The Gravel Tooth

After the first episode of paralysis, I told myself it was just stress. I was a graduate student in a new city, living in a converted attic above a bakery that closed at dusk. The room had one window that looked onto a quiet, cobblestone lane. The only light came from a streetlamp that buzzed, and the only sound was the occasional clatter of the bakery’s metal shutters or the rumble of a night tram two blocks away. I had almost convinced myself it was all in my head, until the night of the mock exam.

It was about 3:47 AM, the clock glowing like a red eye. I had a cup of cold coffee and a stack of notes, my pen scratching across paper. Then, a sound: a low growl of an engine, a car turning onto the lane. The street was usually empty this time of night. The car idled, then I heard a screech of tyres—not a skid, but a deliberate, grinding halt. Over that, a shriek. Not human, not animal, but something in between, like a piece of metal being torn. It came from directly below my window, and then silence. I instinctively leaned to look, but my body locked. Paralysis again, but different. My chest felt heavy, and my eyes were forced open, looking at the ceiling. Something cold pressed on my forehead, like a coin. Then, I heard a voice, thin and dry, like dead leaves, saying, ‘The tooth is in the gravel.’ It wasn’t threatening, just stating a fact. Then the pressure lifted, and I could move.

I didn’t want to look outside, but I forced myself. The lane was empty. No car, no tyre marks. Just the damp cobblestones. But there, near the drain, was a small pile of grey gravel, and in the centre, a single white thing that looked like a human tooth. I didn’t touch it. I went back to my notes, but I couldn’t focus. The phrase echoed in my head: ‘The tooth is in the gravel.’

The next incident was a week later. I was taking a walk along the canal path, trying to shake off the memory. It was overcast, the water grey and sluggish. I passed under a bridge, and I saw a child’s bicycle leaning against the wall, its wheel missing. A few feet away, there was a man in a long coat, crouching by the water. He wasn’t doing anything, just staring at the surface. When I got closer, he turned, and his face was blank, like a mannequin. He held up a small, white object and said, ‘I found one, but it’s not mine.’ I froze. I wanted to run, but my legs were heavy. He smiled—a strange, unnatural smile—and placed the object on the gravel path: another tooth. Then he walked away, his footsteps echoing on the stone.

The rest of the walk, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. When I got home, I checked under my bed, in the closet, everywhere. I found nothing. But that night, I woke at 3:00 AM exactly. The room was pitch black. I heard a sound like someone chewing gravel, slow and deliberate, coming from the floorboards. I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ Nothing. The sound stopped. Then, a voice, right next to my ear, ‘The tooth is in the gravel. The gravel is in the tooth.’ I didn’t sleep again.

I went to see a doctor, a neurologist. I described the paralysis, the visions, the sounds. He prescribed a sleeping aid and told me it was likely a combination of stress and sleep deprivation. He even gave me a referral for a therapist. I wanted to believe him. I did believe him, for a while. I took the pills, and I slept. For a week, nothing happened.

But last night, I woke at 3:00 AM again, but this time, I wasn’t paralyzed. I was lying on my back, and the room was lit with a pale, sickly light. On my nightstand, there was a small pile of gravel, and on top, a tooth. It wasn’t mine—my teeth are all intact. I got up, ran to the bathroom, and spat. No missing teeth. When I came back, the pile was gone.

I’m writing this now, before dawn, because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve stopped the medication. I’m not sure it was ever about sleep. I keep hearing the grinding sound, like something is slowly chewing its way through my floor. And I can’t shake the thought that maybe the tooth was mine all along, just not from my mouth. Maybe it’s from my future, or my past. Or maybe the gravel is a mouth, and I’m just a tooth waiting to be found.