I kicked off my shoes and threw myself at my little schnauzer, Misty. The little beast jumped, tail frantic; she was only too eager for me to return from work. Her next meal was coming.
I chucked the day’s mail onto the dining table. One stuck out slightly, a misaligned ace in a deck of cards.
Another envelope. Not worthy of notice, just another bill to pay. White, almost blank, with no return address. I reached for my letter opener.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled for 2 p.m. on the 13th of April.”
I left it on the dining table and grabbed the dinner my wife had prepared from the refrigerator. Medical appointments could wait.
The envelope caught my eye again.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled for 3:30 p.m. on the 13th of April.”
I shook my head. It had been a long day – my eyes were tired. I sat at my desk, with my work, for the next half an hour.
The dining table needed clearing; the after-dinner mess was still waiting. The letter caught my eye again.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled for 4 p.m. on the 13th of April.”
The time had shifted again. I shook my head, vigorously.
Not by much. But enough.
***
The letters kept arriving, on time, on the first Friday of every month.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled for 1 p.m. for…”
A half hour later.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled at 1:30 p.m. for…”
A half hour later.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled at 1:00 p.m. for…”
Another half hour later.
“Your CAT scan is scheduled at 12:30 p.m. for…”
I glanced at the calendar. The time. 12:30 p.m.
I hadn’t written it.
The time edged nearer, to what, I did not know.
Closing in – I didn’t know where from.
***
I stepped into the apartment the next day, weary from back-to-back meetings. I chucked the mail on the side table.
The white envelope stuck out. A thick signature, in black ink.
My signature. But it could not be. … I never signed anything. Or…
I tried desperately to recall the moment I agreed.
I just couldn’t.
***
The apartment was quiet when I returned the next day.
Too quiet.
I threw the letters on the side table. The same white envelope, sticking out.
Alexa sounded from the corner of the living room. “
Take your grandmother to the hospital.”
My grandmother. The letters. I had shut Alexa down for days…her robotic voice was grating each time it sounded.
Then I remembered.
Edging closer.
She lived too far away.
***
The appointment passed.
But something was missing. I didn’t want to name what.
Life continued. The CAT scan wasn’t needed.
The appointment was.
***
What listens when no one speaks?
What follows when no one is there?
Mirrors of the Mind is a collection of five psychological horror stories exploring memory, identity, and the quiet things we try not to see.
I’ve always been drawn to stories that linger rather than shock — ones that stay with you after the page is turned. This collection is my attempt at that kind of quiet unease.
If that resonates, you can find it here:
