The Tooth Fairy Killer Is Taking Appointments

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Now in your filial. Alrighty, who does filiala?

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Dr. Nicely. Dr. Richter, hooked a small plastic suction hose onto the corner of the mouth in front of him. He'd made a gurgling sound as it sucked the patient saliva. A bit wider.

Richter said, "Really? The mouth was open wide enough, but the doctor wanted to see how wide that hole could get. The skin around the patient's teeth stretched.

It always did when he asked them to open more.

It did nothing, of course, except, contoured their face. He liked that."

“Finally, when the skin was stretched enough, he could see the hanging uvela in the back”

of the throat flex, bubbles of saliva clung to the bag of flesh like spider's eggs. Some had two back there. Bifid. It was called. Today's patient wasn't so blessed, but the familiar sound of the ifsophagus clicking

as it stretched just made a bit of him smile under his blue mask. That's it. The patient's mouth opened, perhaps, a millimeter more, maybe not at all, but he didn't care. The welcome tunnel at the back of the throat was lit well by the overhead light.

He reached a hand to one of the handles that stuck out from the side of the light and made a small adjustment. The hose babbled nicely as it sucked at fresh spit, and Richter watched the throat contract as the patient tried to open mouth swallow. Richter took a long handled mirror from the silver tray beside him and placed it into

the mouth. The sterilized metal clicked as it tapped teeth. He saw the patient wins, well, if they would just stop the damn fidgeting that wouldn't happen. He lifted the mirror and looked at the roof of the mouth in a circular reflection.

A perfect hump of plaque was embedded behind the front teeth. The side of the opalus and mound made his throat tighten. He felt his hand was trembling when he reached for a pick, but of course, he was as still as eyes. He was a professional.

He was damned good. If only he could say the same for the bodies that squirmed and heaved on the chair in front of him all day. He scraped the pick against the plaque and watched it chip away and fall onto the tongue. He breathed sharply, and his patient did too, though for entirely different reasons.

He scraped and scraped, excavating that beautiful clump of mineralized bacteria, watching as it fell away piece by piece. The tongue flipped and flopped as it maneuvered the debris toward the hose where it sucked up on sticky waves of fresh saliva. He could see ribbons of dark red in the excretions, sensitive gums, bleeding gums.

He always gave tips about preventing this, but it was mostly bullshit.

Anyways, it added a magnificent contrast to the fleshy bages and pallet pinks that shifted behind yellowing teeth. He scraped and he prodded and he cleaned and inspected and worked under the harsh light. Slowly the teeth shut their yellow coating and their true color came through, like tea that hadn't been given time to steep.

The patient held their ridiculous bib to their chest, and sipped from an equally ridiculous tiny cup, and spit into a tiny sink. Their pink discharge spun down the drain, and thank yous were given, and how's your this and how's your that?

“Richter didn't remember this one's name by the time they left the office, but he remembered”

the way the tongue rolled just so against the left cheek, and all the hose had done extra duty to keep up with the saliva pooling in the back of the throat. Dr. Richter's house was fine. It sat midway along one row among many in a designed community that was just far enough from the city that you could tell people you were from there, without having to deal with

city things. He sat in his living room, it was spacious and the vaulted ceiling held two fans that spun gently, pushing conditioned air around the space. He was reclined on a grey couch, and the TV was tuned to the local news. "The two fairy killer is still in large."

Drowned the TV. The newsman's makeup was piled on thick, and Richter's lip curled when the anchors oversized

"Another victim was found to cabinet it had been their own, third of the bone that will

be relayed as we receive it." Richter leaned forward. "What the fuck? That's all?

“How many stupid letters did he have to send to these damn people before they got it?”

He shook a small jar, and the rattling calmed him. He looked at the jar and the teeth inside were piled like oblong golf balls, exactly six. He shook the jar again and watched as the teeth bounced against the glass. The news had moved on, and the TV was rambling on about some new statue in some old

park. Richter clicked the power button on the remote.

He pushed himself to his feet and slipped the jar into his pocket, a painting on the

wall, an abstract pulled fresh off the shelf at the home good store, came down easily. He leaned it against the wall under the safe it concealed. The dial clicked as he turned it right, left, right again, and then the bolt snapped free on the final left turn. He opened it.

