His snout split into a grin and he sat, thumping his tail against the skirting board.
Tully wiped her face, left the bathroom and took a few steps towards the hall light switch. A cold pocket of air drifted over her.
“Brrr,” she muttered.
She clicked on the switch. Something dim flickered at the end of the hall, too fast to make out. She registered milky eyes and a cloud of dark hair.
Gooseflesh doused Tully from head to toe. Was it…
Abraham bounded past her down the hallway, crashed into the wall, and leapt in jerky circles. He dropped his nose to the floorboards and snuffled busily.
“Come here,” Tully called, her voice a clogged whisper. “Abraham, stop. Come!”
His head jerked up, and he shot her another guilty look. With his tail tucked low, he trotted back to her side and nudged at her hand. Tully stared at the end of the hall.
She knelt in front of Abraham and cradled his heavy head in her palms. “What was it, boy?”
He whined and tried to lick her chin. Tully looked back down the hall. There was only the ugly picture of a cat, hanging on the wall. Hannah had painted it a long time ago. It was the only thing that Tully had left from her sister. She kept meaning to throw it out but never seemed to remember when kerbside collection came around.
After another long minute, Tully ran her hand over her eyes. There was nothing there. It had been a long day. Too long to be imagining things.
She pushed upright, patted Abraham on the side and led the way to the kitchen. “Come on, feeding time.”
* * *
One by one, Tully let the fosterlings out and with Abraham circling, led them into the dark backyard. She listened to the cicadas singing while the fosterlings did their business and then walked them back inside.
She’d saved three from being savaged and another from being euthanised. Her mother always said Tully would rescue a man-eating crocodile if it came knocking at her door.
Tully stroked the matted head on the littlest one, Tek. Tek had lost her legs and needed a special set of wheels made so she could get around. No one was going to care for Tek or the others except Tully. Everyone else took one look and shied away. They were broken and damaged and just too much trouble. Tully knelt and untangled the lead from Tek’s neck.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, “I’ll always look after you.”
Abraham shoved his nose under her armpit to share the cuddle.
Tek stiffened and, trembling, she stared over Tully’s shoulder. Abraham mirrored Tek’s stance. Tully forced herself to be still, even though her heart was in her throat and she could feel her pulse at her temples.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Tek whimpered and wheeled around Tully, forcing her to turn and look.
Tully gasped.
Something hung in the kitchen window. A pale oval topped with long dark hair. There was a suggestion of a white surgical mask in the gloom. Recognition flared.
The Asian woman from the bus.
Tek lunged, dragging Tully towards the back door; Abraham was one step ahead. Tully stumbled after them, barely keeping hold of the lead.
“Wait! Stop!”
They burst through the screen door. Tek whirled around the kitchen, her wheels banging into the table and chairs. A flash of dark hair disappeared into the hall. The kitchen drawer hung half open. Tully owned two pairs of scissors: one for cutting everyday stuff like sticky tape or string; the other for cutting through chicken backbones and tin cans.
They were both missing.
Abraham dropped his nose to the floor where the woman had been and snuffled in a figure eight. He pointed himself towards the hallway, his tail straight and stiff. Tek trembled against Tully’s leg. She looked up at Tully anxiously.
“It’s okay,” Tully murmured. Her eyes went back to the kitchen drawer where the scissors had been. “It’s going to be okay.”
“Stay,” she told Tek.
She eased her fingers into Abraham’s collar and walked into the hall, holding him beside her leg. The hall light dimmed and struggled to spark. When it came back on, the woman stood at the end of the hall, her back to Tully, long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she stared up at Hannah’s ugly cat painting. She raised her arm and drew the blade of the boning scissors down the surface of the painting, peeling away the cat’s misshapen nose.
“Hey!” Tully jerked forward.
Abraham rumbled a low, harsh growl in his chest.
The woman whirled, flashing long-lashed, white, pupil-less eyes. She still wore the red jacket, singlet and short skirt over tights patterned with cats on the thighs. The lower half of her face was hidden behind a white surgical mask.
Tully watched, her heart fluttering in her throat, her grip on Abraham’s collar forgotten. The woman cocked her head to one side, birdlike, and hooked a forefinger behind each ear. Tully’s eyes tracked the large glint of the scissors in the woman’s left hand. She wondered distantly what had happened to the everyday pair of scissors.
The woman slowly peeled off her mask.
Abraham yelped and tore free of Tully’s grasp, scrabbling backwards and into the kitchen.
Tully sucked in a sharp breath.
Kuchisake-onna.
The spirit’s smile was impossibly wide and terribly crooked. Either side of her mouth had been slashed, almost to her small, delicate ears. Stitching marched across her pale cheeks like black insects, holding closed the bloodless edges of her smile. The spirit lowered her hands and allowed the mask to drift to the floor. Tully followed the path of the scissors. She couldn’t stop watching them.
Kuchisake-onna smiled. The edges of her mouth gaped pinkly, like smoked salmon. Tully’s stomach tried to climb into her throat. The spirit glided four steps closer, like she was playing ‘What’s the Time, Mister Wolf?’, only Tully seemed to be the one who’d frozen in place. The spirit came closer still, tilting her head coquettishly and twirling her hair in her free hand. She smoothed away a few strands that had fallen across her face. When her fingers brushed the stitching on her cheeks, her brow creased.
“Watashi wa kireida to omoimasu ka?” Do you think I’m pretty? Her voice was girlish and atonal, like that of a doll’s.
Tully watched the rise of the scissors and licked her lips. “Do you think I’m pretty?” she replied.
Kuchisake-onna blinked, her milky eyes blank with confusion. She took a few steps closer, hands raised beseechingly. “Watashi wa kireida to omoimasu ka?” she asked again.
Tully swallowed. Click. “So-so.” She shrugged.
The milky eyes narrowed. The spirit touched her cheek, her fingertips bumping over the crude stitches. Her expression clouded. Closing the last few steps until she was face to face with Tully, she extended her other hand. She traced the curve of Tully’s cheekbone, brushed through Tully’s wild, dark hair, and fluttered her icy fingers over Tully’s lips. The scissors gleamed, millimetres from Tully’s left eye. Tully kept very, very still.
“Watashi wa kireida to omoimasu ka?” Kuchisake-onna’s voice was no longer girlish: it was the insistent voice of a crone.
“Īe,” Tully said. No.
The spirit wailed, a keening, senseless siren. The stitches popped open, revealing the white pearls of her back teeth. Her pale eyes bulged. She snatched at something at her waist and raised both hands. She held a pair of scissors in each. The twin flashing blades came down like fangs.