"The Teeth Beneath Our Tongues" by Fendy S. Tulodo

You never should have followed her down that alley, but you did.

She moved like she knew you, like she had been waiting for you. Her bare feet made no sound against the damp pavement. The streetlights buzzed overhead, casting flickering shadows that seemed to stretch and twist as she passed. The alleyway smelled of clove cigarettes and something rancid-something sweet and spoiled, like fruit left too long in the heat. No one else saw her. Or if they did, they refused to acknowledge her. But you…

You were curious. Or maybe it was something deeper than curiosity. Maybe it was something pulling you forward.

The alley was narrow, the walls slick with moss, bricks pressing close like the ribcage of something ancient and dying. You stepped forward, ignoring the way the light behind you dimmed, ignoring the way the night swallowed sound, until there was nothing but your own breathing, your own heartbeat, the wet drip, drip, drip from somewhere unseen.
She never turned back, never slowed, until-

Until she did.

Her head turned first, slow and unnatural, and the rest of her body followed. Her skin, pale, too pale, like something pulled from the bottom of a river. Her lips, peeling and cracked, stretched into a grin too wide, too full of teeth. And her eyes:

Empty. Hollow. Waiting.

Your stomach clenched. The air pressed thick against your skin, and you wanted to run. But before you could move, something beneath your foot gave way with a sickening, wet squelch. The scent of iron filled your nose. Not garbage. Not some dead animal.

Meat.

Human.

A hand. You could see the fingers now, half-buried in the grime, skin darkened, nails torn. And when you looked back up, she was already there, too close, too wrong, her grin stretching, splitting, revealing layer upon layer of needle-thin teeth.

And then--

Darkness.
 
You wake to silence.

The room around you is white, too white, the kind of white that makes your head ache. A table. A chair. A mirror. But it isn’t a mirror. You know it isn’t a mirror.

A voice crackles from the other side of the glass. Calm. Controlled. Clinical.

“You’re doing good,” it says. “Try again. Tell us what happened next.”

Your mouth is dry. Your tongue feels thick, wrong. You swallow, but it doesn’t help.

“I-” The words catch. Your teeth ache.

The voice continues. Papers rustle.

“We found you in that alley. Do you remember that?”

Yes. Maybe. No.

“We found the others, too. Or what was left of them.”

Something cold coils in your stomach. You don’t want to ask. You don’t want to know.

“Tell us what you saw.”

The woman. The alley. The shifting walls. The thing wearing human skin.

Or-

Or was it you?

You don’t remember biting down. You don’t remember the taste of copper flooding your mouth, don’t remember the way your fingers dug in, pulling, tearing-

But your teeth hurt. Your jaw throbs. And when you open your mouth to answer, the voice on the other side gasps.

Because there, beneath your tongue, another row of teeth is growing.

And you know.

You never left that alley.
 
You try to sleep, but the dreams won’t let you.

They are wet, sticky things, full of whispers and laughter and teeth. The taste of raw meat lingers on your tongue, even when you wake gasping, even when you shove your knuckles into your mouth to stop the sound from escaping.

The door opens. A different voice this time, lower, softer.

“How are we feeling today?”

You don’t answer. You stare at the walls, at the too-bright lights, at the tray of untouched food beside you. You are not hungry.

Or maybe you are, but not for that.

The voice sighs. A chair scrapes against the floor.

“You were found in a bad state,” they continue. “Alone. In that alley.” A pause. “There was blood.”

Your hands clench.

“You kept saying the same thing over and over when they brought you in.”

You don’t ask. You don’t want to know.

But they tell you anyway.

“Not mine.”

Silence hums between you. The air is too thick, pressing against your ribs, pressing against your skin. The voice shifts, uneasy.

“Do you remember?”

You do.

You remember the alley. The woman. The shifting walls. The taste of something you should not have tasted. The hunger curling, twisting, growing-

You shake your head.

“No,” you say.

They sigh again, pushing a paper across the table.

“This is for evaluation purposes only,” they say. “We need a sample. Just—open your mouth.”
​
Your pulse pounds. Your teeth ache.

Slowly, you obey.

The voice on the other side goes still. The scrape of chair legs. The sharp, sharp inhale.

You close your mouth. Too late. You already saw it in their eyes.

They know.

They see.

They know you were not alone in that alley.

And they know-

You brought something back with you.

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Fendy is from Malang, Indonesia. He works with words and sound, trying to catch how time stretches or shrinks for different people, how bonds stay present even when they’re long gone. By day, he sells motorcycles. At night, he becomes Nep Kid. He makes quiet, moody music and writes stories in whatever form feels right. Follow him on Instagram at @fendysatria_

https://linktr.ee/fendytulodo

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