Horrid 27. The Postman Only Delivers Teeth

The bell didn’t ring. It never does. There is only the sound of a heavy, wet thwack against the porch—the sound of a saturated envelope hitting wood.

I waited until the shadow of the mail carrier retreated past the gate. He is a tall, reed-thin man who moves with a disjointed, clicking gait, his uniform a shade of blue so dark it looks like a bruise. He doesn't carry a bag; he carries a lead-lined bucket.

I opened the door and picked up the mail. The envelope was translucent, soaked through with a clear, foul-smelling enzyme that made my skin itch instantly. I tore it open.

There was no letter. There were teeth.

Dozens of them. Molars still rooted in bits of jawbone, bicuspids with jagged, fresh breaks, and tiny, milk-white incisors that could only belong to a child. They were warm. I dropped them, and they clattered across the floor like dice. That’s when I saw the return address. It was my own. But the date on the postmark was tomorrow.

I ran to the mirror and pulled back my lips. My reflection was fine, but as I watched, my gums began to throb with a sickening, rhythmic heat. One by one, my teeth didn't just fall out—they were ejected. They shot from my mouth with the force of bullets, snapping against the glass of the mirror, leaving bloody craters in my jaw.

I fell to my knees, gagging on the copper taste of my own dissolving mouth, watching as the "Postman" paused at the end of the driveway. He turned his head—180 degrees, his neck snapping like dry kindling—and smiled a wide, toothless hole at me. He reached into his bucket, pulled out a handful of my bloody molars, and dropped them into a new envelope addressed to the house next door.

The mail must go through. And tomorrow, I’ll be the one providing the postage.