My mornings were always the same. The sun would push through my thin bedroom curtains. I would lie in bed for a few minutes, listening to the world outside. A bird singing. A distant car. The gentle hum of a quiet neighborhood waking up. My life was simple and calm. I liked it that way.
I lived alone in a small house with a small garden. I worked from home, writing articles for websites. It was a lonely job, but I was a private person. I did not need much company. My days were a quiet rhythm of typing, making coffee, and looking out my window.
My neighbor was a woman named Mrs. Gable. She was old, maybe eighty years old, with white hair and a kind, wrinkled face. She lived in the house next to mine. I did not know her well. We sometimes waved to each other when she was in her garden. She always gave me a small, sweet smile. She seemed like a perfect grandmother.
Mrs. Gable had a cat. His name was Midnight. He was a sleek, black cat with bright green eyes. Midnight was a hunter. I often saw him in my garden, silent and focused, watching the birds. Sometimes, he left little gifts on my doorstep. A dead mouse. A small bird. I did not like these gifts, but I understood it was his nature. I would take a small shovel, pick up the poor creature, and bury it in the back of my garden. It was a part of my morning routine.
One Tuesday, my morning started like any other. The sun came up. The birds sang. I got out of bed, went to the kitchen, and made my coffee. I walked to the front door to pick up my morning newspaper.
I opened the door, and my heart stopped.
On my clean, grey doormat, there was another gift from Midnight. But it was not a mouse. It was not a bird.
It was a finger. A human finger.
I stood there, frozen. The coffee cup in my hand felt heavy. The world went silent. All I could see was that thing on my doormat. It looked pale and still. It was a man’s finger, I thought. It was thick and a little dirty. The fingernail was short and clean. At the bottom, where it was separated from a hand, it was red and messy. It looked so real. Too real.
My mind started to race. My first thought was to scream. But no sound came out of my mouth. My throat was tight. I quickly stepped back inside and shut the door. I locked it. Then I locked the second lock. I leaned my back against the door, my body trembling. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest like a drum.
A finger. A human finger was on my doorstep.
What did this mean? Did Midnight find it somewhere? Or did he… no, a cat could not do that. Someone was hurt. Or worse. Someone was dead. My quiet, peaceful neighborhood suddenly felt very dangerous.
I ran to my living room window. I carefully pulled the curtain back just a little bit. I looked at Mrs. Gable’s house. It was quiet. The windows were dark. Nothing looked wrong. But something was very, very wrong.
I spent the whole day in my house, scared. I did not work. I could not eat. I just sat on my sofa, watching Mrs. Gable’s house. What should I do? Should I call the police? I picked up my phone many times, but I always put it down. What would I say? “Hello, police? My neighbor’s cat brought me a human finger.” It sounded crazy. Maybe they would not believe me. Maybe they would think I was the crazy one.
Late in the afternoon, I saw Mrs. Gable. She came out of her house to get her mail. She moved slowly, like she always did. She was wearing a simple blue dress. She picked up her letters, gave a little wave to a car passing by, and went back inside. She looked completely normal. She did not look like a person who was missing a finger, or who knew someone who was.
This made me even more confused. If it was her finger, she would be in a hospital. If it was her husband’s finger… but I knew Mr. Gable had died several years ago. I remembered seeing the funeral car.
The sun started to go down. The sky turned orange, then purple. The finger was still outside my door. I knew I could not leave it there. I had to do something.
When it was completely dark, I made a decision. I had to look at it again. I had to be sure. I put on a pair of thick rubber gloves, the kind I used for washing dishes. I took a flashlight and a small metal box. My heart was beating fast again.
I took a deep breath and slowly unlocked my door. I opened it just enough to shine the flashlight on the doormat.
There it was. It had not moved. In the sharp, white light of the flashlight, it looked even more real. I could see the tiny lines in the skin, the small hairs near the knuckle. I felt sick.
I reached out with my gloved hand. I did not want to touch it. But I had to. I told myself to be brave. I gently poked the finger.
And then, something strange happened.
It was hard. It was not soft and fleshy like skin. It was cold and firm, like a piece of plastic. I poked it again, harder this time. It made a light tapping sound against the doormat. It was not real.
It was a fake finger. A prosthetic.
Relief washed over me like a giant wave. It was so strong, my legs felt weak. I almost fell down. It was not a real finger. No one was dead. There was no crime. It was just a piece of plastic or silicone.
I started to laugh. It was a strange, shaky laugh. I was laughing from relief, but also from the pure strangeness of the situation. My neighbor’s cat was stealing fake body parts and leaving them on my doorstep.
I used a paper towel to pick it up. It was light. I brought it inside and put it in the metal box. I closed the lid. Now I had a new mystery. The fear was gone, but the confusion was bigger than ever. Where did Midnight get a fake finger?
The next day, my fear was replaced by curiosity. I was no longer watching Mrs. Gable’s house for signs of a killer. I was watching for clues. I watched her all day from my window. Her routine was the same. She worked in her garden. She sat on her porch with a cup of tea. She was the picture of a peaceful old woman.