Block boxes were neatly stacked, two by two, and Richter pulled one from the safe and carried it to the couch.

“He placed it on a square coffee table, sat down, pulled a towel from the arm of the”

sofa, and placed it across his lap. The box was black, and he could feel his toes flex as he reached out and opened it. He pulled out a jar, inside, floating in amber liquid, was a human head. He unscrewed the top of the jar, and this scent, performed a hide, floated to his nose. He curled his toes again, and reached his hand into the jar.

Out came the head, and he laid it gently in his lap. He dried it with the tail of the towel, slowly running the white cloth across the waxy skin. The preservation was perfect, but at the cost of the warmth that was only there when he cut the head fresh from the body, but still, it was beautiful.

He ran a finger under the lips, and felt the teeth slide under his touch like cobblestones. He pulled the bottom row of teeth, and felt the hinges at the jaw shift as the mouth opened. He pulled more, and the mouth opened wider. It was remarkable. The way a human jaw could stretch and open, if only given a bit of help.

“The skin of the cheeks was plenty flexible to accommodate, and he opened the jaws wide enough”

to slip a grapefruit between the teeth. He reached down, and adjusted himself through his pants. The throat was dead. The uvella was stuck to the side of the esophagus, and the tongue sat like a plump, gray slug.

He remembered when it was alive, when the tongue slipped and waved, and the throat flexed, and the whole opened and closed, like an eye winking at him, like it shared their private moment.

He reached a hand under the skull and fished the first and second finger against the tissue

at its base, until he felt them sink inside. The esophagus was not cold, of course. The head was room temperature, but it felt cold compared to the thick, moist tunnel it had been when fresh. He slid his fingers deeper and could feel the flesh of the throat squeezing in on him, filling

the gaps between his fingers. It spread open as he pushed deeper. His thighs were hot, as he saw the first tremble of movement inside the open mouth. His eyes were wide, and his own mouth was open, just enough to let his heavy breath move freely.

He felt the familiar givet the tips of his probing fingers, and his breath came in gasps, as he watched them emerge from the inside of the mouth. He circled them and watched, as the throat opened, and he could feel the uveal on the sides of his fingers. He curled them gently until he felt the bumps of taste buds.

He watched his fingers, as they caressed the large buds the back of the tongue, and then moved slowly towards the delicate bulbs at the front. He stroked at the tongue, and watched his fingers through the mouth until he was satisfied, and then slid them slowly out of the bottom of the skull. The tight squeeze on his fingers made his breath quicken, and the slight suction pop release

as he freed them, caused a small moan to fall from his lips. He rested his hands on his hips at either side of the gate mouth to head, and leaned his head back against the sofa. Then the house shook, and was violent, and the head rolled from his lap and onto the floor. Again, a tremor tore through the house.

The fans rattled in their fixtures, and the safe store slammed on its hinges. Not the fuck. He scooped the head from the floor as another tremor came. He tripped and fell to his knees. He tried to catch the jar as it tumbled off the table, but it thud in next to where he

knelt, spilling pungent liquid onto the carpet. He grabbed it, trying to contain as much of the formaldehyde as possible, and clumsily shoved the head inside. He stood and put the half empty jar into the black box as he moved to the safe.

He turned and leaned against the safe.

The house was still again.

“He pulled his phone from his pocket, and clicked the news feed.”

Nothing. He dragged his finger down the screen, and still nothing. No service. He checked his wifi, also out. What the fuck?

The house shook again. This time more violently than before, and one of the ceiling vans dislodged. It shattered onto the floor next to Richter. He ran to the door, flung it open, and stepped into chaos. Pelacopters flew overhead, heading east toward downtown, and his neighbors were carrying

armfills of children to their cars. "Hey!" He called down. Some alarm siren that he didn't know existed began to whale. He could barely hear his own voice.

"Hey!" He called again.

“They may not have heard his words, but his left hand neighbor paused, and they knew what he”

wanted, they pointed toward the end of the road, and Richter looked. The shadow that stood in silhouette against the twilight sky was as large as any mountain he had seen, larger even, and then it moved. The ground shook. Richter tried to gauge how far away the thing was, but the scale was impossible.

