CREEPYPASTA

Mr. Tartar

As I sat on an awkwardly reclined dentist chair in the kiddie room, a trio of plushies watched me from the top shelf. When I checked in for my appointment that morning, I’d been told the system had accidentally double-booked one of the rooms, so I’d be getting my annual check-up in the children’s room instead. This was a big issue for me, not because of the brightly-colored walls that threatened to burn my retinas, not due to the multitude of disturbing posters of kids showing off their pearly whites, not even because of the tiny chair and its tight armrests that dug at my sides. No, my problem was with those damn plushies. Those horrible, terrifying, motherfucking plushies. They were the reason I’d avoided the dentist for so many years when I was growing up.

I was about 8 when it happened. Like any kid, I was afraid of going to the dentist. Unlike my peers, however, it wasn't because of the needles and sharp instruments. No, I was terrified of the dentist’s puppet, Mr. Tartar. The dentist used him to show children how to brush their teeth and floss properly. He was an eerie-looking stuffed giraffe with a full set of humanoid teeth---something straight out of the uncanny valley. His frozen and dead eyes starred at me, unblinking, as the dentist went about poking and prodding my gums as though they were pincushions. Don’t get me started on that grin of his. That chilling, toothy, permanent grin made it seem as though he enjoyed the show. His neck, too weak to hold the weight of his head, used to slowly buckle as the appointment progressed, causing him to crane over the edge of the shelf. He looked more like a vulture looming over its prey than an educational tool.

That day was the first time my mom stayed in the reception area. She felt I was old enough to be left without a hand to hold. The dental assistant brought me to the room and sat me on the chair, cheerfully telling me to stay put while she tended to another patient. I was left alone with Mr. Tartar, who grinned at me like he always did. We watched one another for a few minutes, before I lost interest and turned my attention to the large bay window overlooking the busy boulevard below.

Suddenly, there was a clattering sound, which was followed by a light thud and a grunt.

The giraffe was on the floor, face flat against the cold linoleum tile.

"Oh, did you knock Mr. Tartar over?" asked the dental assistant as she walked in.

She beamed at me and picked up the toy, sitting it on the counter. She then slipped her hand into the opening in the back of its head, allowing her to open and close its mouth, which produced the same clattering sound I’d heard moments before.

"Don’t worry, I'm not mad! Let’s be friends!" she said, using a somewhat masculine voice that didn't quite match the creature’s appearance.

I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat, "B-but I didn't," I tried to say, but the assistant didn't seem to be listening.

She returned Mr. Tartar to his proper spot on the shelf, then proceeded to tilt my chair back. I couldn't move my head any more, not with her little torture hooks jabbing me and scraping the surface of my teeth. The nail-on-chalkboard noise gave me mild goose bumps, but something else turned the molehill-sized lumps into the Rocky Mountains: Mr. Tartar had moved.

I wasn't entirely sure if I was seeing it right. Maybe I was imagining things. Had he been on the very top shelf, or the one underneath? She must have put him on the wrong shelf, I figured. Toys can’t move, I thought to myself, feeling silly about my paranoia. I wasn't a baby any more: I was brave and strong, like a grown-up.

The assistant finished her preliminary work, then excused herself to tell the dentist I was ready for her exam. Just as she disappeared around the corner, I heard the clattering of teeth coming from the other end of the room. I winced as I lifted my torso to try and see. Mr. Tartar was now watching me intently from the guest chair.