Horrid 2. A Mouth Full of Stolen Teeth

It started with a rattle in the bathroom sink—a sound like dry corn hitting porcelain. I looked down and saw a molar, perfectly white, yet roots still dripping with a black, oily bile. Then another fell. By noon, my gums were a landscape of empty, weeping craters. But the horror wasn't the loss; it was the replacement. By midnight, the craters began to itch with a frantic, burrowing heat. I looked in the mirror and screamed, but the sound was muffled by a forest of ivory.

Hundreds of teeth—jagged, mismatched, and stained with the yellow tobacco of a stranger or the tiny milk-whiteness of a child—were erupting from my gums, my tongue, and the roof of my mouth. They weren't mine. I could feel the faded memories of their previous owners vibrating in my jaw: a woman’s last prayer, a boy’s bite into a sour apple. My mouth wouldn't close. The pressure was bone-snapping. As I struggled to breathe, I realized the teeth were still hungry for the lives they had been stolen from, and my own tongue was being pushed down my throat to make room for the banquet.