But I started to notice something new. Behind her house, there was a small shed. It was like a little workshop. I had never paid much attention to it before. But now, I saw that a light was on inside the shed, even during the day. And late at night, long after the lights in her house were off, the light in the shed was still on. What was she doing in there?
A few days later, it happened again. I opened my door in the morning, and there was a new gift from Midnight. This time, it was a toe. A big toe. I did not panic. I calmly picked it up. It was just like the finger. It looked incredibly real, with a perfect toenail and realistic skin color. But it was hard and cold. Another prosthetic.
Now I was sure. Midnight was getting these things from somewhere in Mrs. Gable’s house. Most likely, from the workshop in the back.
My idea of Mrs. Gable started to change. She was not just a sweet old lady. She had a secret. A strange secret. Maybe her husband used prosthetics? Maybe she kept them to remember him? It seemed a little sad and strange, but it was a possible explanation. Maybe she kept his old prosthetic hand, and the cat was slowly taking it apart and bringing me the pieces.
The mystery was eating at me. I thought about it all day. I wanted to know the truth. But I could not just go and ask her. “Excuse me, Mrs. Gable, is your cat stealing parts of your dead husband’s fake hand?” It was impossible.
My chance came one windy afternoon. A storm was coming. The sky was dark grey, and the wind was blowing hard. Trees were bending, and leaves were flying everywhere. I was watching from my window when a strong gust of wind blew open the door to Mrs. Gable’s workshop. It swung open and banged against the wall.
Mrs. Gable was not outside. She was probably in her house, waiting for the storm to pass.
This was my chance. I knew it was wrong to go onto her property. It was wrong to look into her shed. But my curiosity was stronger than my good sense. I felt like a detective in a movie.
I put on my raincoat, went out my back door, and walked quickly across the wet grass that separated our yards. The wind was loud. It covered the sound of my footsteps. I reached the shed and stood by the open door, my heart pounding again. This time, it was not from fear, but from excitement.
I peeked inside.
What I saw made my jaw drop.
It was not a dark, dusty storage shed filled with old memories. It was a bright, clean, and amazing workshop. It was an artist’s studio.
One wall was covered with shelves. On the shelves were dozens of plaster molds. Molds of hands, feet, ears, and noses. There were books about human anatomy. On a long workbench, there were tools I had never seen before. There were small brushes and sculpting knives. There were pots of silicone and jars of paint in every possible skin tone.
And on the table, under a bright lamp, was a hand. A half-finished hand. It was lying on a piece of blue cloth. It was missing a finger and a thumb. Next to it, in a small tray, were perfectly sculpted fingers, waiting to be attached. They looked exactly like the one I had in the metal box in my house.
Suddenly, everything became clear. A wave of understanding washed over me.
Mrs. Gable was not a grieving widow keeping old prosthetics. She was not a strange collector.
She was an artist. A master craftsperson.
She made these. She created these incredibly realistic body parts. I did not know why. Maybe for movies? For special effects? Or maybe for medical schools, to help doctors practice? I did not know. But I knew that the sweet, old woman next door was a secret genius. She was creating things that could fool anyone. They had certainly fooled me.
I saw a finished hand standing on a small pedestal in the corner. I moved a little closer to see it. It was a masterpiece. I could see the tiny wrinkles on the knuckles, the faint blue lines of veins under the skin, the delicate shape of the fingernails. It was a work of art. It was beautiful.
And then I understood about Midnight. He was not bringing me parts of a sad memory. He was her studio cat. The small, loose fingers and toes were the perfect size for a cat to carry. They were his toys. He was a little thief, stealing his owner’s amazing work and sharing it with the neighbor.
I felt a smile spread across my face. I was not invading her privacy anymore. I was admiring her talent.
I backed away from the shed quietly. The wind was still blowing. I closed the door of the workshop, making sure it clicked shut. I did not want her creations to be damaged by the storm. I walked back to my own house, my mind buzzing.
The world felt different. My quiet little neighborhood was not so ordinary after all. My boring, simple life suddenly had a touch of magic in it. The sweet old lady next door was a secret artist, and her cat was her mischievous assistant.
The next morning, the sun was shining again. The storm had passed. I went to my front door. And sure enough, lying on the doormat, was a new gift from Midnight.
It was a perfect, small, silicone earlobe.
I did not feel scared or confused. I felt a sense of connection. I picked up the earlobe. It felt smooth and cool in my hand. I walked over to Mrs. Gable’s front door. I did not ring the bell. I did not knock.
I gently placed the earlobe on her doormat, right where she would see it. It was a silent message. A message that said, “I know your secret. And it is wonderful.”
I walked back to my house. I looked at her house, then at mine. I felt a quiet happiness. We were two private people, living our quiet lives, side by side. But now, we shared a secret. A secret brought to me by a black cat with green eyes.
My mornings were still the same. The sun still came up. The birds still sang. But now, when I looked out my window at Mrs. Gable’s house, I did not just see a neighbor. I saw an artist. A mystery. A friend I had never spoken to. And I smiled.