The Mouth inside the Pillow

The mouth jutting out of the pillow had the teeth of a piranha, snapping its jaws, dripping thick, gooey yellow saliva, and making tiny squeaks that echoed like distant screams.

Squatting down in front of him, his father shook his head, the dark bags under his eyes deepening. Stephen had night terrors when he was nine, vivid, thrashing nightmares that lasted far longer than they should have, because his parents coddled him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake with his son. This was the fourth night in a row that Stephen had come into their room in the middle of the night, shaking them awake, trembling with tales of the same dream.

“It’s just another nightmare, Stephen,” his father said, his voice flat. “You need to get over these. I’ve told you a hundred times, dreams aren’t real, no matter how real they seem.”

“But I could smell its breath!” Stephen insisted, tears catching on his lashes. “The worst smell I’ve ever smelled. You can’t smell someone’s breath in a dream.”

“You can do anything in a dream,” his father snapped, a touch more sharply this time. “That’s how dreams work.”

“It is real!” Stephen shouted, waking his mother.

She stirred with a groan. “What is it now?”

“Go to sleep, Naomi,” his father said. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” Stephen cried. “It came back, Mom. The mouth was there again.”

“Yes, another visit from the mouth in the pillow,” his father said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Naomi sat up, groggy and irritable. She didn’t like being woken up any more than her husband did, but they’d talked that morning about his tough-love approach. Clearly, he wasn’t taking the softer tone they’d agreed on.

She sighed and reached for Stephen. “Honey, I got rid of that old pillow, remember? I bought you a new one. If there was a mouth in the pillow, it’s still in the one upstairs in the attic.”

“It’s in this one too!” Stephen wailed.

“It’s not in any pillow,” his father said, tapping his temple. “It’s inside here. You’ve got to get back to bed.”

“I’m not going back in there!”

“You need to go back to your room. I have work in the morning, and you’ve got school. Now, go!” his father shouted.

Stephen’s face crumpled, and he began to cry.

“Great job, Larry,” Naomi said, her voice dripping with disdain. “Come here, honey.”

Stephen rushed to her side, and she wrapped her arms around him, stroking his hair. “Listen,” she murmured. “What if we traded pillows? I’ll take the one with the mouth, and you can have mine. Just to be extra safe.”

Stephen’s tear-streaked face lifted. “You’d do that?”

“Of course I would.”

“But it’ll come for you,” he whispered. “It’ll get you too. And Dad.”

“There’s no—”

“Larry!” she snapped. “Honey, if the mouth comes out of the pillow, I’ll tell it to go brush all of its teeth, okay?”

Stephen gave a shaky nod.

Larry walked Stephen back to his room, flipping the light on. “See? Nothing here,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Stephen peered out from behind his father. His pillow sat there, innocuous and whole. “I don’t understand.”

Larry picked up the pillow and swapped it with the one he’d brought from his own bed. “It was a dream,” he said gruffly.

“B-but it was there,” Stephen stammered.

“It was a dream,” Larry repeated sharply, turning off the light and marching down the hall.

Stephen didn’t take any chances. He unrolled his sleeping bag, climbed inside, and zipped it over his head. He spent the rest of the night on the floor, clutching a flashlight, his heart thudding in his ears.

When Stephen woke, the world was too bright. Sunlight streamed through his window, and the clock read 10:35—far too late for a school day. He bolted upright, panic fluttering in his chest. “Mom?” he called. “Mom, do I have off today?”

Silence.

He threw back the sleeping bag and darted to the window. The streets were clear, the grass impossibly green. No snow, no signs of disaster. Just a perfect, sunny day.

“Mom?” he shouted again, louder this time. No response.

He tore through the house. The kitchen, the living room, the dining room—empty. He stood at the top of the basement stairs and called for her again. Nothing but silence answered.

When he checked the driveway, her car sat parked as usual.

“You have off from school today?” Aunt Rosie’s voice called from across the fence. Her yappy dog barked incessantly, pacing behind her.

“I think the school burned down,” Stephen said, his voice tinged with desperation.

“Didn’t hear no sirens,” she replied, her brow furrowing. “Seen your mom?”

“No,” he said, the unease rising in his chest. “She’s not here.”

“She’s probably busy with something,” Aunt Rosie said dismissively.

Stephen went back inside, his breath quickening. The house felt wrong, too still. A cold dread crept up his spine as he climbed the stairs. His parents’ door was ajar, and he could see their feet sticking out from under the covers.

“Mom? Dad?” he called softly.

No answer.

He stepped into the room, and his stomach lurched. Where their heads should have been was a gory, crimson pool, the blood still dripping faintly onto the floor.

Stephen stumbled back, his legs weak. A low, wet gurgle filled the air. He turned to the bed, his eyes locking on his pillow. The seams bulged grotesquely, and a sharp, muffled snapping began—chattering teeth. Yellow goo seeped out, pooling on the mattress.

“Stephen,” the pillow whispered, its voice wet and guttural. “Come closer.”

He bolted from the house, his sleeping bag clutched like a cape over his shoulders.

When the police found him an hour later, he was three blocks away, walking down the middle of the street, barefoot and silent, his eyes wide and glassy. Behind him, a faint trail of yellow saliva dotted the pavement.

About the Author

Tom Busillo’s writing has appeared on McSweeney’s and PANK., with additional work forthcoming in Calliope and Weird Lit. He lives in Philadelphia, PA , but grew up in South Jersey where as a child he was afraid of the mysterious glowing head in the mirror until roughly age 18. His favorite otherworldly entity is the Jersey Devil.