The Flipping Tongue

Mara had lived in the same apartment for years, a creaky old flat in a converted Victorian house on a quiet street in Edmonton. The landlord was cheap, the pipes groaned, and the floors slanted just enough to make you feel off-balance if you walked too fast. But it was home, and after a decade, she knew every crack in the ceiling and every sigh of the building.

She woke, as she often did, at three in the morning, her bladder insistent. She padded across the cold hardwood to the bathroom, flicking on the light and squinting against the glare. The toilet seat was cold. She did her business, washed her hands in the lukewarm water, and flicked off the light, plunging the hallway back into darkness. She navigated by memory, her feet feeling the familiar dip in the floor just before her bedroom door.

She slipped back under the covers, settling into the warmth her body had left behind. She closed her eyes, willing herself back to sleep. Her breathing slowed. Her muscles relaxed. And then she felt it: something thin and warm and *alive* slide between her lips. It began to move, a rapid, twisting motion, like a tiny tongue exploring her mouth, but it was too long, too flexible, and it didn’t taste like anything she knew.

Startled, she moved her jaw, clenching her teeth, trying to get rid of it. The thing withdrew as suddenly as it had come, leaving her mouth tingling. She lay rigid, her heart thumping. She told herself it was a muscle spasm, a weird nerve twitch. She tried to relax again.

Then it came back. This time, it entered with more purpose. It twirled, faster and faster, its tip flicking against her cheeks and the roof of her mouth. And then it did something impossible: it flipped upside down, pressing hard against her upper teeth, the underside scraping her gums. The pressure was sharp, almost painful, and she felt a strange suction, as if it were trying to pull something from her jaw.

Mara’s eyes snapped open. She sat up, sputtering, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Nothing there. Her boyfriend, Leo, slept soundly beside her, his breathing deep and even. She wanted to wake him, but she was too frozen, too afraid to speak, lest the thing find its way back. She pulled the blanket over her head and buried her face in the crook of Leo’s arm, her body shaking in the dark.

She stayed like that until the first gray light of dawn seeped through the blinds. Her mouth still felt strange, a lingering tingle, a phantom pressure. She never told Leo. She never slept without a pillow over her face again. But sometimes, in the dead of night, she would wake with her mouth dry and the faint taste of copper, wondering what had been inside her, and whether it was still waiting for her to open up. She never found out.