Stephen King: Six Scary Stories

‘Teddies don’t speak, sweetie.’

‘Eric does. He talks to me.’ Up and down the little fingers went, caressing the broken shoulder.

‘No, Ellie.’ Kathy choked back another sob. ‘He doesn’t.’

Her daughter shrugged, turning back round to face her stuffed animals.

‘Look at me, Ellie.’

The whispering started up again, small exhalations brushing against each other.

‘Ellie.’ Kathy’s voice was hard and sharp as she drummed her fingers on the doorframe.

‘Eleanor!’

Her daughter’s shoulders bunched tight and her whispering quickened as Ellie leaned forward, as if protecting Eric from her mother’s voice.

‘Enough now, Eleanor!’

Kathy strode forward and grabbed her daughter by the shoulder. She was stiff to her touch and fell backward, rigid and flat on the bed, still clutching Eric. The eyes, Kathy thought, they have the same eyes, distant and inaccessible. She had to separate them.

‘Give him to me!’ Kathy said.

‘No.’ Ellie pressed Eric to her chest, turning away from her mother.

Kathy grabbed him by his bandaged shoulder and started to pull but Ellie tightened her grip and she found herself peeling off one finger at a time. It was no match really, her adult hands were so much bigger, so much stronger. When she’d prised him loose, Kathy held Eric aloft – how heavy he was all of a sudden! – and hurried out of the bedroom, her fingers circling his neck.

Ellie came scrambling after her, tearing at her mother’s clothes, but her mother was too tall, her arm stretched up too high. As Kathy looked down, she saw Ellie’s mouth twist as she clamped down on her leg.

‘Ow!’ Kathy screamed, thrusting her leg sideways. ‘Get off! Get off, you little bitch!’ The honey-dipped hair, the pudgy arms, the milk teeth were all just a blur, something separate to her, morphed into some grotesque animal battling with her leg. The hallway stretched out in front, the mirror of the vanity cupboard in the bathroom at the end reflecting overhead lights. Kathy dragged herself towards it, still clutching Eric, her daughter still clamped to her leg. She bent to push her daughter away but Ellie’s mouth caught her hand instead and she felt the trickle of warm blood.

Blood spattered on the cupboard’s mirror as she flipped the door open, her fingers grasping blindly for the sharp point of the nail scissors. Ellie’s teeth were deep into her leg as she started stabbing Eric, plunging the scissors into his eyes, those beady, dead eyes, and tearing at his middle. Stuffing spilled out, red-tinged fluff billowing on to the floor. Again and again, she stabbed and ripped until all that was left was a flattened, empty rag, a caricature of a teddy.

When it was over, when her ears finally tuned in to her daughter’s muffled sobs, Kathy let the scissors drop into the sink. The metal clattered against the sides and she slumped against the basin, Eric hanging limp and ragged in her hand.

Ellie clambered to her feet. She spat out her mother’s blood and wiped her arms over her cheeks, smearing them in red.

‘Oh God,’ Kathy said, sinking to her knees. ‘What have I done?’

Ellie said nothing, grabbing what remained of Eric and running back into her bedroom.

Fluff floated around her as Kathy placed her hands over her face and sat motionless. She heard the fridge hum downstairs, the distant ticking of the kitchen clock. She breathed in and stretched out her leg, observing the teeth-marks on her skin. Beneath the blood, between the sticky fluff, she could just make out a series of curved, symmetrical bite-marks. And then from the bedroom; again, that insistent, urgent whispering. Kathy hoisted herself up, leaning on the sink, not daring to look at her reflection in the mirror. Could shame burn itself on someone’s face?

She hobbled to the stairs, keeping her eyes trained on the banisters. Out of the corner of her vision, she caught a glimpse of Ellie in her room, back on the bed, elbows working furiously and a large bandage trailing on to the carpet.

Downstairs, Kathy let her hand hover over the phone. She was thinking of Chris but he seemed very far away, just a distant memory, something she could never reach. She tried to recall his face but could only dredge up the outline of his features: his square jaw, his brushed-back hair, the gentle slope of his forehead. It was just a sketch really, all the details were missing. And then she heard the footsteps on the floorboards above her. The familiar tread. The dreaded pause at the top of the steps. The thud-thud-thud of big feet, strong feet, coming to rest on each step. And as the footsteps came closer, she didn’t even look up. She knew who it would be.

Paul Bassett Davies has written and directed for stage, TV, radio and film. He began in multimedia theatre, and his one-man shows won awards at the Edinburgh Festival. He’s written for many well-known names in British comedy, and had his own BBC radio sitcom, as well as writing radio dramas, short films, and music videos. He’s also been the vocalist in a punk band, a cab driver, and a DJ in a strip club. His first novel, Utter Folly , topped the Amazon humorous fiction chart in 2012, and his new novel, Dead Writers in Rehab , is being published by Unbound.

The idea for ‘The Spots’ came to Paul in the small hours of a sleepless night, when the image of a leopard seemed to prowl mysteriously into his mind. It was only after he’d finished the story that he realised the screensaver on his laptop the previous year was a photograph of a leopard.

‘I like this quote from On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft : “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered (anyway).” It’s a very useful reminder about honesty and what a writer really cares about.’

The first phase of my assignment was to count the leopard’s spots.

Then, to consider the possibility of change. In the words of the Leader, ‘First quantify. Then evaluate. Finally master.’ This remorselessly methodical approach was a key to the Leader’s greatness, and just one aspect of his genius.

There was only one leopard left, of an original four, in the People’s Menagerie, an extensive zoological facility that was located in the palace compound to ensure the safety of the capital’s inhabitants.

Two of the creatures had perished in a visionary genetic experiment. One had been executed. The Leader had suspected the November plotters of intending to make use of the beast in some way: perhaps as a symbol, or a weapon, or even as a potential ally, through whom they might enlist the support of the animal kingdom in their odious conspiracy. There was no material evidence against the leopard, or for that matter against the finance minister and the colonels. None was necessary. The Leader’s acclaimed intuition in these matters was unerring, and almost uncanny. Indeed, some of the populace attributed powers of telepathy to him. This was absurd, of course, and such superstitious beliefs were held only by the less educated members of society, bearing in mind that this is a relative judgement in my homeland, which has the finest schools in the world.

All the suspected plotters were executed, after confessing to their crimes in an impartial inquiry conducted according to the highest standards of international jurisprudence in the basement of the Great Hall of Conciliation. The leopard made no confession, and met its fate with what was reported as perfect equanimity, having been humanely stunned.

So, there was only one animal available for me to study, with no prospect of acquiring other specimens. The four leopards had been gifts from nations with which we had since broken off relations, after conclusive proof that their governments were part of a reactionary global alliance intent on deposing the Leader, motivated by bitter jealousy of his towering achievements. These nations, of which, sadly, there was a growing number, no longer sent us gifts, and we, in turn, no longer allowed them access to our precious minerals.