The Tooth Collector (and Other Tales of Terror) by Lindsey Goddard Page B

couldn’t take it anymore, I closed my eyes and
whimpered. I stayed that way, eyes squeezed shut like a dope, until
the ice machine ceased its psychotic production.
     
    The buzzing of the lights returned and I
could see it shining through my eyelids. I opened my eyes, and she
was gone. I looked around, relieved that no guests had witnessed my
cowardice, but at the same time disappointed that I was alone.
Nobody was going to believe me, I knew. My only evidence was a
mountain of ice on the floor, a mess which would only get worse the
longer I waited to clean it up.
     
     
     
    I barely dragged myself into work the next
night. I was wired on coffee after tossing and turning to no avail.
Heavy gray bags under my eyes made me look like a washed up
rockstar, only I lack a rockstar’s edge.
     
    I felt scared and alone. I have close friends
and family I could talk to, but I was afraid to tell anyone about
my frightening encounter for fear of what they might think. As
adults, we tell ourselves that the boogeyman isn’t real. The
monsters in our closets were long ago exposed as frauds. There’s
not a blood-covered ghost in the mirror waiting for us to say her
name three times. We tell ourselves that the deceased go to a
better place, and miraculously they all manage to get there with no
trouble, as there are certainly no lost souls among us. We consider
people who believe in the boogeyman to be crazy, or at least we
call them names like “weird” and “flaky”. That’s why I decided to
keep this to myself.
     
    Though I had never been so scared in my life,
I didn’t let it show. I went about my usual routine. The hotel was
busier than usual, but the moments I spent alone seemed to drag on
forever. I did inventory to keep my mind busy, to avoid thinking
about the invisible woman… the lady who wasn’t there, whose
familiar clothes floated in the air as if watching me with unseen
eyes. My skin grew cold each time I thought about the frigid air
that swirled around her.
     
    I looked through the front windows as a taxi
pulled to the curb, and to my shock, Sameer Ahmed emerged from the
car… with his wife! Yes, the elusive Mrs. Ahmed followed close
behind him. I’ll admit, I was ecstatic to see her, if a little
worried about my sanity. I had worked myself into a frenzy thinking
something had happened to her, and after seeing those terrible
things, it was a mixture of satisfaction and confusion to see her
walking toward me now.
     
    The revolving glass door caught the red glow
of the taxi’s tail lights as they entered the building with Sameer
in the lead. It was close to his usual bedtime, and I figured they
were returning from a late dinner at a crowded restaurant. I had to
suppress a smile as I envisioned the impatient millionaire, forced
to wait for his meal. Though my smile faded as I wondered how Mrs.
Ahmed managed to eat through that veil.
     
    He approached the desk and proceeded to
inform me that this would be his final night at the Ladford. His
new home was ready. He’d be leaving in the morning and needed a
luggage rack promptly at seven.
     
    The moment he looked away, I stole a glimpse
at his wife. Just one last look to commit those gorgeous amber eyes
to memory. I feared I had suffered a mental collapse, and I was
hoping to replace the image of the floating niqab and its empty
veil with something more palatable.
     
    But what I saw made things worse. It sent a
jolt of shock to my heart.
     
    Her black veil was in place, with the same
rectangular slits for the eyes. But the woman’s eyes had changed.
They were different, no longer the glistening pools of honey I’d
admired two nights prior.
     
    Her dark brown eyes showed no sign of
recognition as she observed me with indifference. The old Mrs.
Ahmed had always averted her gaze. She never looked directly at me.
Not until the night by the ice machine. Yet these chocolate brown
eyes studied me, so alert—the wrong shape, the wrong color, the
wrong