The Looming Appointment

It was the autumn of 2018 when I first met Elias’s family. I had been dating him for six months, and we were driving from Brooklyn to his parents’ farmhouse in rural Ohio for Thanksgiving. The drive was long, and Elias filled the silence with stories about his childhood, his siblings, and especially his grandfather, whom he adored. As he spoke of Grandpa Joe’s handmade wooden toys and his habit of whistling off-key, a sudden thought struck me with the force of a physical blow: ‘He’s going to die this year.’ The voice was my own, but it came from nowhere, as if a cable had been severed and reconnected to a place of terrible certainty. I shook it off, blaming the endless highway and the gray November sky. I didn’t tell Elias, but the thought festered like a splinter.

By spring, Grandpa Joe’s health had deteriorated. A routine checkup revealed an aggressive pancreatic cancer, and the doctors gave him six months at most. The family decided he would spend his remaining days at the farmhouse, with a rotating team of nurses. Elias and I moved to a small apartment in Columbus to be closer, and I often accompanied him on weekend visits. Grandpa Joe, though frail, maintained a dry humor, calling me ‘the city girl who stole my boy’s heart.’ He never complained, but I saw the way his eyes sometimes drifted to the window, as if watching for something. I tried to ignore the echo of that thought from months ago, but it grew louder with every visit.

In early October, on a Tuesday night, I had a dream so vivid it felt like a memory. I was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed, but the room was not a hospital—it was a dimly lit bedroom in a private home, with floral wallpaper and heavy drapes. The air smelled of stale lavender and medicine. Beside me, a man lay under the covers, his face obscured. I knew it was Grandpa Joe. His breathing was shallow, and his hand, resting on the blanket, was papery and cold. I reached out to hold it, but my fingers passed through as if he were a ghost. From the doorway, a nurse’s silhouette watched, unmoving. Then Grandpa Joe spoke, his voice a dry rasp: ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding. Elias was asleep beside me, oblivious.

The next day, I called Elias and told him I wanted to visit Grandpa Joe alone. He was surprised but agreed. When I arrived at the farmhouse, the same nurse from my dream—a woman with sharp cheekbones and hair the color of ash—led me to the bedroom. The room was exactly as in my dream: the floral wallpaper, the heavy drapes, the dim light. Grandpa Joe lay in the same position, his face gaunt but peaceful. He opened his eyes when I sat down and smiled weakly. ‘I knew you’d come,’ he whispered. ‘I have something to tell you.’ He gestured to the bedside table, where an old pocket watch lay. ‘That was my father’s. I want you to have it.’ I protested, but he insisted, pressing it into my palm. His hand was warm, not cold. ‘There’s a reason you know,’ he said. ‘You’re one of us.’

I didn’t understand, but I took the watch. A week later, Grandpa Joe passed away in his sleep. The family grieved, but they found solace in the fact that he went peacefully. I, however, was haunted. The dream, his words, the watch—they all pointed to something I couldn’t name. On the night of his funeral, I dreamed again. This time, I was standing in a vast, empty field under a starless sky. Grandpa Joe stood before me, looking young and healthy, dressed in his old flannel shirt. ‘You have the gift,’ he said. ‘You see the loom before it weaves. But beware: the sight comes with a duty. You must never speak of it aloud, or it will turn sour. And it will always come when you least expect it.’ He vanished, and I woke with the taste of ash in my mouth.

Months passed. I buried the memory of the vision, chalking it up to stress and grief. The watch sat in a drawer, ticking softly, as if waiting. Then, one cold January evening, Elias and I were planning our wedding. He was talking about his late grandmother, whom he missed dearly. As he described her cherry pie recipe, a thought surfaced in my mind, same as before, in my own voice: ‘He will die in a car accident, three miles from here.’ It was absurd—Elias was a cautious driver, and we were sitting safely in our apartment. But the certainty was undeniable. I went cold. I tried to laugh it off, but the thought burrowed deep. I began to see shadows in his movements, hear death rattles in his sighs. I became paranoid, pleading with him to avoid unnecessary trips, to stay home. He grew frustrated, asking what was wrong. I couldn’t tell him.

Two weeks later, on a rainy Saturday, Elias had to drive to a client meeting in a neighboring town. I begged him to cancel, but he insisted it was important. As he kissed me goodbye, I clutched his arm and blurted out: ‘Please be careful. Don’t take the old highway.’ He looked at me oddly, then said, ‘I won’t. I’ll take the main road.’ I nodded, my heart racing. An hour later, I got a call from the hospital. Elias had been in a collision on the main road, three miles from our apartment. He was alive but badly injured. The car was totaled. When I saw him in the emergency room, his face bruised and his leg in a cast, I broke down. He survived, but I knew then that my ‘gift’ was not a gift—it was a curse, a relentless whisperer of doom. And I knew that I would spend my life waiting for the next thought, dreading the moment I might see someone I love fade into the shadows, unable to stop the loom.

I keep the watch in my pocket now, its ticking a constant reminder. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I hear Grandpa Joe’s voice: ‘You’re one of us.’ But I never speak of it, not even to Elias. Because I know that if I do, it will only make the fear more real. And I’ve learned that the worst horrors are not the ones that come from outside, but the ones that plant themselves in your mind, growing until they consume you. I still see the loom, every time I close my eyes. And I pray that it never weaves me into its pattern.