Grandma Bixby's Teeth
Do you have a terrifying true story that sounds like something out of a horror movie? Home-made Creepypasta is now accepting submissions!
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…
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.
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OWL HEAD LAKE By Harris Tobias
harristob@gmail.com
Owl Head Lake
One wonders how these places get their names. There was nothing especially owlish about its 60 acres of surface or the little islands that poked their domed heads above it. It was a pretty lake, peaceful and pristine. Exactly the kind of place Monty needed for a few days of splendid isolation. Fishing, reading, getting back in touch with his inner man. A few precious days to decompress before the firm reeled him back in and sucked him dry.
There were a couple of reasons Owl Head Lake appealed to him. One was its inaccessibility. Three miles of dirt road to a primitive campground ruled out all but the most determined campers. The second was its unpopularity. The lake had acquired a bad reputation ever since people began disappearing from its shores—a group of teenagers vanished a few years ago, their tents and gear untouched. Before that a family went missing without a trace. And those were just the two that he knew of; he supposed there were more. On both occasions the lake was dragged, divers sent into its murky depths, to no avail. The divers reported the lake was uncommonly deep and cold but harbored nothing out of the ordinary. So the stories grew that the lake was cursed and as the stories multiplied, the locals kept away and its campsites gradually fell into disrepair.
If tall tales and ghost stories kept campers away, that suited Monty just fine. The last thing he wanted was company, some garrulous stranger making chitchat about the weather or some tedious retired couple from Des Moines. No Owl Head Lake was just the tonic he needed. Who knew what happened to those teen-age campers. Kids are famous for making stupid decisions. He could imagine them yelling, “Watch this” just before plunging over a cliff.
As for the lake’s reputation for being haunted or stalked by a serial killer, well he was a city boy and violent death was all around him. He knew the odds of being killed by a stranger were greater than getting struck by lightening. And besides as a lawyer he made his living defending the most depraved sociopaths on the planet. No, he wasn’t afraid of a violent end, he was afraid of some friendly camper destroying his solitude.
His heart sank when he first drove in and saw the bright blue of a tent pitched near his favorite site. He needn’t have worried the neighbors were packing up and leaving. The man came over to Monty his face showing obvious signs of distress.
“I wouldn’t be staying here, fella, if I was you.”
“Oh, why’s that,” an obviously relieved Monty asked.
“There’s something wrong with that lake. Something evil. You hear them stories about people disappearing and all?”
“I heard ‘em,” Monty said. “A lot of old wives tales if you ask me.”
“Maybe, but I aint staying to find out, we all heard weird noises last night and now my dog’s gone missing. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye open for him. If he shows up would you give me a call?”
The old man handed Monty a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Monty promised he’d do that. He watched the man pack his gear calling “Rufus” every few minutes until he finally drove away leaving nothing but blissful silence behind. When the neighbor was gone, Monty tossed the phone number in the fire, mixed himself a cocktail and sat facing the lake.
The sun was low in the sky, the birds were active, ducks, geese and herons making their living from nature’s intricate web. The graceful herons, like statues working the margins while flotillas of ducks and Canada Geese patrolled the deep water like opposing fleets. On the small islands, a glint of white, an owl or bald eagle. Fabulous, this is the stuff his spirit thrived on.
In spite of the scenery, his mind drifted back to his high-pressure job. He had to admit it was a hell of a way to make a living. Sure everyone is entitled to the best defense they can afford blah, blah, but his rich clients knew they could buy their way out of almost anything. Did it make him feel dirty? No, not really. He was a hired gun. Someone had to safeguard the civil rights of wealthy child molesters, drug dealers, thieves and murderers. How should it make him feel? He didn’t make the rules. Still, thank goodness for places like this, islands of peace and quiet to soothe a troubled mind. Nature restored his soul. He raised his glass to the setting sun by way of thanks.
Weren’t there three islands in the middle of the lake? Oh yes. From this angle it looked like two but there were the three little mounds. He knew them well; he called them the 3 knobs. They looked like the tops of three heads, dome shaped and symmetrical. They reminded him of three bathers wearing forested bathing caps. Something spooked the Canada Geese just then. They broke the placid surface of the lake in a spontaneous dash into the air sounding their alarms. He admired the natural world. Now there was a system of justice that made sense. Eat or be eaten, the strongest survive, that was how it should be. There was no plea-bargaining out there, no sir-ee-bob.
When his attention returned to the islands, they were spread out in a line before him. The sun was a golden ball spreading jewels on the rippled surface. The fleeing geese reminded him of the case he just finished litigating. Chichi Maldonado. What a piece of work. If ever anyone deserved to be locked away, it was Chichi. Bargaining down multiple felonies to a few months in a country club prison due to a technicality. That’s why he made the big bucks. He even got a bonus for that bit of work. What a system.
Was he mistaken or was the configuration of the islands slightly different? One of the knobs seemed to have drifted closer. It must be a trick of the light. The sun was almost down. What a scene. A sky striped like cotton candy and grape soda. The reflection on the lake was flawless. What a picture. He pulled out his camera and snapped a few for posterity. The heron called and took wing. Calling it a day he guessed.
The ducks too took wing. Where do ducks sleep he wondered. He loved the sunsets on this lake. He was here six months before. He looked back in the little camera’s memory and pulled up some shots he’d taken in May. Yes, that was another soul satisfying sunset. What was different about that earlier shot? The knobs. In the earlier picture they were somewhere else entirely. That’s strange he thought. It was his last rational thought before the island dragged him kicking and screaming into its toothy maw.
Reminds me of me watching my late grandma take her dentures out. It never occurred to me that I was invading her personal space, something that was almost a SACRED RITUAL. She would become quite ANNOYED !