Oh.

  No, that's just a pool float.

  "Okay, Biscuit, go on."

  I finally twist the door handle and watch our tawny pup waddle across the pavers on her way to the grass, pausing only for a moment to sniff at Jacket before deciding she was uninteresting after all. And maybe she is. Uninteresting, that is. I mean, in all honesty, my life is rather uninteresting at the moment...and I love it. After all the years of partying, the whirlwind of romance, the chaos of grad school, and a complicated pregnancy, this doldrum of early motherhood is actually a nice change of pace.

  Husband. House. Dog. Baby. Picket fence. Mown lawn. Pristine porcelain doll reposing peacefully on the back porch. Pristine and perfect.

  Too perfect.

  She's a delusion.

  This porcelain life, it's so contrived and fragile. I always felt like meeting Jesse at a party was terribly cliché. The romance and the schooling and the pregnancy made for a hectic season of life, but it was all just so perfect. So dreamy! Maybe...maybe I never left that party. Maybe Jesse and I got high in the bathroom together and now I'm tripping on the idea of a normal, boring life with this hot guy I just met. We have an old dog and a new baby and I'm cooking her macaroni after a long day of work.

  Macaroni!

  I spin around and a small wave of relief washes over me when I'm greeted by a gently simmering pot of noodles. With four minutes left on the timer, I return my gaze to my very real back yard where my very real dog is eating a very real leaf.

  "Oh, Biscuit, don't eat the leaves," I call out, but smile in spite of the reprimand. They won't hurt her, and she's super old anyway. My smile fades, though, as my eyes once again alight upon the porcelain Jacket sprawled out on the bricks. Why her? Why here? Is she trying to tell me something? What if...

  She's a portent.

  Nonsense. You're being silly! I tell myself. Just go retrieve the stupid doll and feed your hungry child. My feet float across the threshold and I hover over the doll. She's so small from up here. Delicate. Helpless. While I'm mildly annoyed that this meaningful antique has found its way outside, I'm simultaneously relieved that she hadn't fallen into the...

  A tightness grips me from the inside and my mouth goes dry. There is a subtle movement out of the corner of my eye...a shimmering in the dying light. The surface of the pool has been recently disturbed and undulates gently, throwing glimmers from the kitchen back at me. My lip quivers.