Carl Armstrong's blared under the screech of the siren, and his knees shook, as the earth trembled again. Surely it was near the city center, but he couldn't see the skyline from his house. What he couldn't see the terrible thing. The clouds moved, they moved past whatever it was.

They were thick and white and heavy with rain, and they passed beneath the shoulders of the giant. Tonight is snapped into Richter's ears, and his knees softened, he needed to sit. He did, on the curb outside his suburban new build, his neighbors rushing like cats from wherever to wherever.

He put his hands up to his ears, and flexed his jaw to try and silence the ringing. Slowly it faded.

“He looked again, still sitting there, his hands wrapped around his knees, and it was still”

there. A shadow looming above the clouds. He felt something in the back of his skull, something primal.

Not what he felt when he finally had his victims under the knife, not the feeling of a predator

playing with his prey. Now, his brain squeezed at him and he felt small. The fear of prey, smaller than prey, the feeling of an ant, if they could feel anything, staring up at an elephant for the first time. A memory came to him, something about the Aztecs or the Inkins, seeing ships coming over

the horizon for the first time. About how it was so incomprehensible that their minds tricked them into seeing nothing. Bullshit, utter fucking bullshit. He knew what they felt now, and it wasn't terror, it wasn't fear. Well, it was those things, but the name them so simply was foolish.

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reality a second thought.

You were simply in the way, if you were anything at all, and then a second thought came, it pushed the fear away and rested behind his squinting eyes. He was annoyed, he stood, and brushed off the seat of his pants. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the jar. He rattled the teeth inside, and held them in front of his face.

The jar covered the thing on the horizon. He still had work to do, and now this goddamn thing had showed up, and how would anyone know of his work now? Sure they would all be focused on this giant. Without anyone even received the letters he had sent, got damn it.

He realized the ground was still, and had been for some time, and he went back into the house. He needed to think. He suppose he could continue on his own. This is without any recognition, but surely that weakened at the work.

below the tables they had fallen from.

“The screeching wine was still loud in his home.”

He was fucking sirens. He kicked it whatever was by his feet, and a copy of Moby Dick flew into the wall. The Earth shook again, and again, the windows in the living room shattered, and shards of glass and splinters of wood sprayed onto the floor. Richter covered his eyes, shit.

He had to get out of there, that thing was moving, he knew it. Somehow it was moving, and it was coming closer, and the Earth was shuddering beneath whatever it was it walked on. He ran to his room as the house shook. He pulled a black duffle bag from his closet, and went to the safe.

He unlocked it swiftly.

He watched his hands as they spun the dial, and was amazed at how they were, as still

and precise as ever. He shoved the black boxes into the black bag.

“He couldn't zip it closed, but he gave a shit.”

He ran from the house and into the chaos again. He opened the door of his M series and tossed the bag across the console, and into the passenger seat. He winced, as he heard the jars clinking as they rattled inside their cases. He sat in the driver's seat, pressed the ignition, sipped out of the driveway, and laid

heavily on the horn. No use with the sirens wailing, as he weaved between SUVs and minivans. He broke free from the suburban traffic when he pulled out of the cul-de-sac, and turned onto the main road, he pulled onto an overpass, which was somehow deserted, and slowed his car to a crawl.

He looked down at the highway, and saw cars stopped bumper to bumper, heading away from whatever it was that loomed and walked and existed. But the other lane was free, an empty, asphalt vein that reached toward the thing, and something in Richter's brain itched, and it pulled, and he found himself pressing the

“gas down hard, and pulling onto that empty road, he would see the terror for himself.”

It was a straight shot into the city now, 20 to 30 minutes at a good clip on clear roads, and the road in front of Dr. Richter was certainly clear. The beast loomed, and it was still now. He saw the city skyline and the tallest skyscrapers barely reached. What?

It's knees? It was still a shadow to Richter's eyes, and whatever form it had, he couldn't tell. But it had moved, he knew that much from the terrible shaking of the earth, and now, utter destruction slowly manifests it as he gained on the city. Smoke rose and great clouds from piles of rubble that must have been there, the dirt and

debris still floating in the air made it impossible to tell. Pelicopters ripped over his head as he drove. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but he drove, and slowly, the destruction surrounded him. It was like pictures he had seen of Hiroshima and Nagasaki after the bombs, the debris thickened and the road disappeared.

