The Man Who Counted Teeth

In the summer of 2018, I moved from Pune to the coastal town of Visakhapatnam for a position at a logistics firm. My friend Anjali had helped me find a small flat in a quiet locality called Madhurawada, not far from the office. The apartment was on the third floor of a building that had seen better days, but it was affordable and had a balcony overlooking a clump of mango trees. I was relieved to finally have my own space.

My routine was mundane: wake up, catch the bus, work until 7 PM, grab dinner, and return home. For the first few weeks, everything was normal. But then, one night, as I was brushing my teeth before bed, I heard a faint tapping from the wall behind the bathroom mirror. I dismissed it as rats. The next night, the tapping was louder, and it seemed to come from inside the mirror itself. I pressed my ear against the glass, and I could hear a rhythm, like someone tapping in Morse code. I didn’t know Morse, but the pattern was hypnotic.

The following Saturday, I stayed home to clean. Behind the bathroom mirror, I found a loose panel. Inside, there was a small, rusted metal box. My heart raced. I opened it, expecting valuables, but inside was a single, yellowed photograph of a man in a white shirt, his face partially obscured by shadow. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: ‘He who counts teeth shall find the mouth.’ I laughed it off, thinking it was a prank. But that night, the tapping transformed into a low, guttural whisper, chanting, ‘Count, count, count.’

I began to lose sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man in the photo, his lips moving silently, his teeth glinting. I started seeing him in my peripherals, at the edge of the mango trees, in the reflection of my phone screen. My colleagues noticed I was on edge. One evening, an older colleague, Mr. Rao, pulled me aside. He had a worried look. ‘You are living in that old building, right? There was a murder there in the 90s. A man, a dentist, killed his wife and then himself. They say his ghost counts the teeth of the living to find the perfect set to replace the ones he lost.’

I tried to dismiss it, but that night, I decided to investigate. The building’s caretaker, a wizened old man, reluctantly gave me access to the storage room in the basement. Among dusty files, I found a newspaper from 1994. The headline read: ‘DENTIST MURDERS WIFE, LEAVES PILE OF TEETH.’ The article described how Dr. Raghavan, a dentist, had gone mad after his wife died from a dental infection. He allegedly pulled all her teeth and kept them in a jar. The article said he haunted the building, searching for someone with ‘perfect teeth’ to complete his collection.

I felt a chill. But I was determined to get to the bottom of this. That night, I decided to confront the ghost. I bought a cheap camera and placed it in the bathroom, pointing at the mirror. I also left a set of false teeth I found at a flea market on the sink. As I sat in the living room, I heard the tapping again, but this time it was like a rhythmic drumbeat. I tiptoed to the bathroom and peered through the crack. The mirror was glowing faintly, and I saw a figure emerge from it—a gaunt man in a white coat, his mouth stretched wide, revealing rows and rows of teeth, more than any human could have. He picked up the false teeth and let out a shriek of frustration, then vanished.

The next morning, I reviewed the camera footage. It showed nothing but static. I was terrified. I called my friend Anjali, who knew someone in the occult. She suggested I perform a simple ritual to appease the spirit: burn a photograph of the dentist’s wife and offer a cup of coffee. Desperate, I did it. That night, the tapping stopped. I finally slept.

But the relief was short-lived. A week later, I woke up with a sharp pain in my mouth. In the mirror, I saw that one of my front teeth had turned black. The next day, another. Within a week, all my teeth were dark, brittle. I couldn’t eat. I went to a dentist, but X-rays showed my teeth were perfectly healthy. The dentist was baffled. He recommended I see a psychiatrist. I knew it was him.

I returned to the building, determined to end this. That night, I confronted the mirror, shouting, ‘I know you want teeth! But these are mine!’ The mirror rippled, and the man emerged, his mouth now a gaping void. He pointed at me and said in a hollow voice, ‘Your teeth are counted. You have 28. But I need 32.’ He lunged, and I fainted.

When I woke up, I was in my bed, but my mouth felt strange. I went to the bathroom and looked at the mirror. My reflection wasn’t mine—it was his, grinning with a full set of perfect white teeth. I screamed, but no sound came out. The next day, I went to work, but my colleagues couldn’t hear me. I was invisible to them. I tried to write notes, but the letters appeared as gibberish. I was trapped in a silent world.

Now, months later, I sit in this apartment, watching new tenants try to move in. They hear the tapping, and they leave. I know what they don’t. The ghost of Dr. Raghavan is not in the building. He is in me, and he counts the teeth of the living, waiting for the day I die, so he can take my mouth for himself. I write this story in a notebook, hoping someone will find it and understand that the ghost is not in the mirror—it never was. It was always in the teeth.

And now, I see you reading this. You have teeth. He will find you. He always counts. Count. Count. Count.