Ice Machine
The ice machine at the end of the motel hallway kept dispensing cubes by itself all night.
At sunrise I noticed each cube contained one of my teeth.
Body horror becomes frightening when the body stops obeying its owner. These short stories focus on subtle biological impossibilities, wrong anatomy and the terrible moment a familiar body becomes unfamiliar.
Every story here follows the same rule: exactly two sentences. The first sentence establishes a stable reality; the second sentence changes what the first one meant.
The ice machine at the end of the motel hallway kept dispensing cubes by itself all night.
At sunrise I noticed each cube contained one of my teeth.
The dentist showed me the X-ray and asked how long the extra tooth had been growing behind my eye.
Then it blinked.
The itching under my cast became unbearable, so I cut it off myself.
Something inside my arm had already cut a hole to get out.
The cardiologist said the second heartbeat on my scan was probably an equipment error.
When she muted the machine, we could still hear it.
The scar on my stomach reopened years after the surgery and began bleeding again.
A tiny hand reached through and pulled it wider.
My daughter left a tooth under her pillow and woke up holding someone else’s molar.
There was blood on the carpet leading from her bed to my locked bedroom door.
The pediatric dentist showed me an X-ray with a second row of tiny teeth behind my son’s adult teeth.
Then he lowered his voice and asked whether my son had started speaking in someone else’s voice yet.
The dentist’s little mirror showed a blinking eye behind my back molar.
He put down the instrument and asked me how long it had been awake.
I dropped the mirror and watched my reflection shatter into a hundred pieces.
Every piece crawled toward a different corner of the room.
The radiologist showed me a shadow inside my chest that looked almost human.
He zoomed in until I could see its fingers pressed against my ribs.
The phlebotomist frowned because my blood filled the tube with tiny bubbles.
Then one of the bubbles blinked.
I woke during surgery and heard the surgeon say there was something moving behind my heart.
Another voice from inside my chest told him not to touch it.
I woke alone and found the other side of the bed warm enough to leave a body-shaped impression.
The impression slowly sat up.
The itching under my cast became unbearable, so I cut it off early.
Dozens of tiny fingerprints covered my skin from the inside out.
The doctor said the faint pulse in my wrist was nothing to worry about.
Then I noticed it was moving slowly up my arm.
My cracked tooth started humming whenever I passed the abandoned house on my street.
After the dentist pulled it, the tooth screamed all night from inside the trash can.
I found a knot in my hair so tight I had to cut it out.
The severed knot crawled under the bathroom door.
Words appeared beneath the skin of my forearm one letter at a time.
They finished spelling OUT before something pushed against my elbow from inside.
A second fingernail began growing beneath my thumbnail after the accident.
This morning the lower nail scratched back.
I thought an earbud tip had broken off in my ear until the doctor reached for forceps.
Whatever he grabbed pulled back.
The old surgical scar across my stomach started opening while I slept.
By morning it had teeth.
My reflection kept rubbing its cheek as if something was caught beneath the skin.
Then my own face began to feel loose.
I pressed my ear to the wall because I thought I heard a heartbeat from the next apartment.
My own chest went silent while I listened.
The chest freezer in the basement began humming after I unplugged it.
Something underneath the lid started matching the rhythm of my breathing.
The washing machine started a cycle by itself after midnight.
Through the little glass door, I saw a hand slap against the inside.
The sump pump began pulling up muddy water even though it had not rained in weeks.
A human eye surfaced in the pit and looked toward the stairs.
The metal bear box outside our campsite rattled all night despite being locked.
At dawn we found the food untouched and fingernail scratches covering the inside.
I woke because something inside my sleeping bag was holding my ankle.
My feet were still visible at the bottom.
We heard scratching inside the locked cooler after everyone had gone to bed.
In the morning the ice was full of baby teeth.
The ultrasound photo shows our baby holding what looks like a tiny human hand.
The doctor quietly counted both of the baby’s hands again.