The Dentist’s Smile

In a bygone time, he was a dentist. Back when alcohol was the only anesthetic and treatment felt more like torture. When one might see on a table at their side a pair of pliers, a handsaw, and an assortment of other tools which seemed better suited for a construction yard than human teeth.

To those who live in my town, he's known simply as The Dentist. A mythical figure from centuries past. But, he is more than myth. He was alive once, and now, he lives again.

What makes him such a unique character are the circumstances in which he ended his career. He'd been working on a young woman one afternoon who'd been plagued with an awful, reoccurring toothache, poking and prodding at her teeth with a metal curette, when something changed in his eyes. According to the woman, he looked as if his soul were pushed aside and something else had taken its place. Something evil.

He began to incessantly scrape at her tooth in a quick back and forth motion as if trying to burrow into the tooth's core.

"What are you doing?" She mumbled, and receiving no answer, she ordered him to stop. But, still, he continued to scrape until finally, she kicked him away and hurried to the door. "What is wrong with you?!" She cried.

The Dentist silently turned his head toward her, swapped the curette with a pair of scissors, and to her horror, began cutting his lips from his face.

The woman had seen enough and promptly fled from the building, warning others along the way.

It is from these others that the story continues, particularly from a local veteran, who, having seen a great deal of mental anguish and suffering in his time, felt himself to be just the man needed to help The Dentist through what seemed to be a clear nervous breakdown. But, when this man did bravely storm the office, what he found was The Dentist, wild-eyed and bloodied, teeth no longer hidden behind flesh, now exposed in a wide, permanent smile.

"Dear God… What have you done to yourself?" The man muttered.

The Dentist did not speak. He stepped toward the man, and like the woman before him, the man, too, fled, warning others as he went.

Out the building The Dentist eventually went, past frightened onlookers who peered from behind windows and cover, and to the nearby woods, where he was last seen entering with a leather roll of dental tools and a wide, bloody smile.

Two hundred years have gone by since then, and although it has been agreed on by all that The Dentist must be long dead, a reluctance to enter the woods has remained rooted in each generation of townsfolk. But, it is a tendency of teenagers to test legends, be it for the rush of a good scare or the arrogance of youth, as it was for my friends and me many years ago.

We entered the woods that afternoon, hauling camping gear for an overnight adventure. There were three of us — me, Dean, and Sandy.

Dean was the skeptic, saying things like, "I hope we do see The Dentist. I need a good cleaning." While Sandy was the believer, warning Dean to "watch his mouth." Literally.

Me? I was the agnostic. Whatever the truth, I wasn't expecting anything bad to happen. Worst case, we would have a spooky ghost story… which also happened to be the best case, I thought.

How naive.

By sundown, we had found a spot and were set up for the night. Fire crackling, marshmallows roasting, beers being sipped away from the prying eyes of parents. It did not take long for us to lose sight of what first drew us into the woods. Even Sandy was at ease.

As the moon reached its peak amidst the stars and began its slow descent, Dean yawned and slid into his tent, drunk and tired.

"One down," I laughed. "Who will be the last one standing?"

"Hopefully you," said Sandy. "I don't want to be the only one awake out here."

I smirked and poked at the fire with a stick. "You really believe The Dentist is out here?"

Sandy shrugged. "I did. But, now that we're out here, it's not so bad."

"I'm surprised you agreed to join us."

"Somebody has to protect you idiots."

I laughed. "Well, I'm happy you're here."

Sandy smiled and we looked at each other for a long moment, then she quickly looked away and said, "Anyway," and stood, "I better go to bed."

My heart sank. "Oh. Okay. Goodnight then." I stood, not knowing how to react. Hug? Handshake? High-five? Looking back at it now, it was an invitation I was too dense to catch. Instead, I fervently waved like I were on the Titanic as it left port, despite being within arms reach of her. An embarrassing display that I immediately regretted.

Sandy disappeared into her tent, and with a sigh, I smothered the fire and called it a night.

I awoke not long after to the sound of a tent unzipping, and quickly sat up. "Sandy?" I whispered , hopefully. But, as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realized it wasn't my tent that had been opened. I crawled over and unzipped mine and poked my head out, and could see that Sandy's tent was open. Immediately, I was concerned and was about to call her name when I heard another zipper and turned in time to see Dean's tent being sealed.

