Floss Before You
Cross
by Miss Verity
I must have
dozed somewhere between the living room and the
staircase because when I opened my eyes, the
haunted house on the hill had my teeth chattering.
I swallowed hard, daring to tread the creaking
floorboards.
Inside, among long-legged creepy crawlies,
cobwebs, and floating candles, rested the most
absurd object of them all: a toothbrush in a
glass.
It stood ramrod straight, like it had a personal
trainer. A pint-sized, heroic dental sentry. Its
bristles twitched, ready to spring between my
half-open lips and start brushing.
It seemed to know me, everything I had or hadn’t
done.
My brain curdled. I hadn’t brushed my teeth
after supper. My heart skipped a beat.
A faint hiss slithered through the halls:
“Floss before you cross.”
I froze, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple,
as the front door slammed shut behind me. A molar-shaped
lamp blinked in a frenzy. A bat swooped past,
fangs so brilliant they seemed to haunt my dental
hygiene.
I pressed one hand over my mouth. A toothbrush
judging me? Unacceptable.
Lightning burst through the broken window panes,
illuminating the closet bathroom in a single
violent flash. The toothbrush glowed.
A manacled ghost drifted by.
“Welcome,” it moaned. “Would you
like a tour or root canal?”
My eyes locked on the toothbrush and my stomach
dropped. “Wait. That’s mine. Why is it
here?!”
The apparition shrugged. “Eternity is long.
We’ve got standards.”
A vampire flapped furiously, dangling dental
floss like a spaghetti whip.
“Plaque is the real monster.”
“No one asked you,” the ghost muttered.
“Just saying,” said the vampire.
I didn’t dare argue.
The ghost floated past again, humming a dental
jingle.
A werewolf dashed by in blue-striped pyjamas,
nervously adjusting his floss. “Do I get
extra points for brushing twice?”
Even the toothbrush twitched in approval, like a
tiny coach giving me a thumbs-up. I considered
apologising for my poor brushing habits, but even
my tongue was negotiating a hasty retreat.
I edged toward the door, fingers trembling. If I
survive this, I’m brushing like my afterlife
depends on it.
From a room upstairs, a voice cried out:
“See you at your next checkup.”
I woke up with a start. Minty fresh and slightly
terrified.
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