Whisper House Press

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Mother Knows Best

by Ben Matthews

“It could kill someone. Think about that!” Mrs. Ellis returns her attention to her cup of coffee, selects the tiny silver spoon on the saucer beside it, and stirs its contents. 

The tiny utensil is made of pure, gleaming silver. Mrs. Ellis does not look up at me. She stares at her cup, stirring. stirring. Her eyes follow the spoon, around and around. She holds the spoon upright. Pushes it in front of my face like a tiny silver STOP sign. 

Mrs. Ellis uses the spoon to transfer sugar from an ornate silver bowl to her cup. Then she stabs the spoon into a dish of clotted cream. She stabs and twists, excising a perfect marble of yellow cream, and drops it in her cup.

Clink!

 She stares at her cup, stirring, stirring.

Finally, Mrs. Ellis sighs. “I hope I am not asking too much.” She places the spoon on her saucer.

Clink!

She sips from her coffee.

I take a sip from my water bottle. 

Council policy says we must never accept food and/or beverages from people when we visit their homes. It is still rude that Mrs. Ellis does not offer, especially when I have to sit through her five-minute coffee-making routine. 

Mrs. Ellis sits, stiff as a store mannequin.

I take a deep breath. You do not make someone watch you prepare and drink your coffee unless you are playing mind games. 

“The hedges are an eyesore. And they are dangerous.” She said.

“It’s fine. As I said, we’ve—”

“It is an accident waiting to happen. There is no visibility on that corner.”

“Mm.”

“You are sure you cannot do any more?”

“We’ve issued them a notice. They have two weeks to respond.”

“Two weeks is a long time.”

An orange tabby slinks into the room. It skirts around the table, away from Mrs. Ellis, and lands between my feet. The pet looks up at me with a single green eye. In place of the other is a pink, ragged scar. 

Mrs. Ellis scowls. “Winston! Go away! Shoo!” She stabs the tiny spoon at the cat.

Winston flees the room. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He really should know better.”

“It’s okay. I like cats. My uncle used to have one like him, poor thing.”

“Poor thing?”

“It got its eye scratched out by another cat, too.”

Mrs. Ellis purses her lips. “Two weeks is too long.”

Clink!

The spoon lands on its saucer. 

“People have no respect for the rules anymore.”

I take a long, slow breath. There is no hazard. There is plenty of room on the road.

“No respect at all,” she repeats.

“Please be aware we will address it appropriately,” I said.

My job is to ensure that homeowners are compliant with maintaining their properties. Somehow, it has devolved into pleasing the Mrs. Ellises of the world. 

Mrs. Ellis picks up her spoon again and carves a circle in the air before her. Somewhere at the front of the house, a door slams.

“Door!” she snaps. 

A boy’s voice responds, “Sorry, Mother.”

“We are in the tearoom!” she calls back. Then, to me: “People need to show some damned respect for the rules.”

“I can ask that this case be prioritized,” I said.

Mrs. Ellis points her spoon at me. Looks me straight in the eye. “You’re not just saying that?”

“No.” 

“I hope not!”

“Hi, Mother. Good afternoon, sir!” A boy of about ten stands in the doorway. Over his left eye is a black leather eye patch. Just a normal ten-year-old boy.

With only one eye! I look away, quickly.

“Hello, Christian. Give your mother a kiss.” She puckers her sour lips at him.

Christian obeys.

“Now, go to your room and do your homework. Understand?”

“Yes, Mother,” he turns to me. “Good afternoon, sir!”

I nod, looking anywhere but his eyepatch. Mrs. Ellis has her damned spoon poised in her fingers again. She raises it to her lips, pushes her pale white tongue out, and presses the side of the spoon’s bowl to it. A bead of blood appears on her tongue. The edges of the silver utensil are razor-sharp. Tenderly, Mrs. Ellis scoops the single drop of blood, a ruby in the bowl, and locks eyes with me. “I do not like disobedient boys. Disobedient boys grow up to be dishonest men. I hope you are not lying to me. My Christian used to tell lies, but now he is the perfect angel. Don’t you think?”

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Ben Matthews is a physiotherapist who completed a Master of Writing through Swinburne University in 2021. He is a contributor to the Killer Creatures: Horror Stories with Bite Horror Anthology, Spawn 2: More Weird Tales About Pregnancy, Birth, and Babies, and a finalist in Dark Regions: Survive the Night horror writing competition. When he is not writing, he is drawing, or riding his unicycle. He lives in Perth with his amazing wife who thinks horror stories are silly. Check out his website: https://bjcmatthews.wixsite.com/ben-matthews-author