Grandma Bixby's Teeth

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Grandma Bixby’s Teeth by Harris Tobias

Everyone loved Grandma Bixby. You could tell by the crowd at her funeral. There must have been a hundred mourners filing past her coffin, whispering prayers and sniffling into tissues. My mom knew her, so she dragged me along. I didn’t want to go, but I had to admit—the old bat never looked better. The funeral home had done a fine job with the makeup, smoothing out her wrinkles, making her look... almost alive. Almost.

Her hair was neat. Her dress was pressed. And for the first time in my life, I saw her wearing her teeth.

Grandma Bixby never wore her dentures. Ever. They sat in a glass of water by her bed, floating there like some awful thing detached from her body. I had seen them plenty of times, but never in her mouth. Now, as the line of mourners crept closer, I stared at her lips, her perfect, unnatural smile. The teeth gleamed in the dim light. The sight of them made my stomach twist.

The last time I saw her, she sure wasn’t smiling.

She was walking down the street, as feisty and messy and old as ever, gripping her cane like a weapon. She moved surprisingly well for her age—sure, she had that cane, but it never slowed her down. Me and my man Shooter were hanging on the corner, passing a bottle between us, when she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Norman Jefferson and Marcus James,” she barked, pointing that bony finger at us. “Why ain’t you boys in school? Standin’ here, drinkin’ and wastin’ your life away! I knew both your daddies, and they was hard-workin’, God-fearin’ men. You boys best get to school before you end up in the gutter.”

Shooter laughed, taking a long pull from the bag. “Where you headed, Grandma? Cashin’ that check?”

She fixed us with a glare so cold my skin prickled. “You best stay away from me.” Then she turned, muttering to herself, and hobbled off. I don’t remember if she had her teeth in or not.

Shooter watched her go and wiped his mouth. “I bet she’s sittin’ on a pile of money. They say she stashes it, old people don’t trust banks. Just keeps it in a drawer somewhere.”

Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was just plain stupidity, but fifteen minutes later, we were climbing her fire escape. Shooter knew exactly which window was hers—she was his momma’s aunt, after all. Getting inside was easy. Too easy.

The place smelled old. Like dust and medicine. Black-and-white pictures stared at us from the walls, their faded faces frozen in time. The furniture sagged with age. The refrigerator hummed like a tired old man. Shooter started ripping through drawers, tossing out old dresses and lace underthings, cursing when he found nothing but useless junk.

I was checking under the bed when I saw them.

The teeth.

Sitting in their glass. Watching.

The light caught them just right, and for a second, I swear they moved—just a little, a tiny twitch like they were gnashing in anticipation. I tore my eyes away, trying to shake off the creeping unease curling up my spine.

Shooter was getting mad. He started tearing apart the kitchen, yanking cabinets open, shoving plates off the counter just to hear them smash. And that’s when the door opened.

Grandma stood in the doorway, her shadow stretching long across the floor. Her eyes flicked from Shooter to me, and she just shook her head. Slowly. Side to side. No fear. No surprise. Just quiet disappointment.

Shooter didn’t give her a chance to speak. He grabbed her cane and swung. Hard.

I heard the crack of wood against bone, a sickening, wet sound that sent bile rising in my throat. She hit the floor, but Shooter didn’t stop. He brought the cane down again. And again.

And that’s when the teeth chattered.

It started as a faint clicking sound. Then louder. Faster. Like something excited. Hungry.

I looked at the glass. The teeth weren’t just sitting there anymore. They were moving. The water inside rippled as they clacked together, grinding, biting, chewing at the air.

I ran.

I never saw what happened to Shooter. I heard about it later, though. They found his body in the alley, torn to pieces. People said it must’ve been wild dogs. But I ran through that alley when I fled, and I didn’t see any dogs. I didn’t hear any howls.

All I heard was the clicking. The gnashing. The chattering.

Now, I stand in line, inching forward as the mourners pay their respects. The funeral home did a good job. You can’t even tell her skull was cracked open. They made her look peaceful. Almost like she could wake up any second.

My mother is just ahead of me. She places a rose on the coffin, whispering something I don’t hear. Then it’s my turn.

I don’t want to look at her face. But I do.

And that’s when I see it.

Grandma’s lips twitch. Her mouth opens, just a little. Just enough.

And her teeth... her awful, gleaming, perfect teeth... they chatter.

Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions! Share your eerie, unexplained, or downright chilling encounters in the comments below, and your story could be featured on the blog—and in an upcoming book collection published by Mark Watson Books.

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