I felt the breath torn from me and slumped back into my tent.

Dean and Sandy. Of course. How could I be so stupid? Every girl I knew back then wanted Dean. Why would Sandy be any different?

I sat back up, zipped my tent closed, and then laid on my sleeping bag, broken-hearted and bitter. Within the hour, I had drifted back to sleep.

When I awoke again, it wasn't to the sound of a zipper but rather the sharp sensation of metal scraping my teeth, accompanied by something wet dripping onto my face. When the reality of what I was feeling hit me, I opened my eyes in a panic.

Kneeling over me with a wide smile was Sandy.

"Fuck!" I yelled and kicked her off of me, then quickly rolled away and grabbed my flashlight. I clicked it on and pointed it at her, and that's when I saw that all of the flesh which had once covered her teeth had been cut away, and all that remained was a blood-dripping, toothy grin. Behind her wild eyes was a soul not her own.

I yelled for Dean. No response. Sandy, curette in hand, began coming toward me once again, and as she did so, I fumbled through my bag and pulled out a pocket knife, then quickly cut through the fabric at the rear of the tent and hurried outside. "Dean!" I yelled.

Still no response.

I ran around my tent and over to Dean's and stuck my head inside. "Dean, we've got to—" I paused.

The tent was empty.

I quickly backed out and turned to see Sandy sauntering in my direction; then, behind Dean's tent, I heard the snap of a twig. I spun around, and there Dean was—a broad, lipless smile and a possessed look in his eyes. He began to step toward me, metal curette glimmering in the moonlight, ready to scrape.

Without hesitation, I turned and sprinted from the campsite, jumping over logs, ducking under branches, and pushing through thorny bushes. I was propelled purely by fear, unsure if I was heading out of the woods or deeper inside. As I fled, I stole a glance behind me and, to my absolute horror, found that they were sprinting after me.

Then, I tripped.

Stumbled hard into a narrow and shallow creek. A fall that I soon realized had resulted in a broken ankle. But, I had no time to nurse my injury, cry or complain. I knew the creek was near the edge of the woods.

I was almost out.

I pulled myself out of the creek and onto the bank, then stopped. Inches from my face were tattered leather boots from centuries past, and as I looked up, I could see the rest of the man, dressed in ragged colonial clothing and his face as tattered and aged as his attire. Rotted flesh and tufts of white hair. Cloudy eyes without lids and a wide, lipless smile.

The Dentist.

I pushed away back into the creek toward Dean and Sandy, who were now so close I could hear their slurping breaths. I stood and limped down the creek, and The Dentist followed along the bank, then Dean and Sandy arrived on the opposite side, and they too had slowed to a walk and were following.

Grotesque smiles and glimmering metal curettes surrounded me. But, they would not step into the water, and as I limped and stumbled down the creek, occasionally falling in pain, then quickly pushing myself back up, I saw the light from a nearby house just outside the woods.

"Help!" I shouted. I kept limping forward. The smiles kept following. "Help!"

As I continued, the first hint of dawn began to show. I yelled again, as loudly as I could. "Help!"

The sun was rising. Birds were singing. Yet the smiles still followed.

I sped up. "Help!"

Pain was shooting up my leg. Again, I yelled, now jogging on a broken ankle. I could see the sun on the horizon as I reached the edge of the woods and fell into the yard, and yelled once more.

A door opened and a woman rushed outside.

"We've got to get inside," I cried. "Please."

She noticed my ankle and said, "Wait here, I'm going to call an ambulance."

"No!" I yelled. "We need to get inside first."

She stopped. "Why? What's wrong?"

"They're in the woods."

"Who?"

"The Dentists."

The woman looked past me and frowned. "I don't see anybody."

I turned and looked.

They were gone.

Dean and Sandy were never found. But I know they're out there.

Waiting.

I do not know for sure why they ended up the way they did, while I was seemingly spared. The only reason I can come up with is that some people are chosen as dentists while others, such as myself, are patients… whose teeth are poked and prodded, but whose smile remains only temporarily.

If you ever do happen to come across The Dentists, I sincerely hope that you are the latter.