He stopped the car in front of a fallen telephone pole and turned the engine off. The sirens had stopped, and whatever street he was on, fifth street maybe, but it might have been ninth, was quiet. The sounds of emergency vehicles, helicopters and car horns could be heard, of course, somewhere else not far away.

But somehow he'd found an island of calm amongst the mayhem. He reached into his pocket and rolled the jar in his hands as he looked out at the scene. The telephone pole had fallen across two sedans that had collided in the middle of the road. The airbags had burst in both, but no bodies were inside. Richter found himself disappointed by that, and then he felt disgust.

Disgusted himself as a scavenger, picking up the scraps left behind by whatever that abomination above him was. He looked up, and there it was, of course, still standing above the clouds.

It was amazing how fast his mind compartmentalised the thing, how fast it'd be on part

of the scenery that he could ignore, another skyscraper, another block of office buildings. He left his car and stepped into the street. The emptiness was like a fog. Of course, there was shit all over the place, buildings crumbled into mounds of rubble, cars destroyed or abandoned, trash floating on a light wind like tumbleweed, but it was silent.

He walked, picking his way over a smaller pile of shattered concrete, pulling himself along by bent spikes of rebar. The other side of the hill was more of the same, the gray waste of a shattered city. A bus lay maroon overturned like a dead elephant. Here he saw the first signs that the city had been alive.

The buses windows were shattered and bodies leaned out, destroyed, and dead. The rear emergency door was opened, and more bodies were crammed into the opening. The bus was a coffin for the ones who didn't make it out when the stamp heat kicked off. He looked up at the beast and squinted against the sun that blazed over its shoulder. Why had the damn thing gone quiet?

It was even more of a mountain now than before, standing still under the blue sky.

away as pressure built in his temples.

“He walked to the bus, and knelt by a pile of bodies slammed in a shattered window.”

A middle-aged man seemed to have lucked out in the struggle, almost. He'd nearly made it out before the pressing mass crushed him alive. He hung out of the window face up, dangling down from his shattered waste, his arms hanging. Richter looked down at the dead man's face. The eyes were half rolled back in the jaw hung open, upside down and crooked.

Richter slipped three fingers into the man's mouth, a tight fit, and massaged the ridges of the corpse's pallet. He ran his own tongue across his own pallet while he felt the ridges bump under his fingers. He felt the familiar heat rise from his thighs to his throat.

He coughed gently as the feeling hit the back of his mouth, but then a second wave came.

This time the return of disgust, and he pulled his hand from the dead man's mouth and wiped it against his pants. This was not how it was supposed to go. He walked away from the bus, picking his way between debris. He felt the pull back to the man he had been inside.

It was like a rubber band stretching tight, pulling harder and harder as he moved further and further. But he kept going, and eventually the band snapped and he was free.

“It was a small voice, perfectly pathetic, and it reached out to him from inside what used”

to be a drugstore as he passed by. He stopped, and again the voice struggled out of the collapsed building. The hairs on his neck stood erect, and he felt the edges of adrenaline pushing in. His vision sharpened, and he swore he could smell blood on the breeze. He went through the opening that had been doors.

His feet crunched piles of glass, as he moved between overturned shelves of shampoos and

moisturizers. "Hello?" He shouted. "It's okay, you're not alone, say something, I can follow your voice." "Oh, thank God."

The voice had some pepper in it now. He could feel the relief, and that made his heart pound in his chest. He moved toward it, a bag of potato chips popped under his foot as he picked his way through drugstore litter. "It's okay, you're going to be okay, I'm a doctor."

The words "Grip Duff" is tongue-like honey. The voice was weak again, but he could hear it coming from behind a door toward the back of the shop. He was close, and he opened it. A youngish man laid on his back, one hand gripping and pushing on his thigh.

The other resting limp by his side. He looked scared, and Dr. Ripter drank in the man's wide pleading eyes. "They got, they got." The voice was fast and panicked. "Shush, it's okay, what's your name?"

Ripter knelt next to the man. "Phil, Phil, you can call me Phil." The panic was draining away, and the voice was slower. Ripter could have that effect on people when he wanted, and right now that is exactly what he wanted.

Ripter smiled at the man. "Well, Phil, I'd say you got yourself into a bit of a mess, huh?" He held a hand above Phil's still legs. "Do you mind if I touch you here?" "I'll go ahead, Doc.

Can't feel." He groans and wences. "Shit down there, anyways." "Well, let's have a look." Ripter placed both hands on Phil's thigh and squeezed.

He squeezed hard. He could feel the muscles of the leg compress under his hands, and when he had a firm grip, he shifted his hands back and forth, and could feel the broken femur sliding inside the flesh of the leg. "A bit of a break here," Ripter said, and under statement to say the least, the man's

femur was annihilated. It was absolutely remarkable director that the pair of them could have a little chat while he twisted and pulled at the leg. "Can you feel this?" Ripter dug in deep.

He felt the shards of bone cutting flesh with their broken, sought toothed edges. He pushed harder and could picture splinters stabbing their way through muscle. "Like I said, Doc, nothing can't feel a thing." Ripter could kill the man. He could twist his hands and pull the bones, and a little neck in the femoral would be

enough. Phil's vision would fade, and Ripter could watch as the dying man tried to figure out what was happening. It was a pleasant thought, but it wasn't the work. He pulled his hands from the leg.

"And how did you end up in this cozy little knock?" Phil's mouth twitched into a smile. It looked painful.

"I was working the register when shit really started ripping the small shakes at first.

I just tried to hold the place together. The next thing I know, I'm waking up under a slab of something concrete, I guess.

“And I don't remember much, but I dragged myself back here, figured it was better than”

out there at least. You figured right. That bad, huh? Looks like hell out there." "Well, what do we do now, Doc?

Tell me about it.

I thought I was done for.

Oh, no, Phil."

“Ripter could feel the rising heat again, and the way his vision turned vivid and the colors”

of the world became more vibrant. It filled his arms with goose bumps. "I'm not here to save you." "What?" Phil tried to push himself back, but his arms were uselessly weak, and his face contorted

from the pain that shot, from wherever he could still feel. Ripter sat down against the wall across from Phil. He picked a handful of marble-sized drywall off the floor, and tossed a piece at the wall across from him. Phil flinched as it peaked near his face.

"Do you have any hobbies, Phil?" "What the fuck are you talking about, man?" Spit flew from Phil's lips as he spoke, the panic was back now.

“"You know, things you like to do, not work, not for money, but still important."”

"Well, more important than just making a living, I'd say." Phil just stared. Rector tossed another pebble, and Phil flinched again. "Come on, Phil. There's got to be something." "I don't know. I mean, I don't know. Fishing. I like to fish." Rector could hear the confusion in Phil's voice.

The panic was still there, but it was hidden behind something else. This sometimes happened. Rector could see when hope snuck back into people's minds. If they could just play along a bit, something would go right. The cops would kick down the door, maybe, or Rector would change his mind.

"Yeah. That never happened. None of that ever happens."

"Fishing. That's pretty good. I went to line from time to time myself. I tried to get down to the keys to get after Tarpen down again. Dentists and fly fishing." "To chocolate on yourself. I guess some things are just meant to be. Dentists? Yes, Phil. Dentists." "You said you were a doctor." Rector liked when they became bold.

“It was as if their situation was so incomprehensible that the only thing next was to give”

it a try. "Yes, Phil. Dentists are doctors. He actually wasn't upset about the doctor Dentist's doctor stuff. It was just not where the conversation was to go." "Phil. Back to the fishing. How do you feel about it now?" "I mean, after that thing out there. Rector waved his hand around in the air." "Just let me go, man. I won't say shit. Just go on out of here and I'll figure something

out." "Have you heard of the tooth very killer? The fucking what?" "No. Come on. Just go. I swear I won't say shit." Rector's veins felt icy. He somehow was not surprised by this response. The work had just begun, but still. "Well, Phil. I have a hobby as well." Rector stood as he spoke, letting the pebbles fall from his hands as he stepped towards Phil. Phil's eyes were wide and wet,

and when he spoke, fear spread into the little room, and Rector breathed it in. "Wait. Come on. Now. Just hang on. Do you know how many teeth you have, Phil? "Fucking teeth?" "No. I don't. 32. Give her take. Depends on how you're counting. And each of those sits nicely in their place, don't they?" "Come on, man. What do you want, money?" The thought of bribery would have tickled Rector on any day. They often tried that, and

