The Unfinished Prescription

The autumn of 2021 had settled over the town of Millbrook, and with it came the familiar rhythm of our visits to the Lakeside Medical Clinic. My daughter, Emily, had a persistent eczema that flared up with the change in weather, so our trips were regular. Usually, we saw Dr. Helen, a kind woman with a hands-on approach, but when she was booked, we saw Dr. Malik. Dr. Malik was a tall, quiet man in his early forties, with a calm demeanor that put Emily at ease. We had been his patients for over six years, and he knew our history well.

As the months passed, I began to notice that Dr. Malik was not on the schedule as often. At first, I thought he was just taking a sabbatical or had switched to part-time. When we called, the receptionist would say he was ‘unavailable’ but never offered a reason. I didn’t push it; I assumed he was on some kind of special leave. It was only when we visited in late November that I saw the photograph.

The clinic had a small memorial board near the entrance, usually reserved for tributes to past patients or staff. That day, there was a new photo: Dr. Malik, smiling his gentle smile, with the dates of his birth and death. I felt a cold weight in my chest. He had been only 45. The cards and flowers tucked around the frame spoke of a beloved colleague and a devoted father. I stood there, reading the condolences, when Emily’s name was called, and we were led to the consultation room.

Our doctor that day was Dr. Sarah, a new addition to the clinic. She was young, with a brisk manner, and she examined Emily’s rash with clinical efficiency. While she wrote a new prescription for a stronger cream, she mentioned that she had taken over Dr. Malik’s patient list. I asked her, hesitantly, what had happened. She paused, her pen hovering over the paper. ‘He passed away suddenly,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘A heart condition. We were all shocked.’

A heart condition. That was the official line. But as I left the clinic, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Dr. Malik was the picture of health; he ran marathons, ate clean, and never missed a day. I remembered that he had seemed a bit distracted the last time we saw him, back in October. He had checked Emily’s skin and then, out of nowhere, he asked me a strange question: ‘Do you ever feel like the walls are watching you?’ I had laughed it off, but he didn’t smile. He just looked at me with those dark eyes, and I felt a chill.

Over the next week, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I did some research online and found nothing unusual—just a few local articles about his work. But then I remembered a patient who had mentioned, months ago, that Dr. Malik had been acting ‘weird’ in his last weeks—prescribing unnecessary tests, muttering about a ‘prescription’ he needed to finish. I began to wonder if there was more to his death than the clinic was saying.

One night, I woke up to a strange sound: a low hum coming from the hallway. Emily was asleep in her room, and I tiptoed out to investigate. There, in the dim light, I saw a shadow that didn’t match any furniture. It was tall and thin, and for a moment it seemed to have a face—Dr. Malik’s face, but with hollow eyes. I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself I was imagining things, but I noticed a strange minty smell lingering in the air, the same smell that Dr. Malik’s office had.

The next day, I called the clinic and asked to speak to Dr. Helen. When she came to the phone, her voice was strained. I asked about Dr. Malik, and she hesitated before telling me that he had been working on a ‘special project’ in the months before his death, something involving the clinic’s records. She said that after he died, they found his office in a mess, with patient files scattered everywhere, and a single prescription pad on which he had written ‘The Cure’ over and over. She laughed nervously, but I felt a knot in my stomach.

A few days later, I received a letter addressed to me in handwriting I didn’t recognize. Inside was a slip of paper, torn from a prescription pad, with the words: ‘CHECK THE BASEMENT.’ I had a key to the clinic—I was the building manager, a job I had taken on to help cover costs. I knew the basement was used for storage, but I had never explored it fully.

That evening, I unlocked the clinic’s back door and descended the narrow stairs into the basement. The air was cold and stale. I clicked on my phone’s flashlight, sweeping it across boxes of old files and medical equipment. That’s when I saw it: a door that I had never noticed before, behind a stack of shelves. It was ajar, and a faint light was coming from inside.

I pushed it open and found a small, windowless room. In the middle was a metal table, and on the table lay a notebook. I picked it up. The pages were filled with Dr. Malik’s handwriting, but it was frantic, almost illegible. The first page read: ‘They are not what they seem. The clinic is a front. The patients are not patients. I have found the formula, but it is too late.’

The rest of the notebook described a bizarre theory: that the medical center was built on a site where a failed experiment had contaminated the soil, causing a kind of psychic radiation that attracted ‘entities.’ Dr. Malik believed he had discovered a way to ‘heal’ the affected patients by leaving them ‘prescriptions’ that were actually incantations. As I read, I heard a scratching sound behind me. I spun around, but the room was empty.

I took the notebook home, determined to make sense of it. That night, I could not sleep. I kept hearing that humming, and the minty smell grew stronger. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of Dr. Malik standing over my bed, holding a syringe. He said, ‘The final dose is yours.’ I woke up screaming.

I decided to take the notebook to the police, but when I opened my front door, I saw a figure standing on my doorstep—a tall, thin man in a white coat. He wore Dr. Malik’s face, but his eyes were black. He held out a prescription pad and said, ‘You’re due for a refill.’

I slammed the door and called the police, but they found nothing. They told me that Dr. Malik had died of a heart attack, and that I should see a counselor. But I know what I saw. And now, every time I pass the clinic, I see that photo on the board, and I wonder: did I bring something home with me that day in November? Because ever since, I’ve felt something watching me, and occasionally I catch a whiff of mint, and I find myself writing on scraps of paper: ‘The Cure.’ The prescription, it seems, is not yet complete.