Voices

A cool breeze blew across the bay this morning. Burton sat on the bench staring at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. The hastily jotted numbers, written in pencil were starting to fade. It would be so easy to let it fly away in the wind.

He knew he should dial the number. He wanted to dial the number. He had tried at least a dozen times before, but had always hung up before completing the sequence. He stared out across the water for a long moment. Finally with a resigned sigh he took his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed.

A friendly female voice on the other end of the line said; "Dr. Rand's office."

A few days later Burton found himself seated in a dark green leather chair in the well appointed office of Dr. Rand. As he waited, he took in his surroundings. A carved mahogany desk was the focal point of the room. A small bust sat on the desk, but Burton couldn't identify who the head belonged to. He looked vaguely familiar though. Along two walls were book shelves crammed with books. A large potted ivy sat on a pedestal by the door. There wasn't any clutter anywhere. Somehow Burton had expected the doctor's desk to be piled with files and paperwork. But then he thought no, of course he wouldn't leave that sort of thing lying around.

The door opened and Dr. Rand entered the room. He smiled congenially and introduced himself. As Burton stood to shake his hand, he surveyed the man he was about to treat. He had dark hair and eyes, was handsome, probably in his mid thirties and well built. He briefly wondered what brought him into his office. But he would know soon enough he supposed. In his 42 years of practice he had heard it all.

Burton sat back down. Dr. Rand noticed the young man fidgeting as he asked him what he could do for him. That was common, most people were uncomfortable coming to a psychiatrist.

Burton leaned forward slightly and said: "Well doc, I think I might have schizophrenia."

"Oh" said Dr. Rand; "What makes you think that?'

"I hear voices in my head." Replied Burton.

"What do they tell you to do?" asked Dr. Rand, suddenly concerned. The last schizophrenic that had come into his office had turned out to be a serial killer. He had claimed the voices told him to do it.

"They don't tell me to do anything." said Burton puzzled, "They aren't talking to me."

Dr. Rand ran his fingers through his silver hair. He had been wrong, apparently he hadn't heard it all.

The Other Side Of The Door

Her feet easily found the stairs in the dark. It was a trip she had made about three thousand times over the past ten years. She felt the ruffled edge of her nightgown brush her thigh with each step she took. Her fingers trailed up the bannister to her right.

When she reached the top, she veered off to the left. She slowed her approach as she strode down the hallway. With her toe pointing out in front of her, she searched for the familiar furry form she knew would be there. When he toe came in contact with the sleeping dog, she deftly stepped over him.

Finally she reached her goal. As her hand stretched out to grasp the cool brass doorknob, her fingers curled back on themselves and she hesitated. Suddenly she was filled with an unusual foreboding, as if something was lurking on the other side of the door...