[Happy pre-Halloween! All week long the Mercury will be publishing classic tales of local Halloween horror from our archives, as well as brand spankin’ new (and creeeeepy) pieces… this one is from our 2017 special feature “The Tell-Tale Tooth: True Tales of Dental Horror.”—eds]
It started in a mini-mall.
Dr. Nick had a small upstart dental office sandwiched between a Ralph’s and a Big Lots—a place where you could get your teeth cleaned, and then grab a Pick’n Chick’n and a 32-ounce Coke for $6 next door. My dad started going as soon as he got our family’s dental covered through work at the lumberyard. Later, he took my brother and me there with him.
It took 19 years to learn what my dad was hiding.
There were warning signs, sure. But after a trip to the dentist my dad would always assure me, “Your mouth heals faster than any other body part.”
I don’t know why I believed him. In the back seat of his car I moaned and shoved cotton balls in my mouth to stanch the bleeding. Why was there so much blood? Dad informed me that, actually, much of the gum mutilation took place before the procedure, while Dr. Nick was counting my teeth.