of course, it never worked. But now, with that thing blocking the sky outside, the thought

of money nearly made him laugh. He was almost on top of Philip. "You see here, and you're neck?" Rector pressed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand against either side of his own neck. "Jugular veins. Of course, you know if these are cut. You are dead in seconds." He paused to enjoy Philip's expression, confusion bumping into fear. "But they also pump blood to your brain. People imagine strangulation chokes evictive to death. And sure, it can. But

that is messy. Just a bit of pressure here and here. Again, he indicates the thick arteries climbing up the sides of the neck. And the lights fade. And you simply never wake up. Philip tried to back away again, but his battered arms couldn't shift his paralyzed body. He looked up at Rector and Rector looked down at him. "Well, anyways. Good chat, Philip." Rector lashed his arms out like snakes, and his hands gripped Phil's throat. He held them

there firmly, but did not squeeze. He liked the next part quite a bit. "No, no, no. Wait, wait." Then he squeezed. A slow, steady pressure that ground Philips words into a flummy moan. And then silence. Rector didn't care about Phil's wide eyes anymore. He looked into his gasping mouth. He could feel pressure against his hands as Philip tried to force Aaron to his throat, as he desperately tried to get his vocal cords to vibrate

of the compressed esophagus pulsed like a stopped pump. He squeezed his hands tighter,

“and watched the color drain from the gums that held rows of beige teeth. And then a new”

sound came. It intruded from outside, and he felt it pressed into his ears. That thing, that beast, that mountain of something that stood like a tumor outside somewhere, was blaring some terrible fanfare. The sound was a disowned, felt thick, and it seat through his ears. It slid into his nose. It filled his sinuses, and he felt his bones vibrate. Merrow pulsed inside calcium shells. He squeezed his hands tighter. That fucking thing!

It wouldn't take this from him. He looked down into Philips mouth, deep into the black

cave, so live a drip from the roof like crystalline stalagmites, the tongue rolled until

“it stiffened. The monsters call rip deeper into Rector. Pressure pushed behind his eyes,”

and he felt something give somewhere in his face. Fick, red blood ripped from his nose, and splashed against the rows of teeth that trembled below him. They were wider somehow now, and bright red blood splashed against them in heavy droplets like acid rain. The pressure was excruciating. His head felt, as if it were inflating like a child's balloon, and the face below him twisted into a kaleidoscope of light and red. He squeezed his

hands tighter as the blood ripped from his nose. He watched the kaleidoscope fade to gray. He clenched his teeth and squeezed harder. Blood dripped and he squeezed, and he squeezed.

“His stretching lips twisted into a blood-drenched grin as he watched the light fade from”

the eyes that stared up at him, and his own vision pinched to black. They found him a day later, lying in that room next to Philips corpse. He was unconscious

and blood soaked. It's amazing how much blood and nose bleed can force out of the human

body. They put him on a stretcher, and he remembered words of encouragement coming through the fog of his broken mind. But consciousness came in waves. They brought him to a survivor's camp miles away from the city, but as he gained his strength and mind, he learned that there were many of those things. They had appeared all over. And now they were still. Each standing like a freshly-birthed mountain, and whatever place they

settled. To be honest, it didn't matter much to him. He preferred to ignore them, and he spent his time recovering. His head slowly cleared and the pressure in his skull faded day by day. It was pleasant enough in camp. It was a makeshift, but quite well supplied. He watched a film on Tuesdays and 8 until he was satisfied every night. But now he stood in his own new space. His office, if he could call it that, the word had spread that

he was a dentist. And a camp of survivors of victims could use all the medical help he could get. He was quite happy to oblige. It was a good space. A heavy walled tent lit by hanging lamps, and there was an honest-to-god dentist chair in the center, salvaged from one place or another. And in that chair, sat a patient, a bib, fastened, nicely around their neck. Victor looked down at the mouth, and the hanging lights cast an amber glow against the pale skin.

He could see the tips of the teeth between resting lips. His blood warmed, and his own lips curled behind his mask. "Open wide," he said, and he hooked a hose to the corner of the whitening hole. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed this story, be sure to follow or subscribe, and share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.