Reading Time: 7 minutes
I sat in a soundproof chamber lined with gray acoustic foam. I coughed but couldn’t hear it. The overhead light flickered, creating an eerie atmosphere.
The audiologist’s droning voice filtered through the headset, “Press the button when you think you hear a tone.”
I heard soft chirps at the same frequency, growing fainter with each button press until I presumably couldn’t hear them anymore.
She instructed, “Try to relax. It will give us a more accurate test. Close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
I was still groggy and must have fallen asleep because I didn’t remember leaving the booth. I opted for the SolTone 9x: the top-of-the-line, Bluetooth, AI-powered, forty-eight-hour battery, effectively invisible, state-of-the-art model. After the audiologist calibrated them for my hearing profile, I put in my new ears. Forgotten sounds danced in my brain with new clarity: the clack of the keys on the keyboard, a conversation in the hallway, and the sounds of traffic outside the office. I smiled, paid my bill, and left.
Two months later.
I was looking forward to my friend Owen’s visit. He always came over around five on Thursdays for drinks and to catch up. I inserted my ears and was met with the disappointing sound of them powering down due to a lack of charge. Those damn devices had been giving me trouble, not always sitting properly on the charger. What good were they if they didn’t work when I needed them?
Owen texted me that he was running late. Angry that the charger had failed, I put the hearing aids on it and ensured they were properly seated. I hoped to have some power in the units before he arrived. I noticed another voicemail but chose to ignore it.
Fifteen minutes later, I checked on the hearing aids to see if they had charged. The charger had fallen on the floor, the case open and empty. There was no sign of the devices. They were neither on the table, under the bed, nor in my ears. The doorbell rang. I decided to enjoy happy hour without my ears and search for them after Owen left.
After Owen departed, I scoured the bedroom, kitchen, and the bathroom.
Nothing.
I meticulously emptied the trash, piece by piece. The only thing that struck me as odd was the missing voicemail. I couldn’t recall deleting it, which added to my growing confusion. I tore the house apart for two days, my frustration mounting with each passing moment. I checked the security footage from the doorbell cam during the time frame from when I knew I had them to when I knew I had lost them.
Nothing.
The more I searched, the more perplexed I became. How could something just vanish like that?
I conducted the search again.
Nothing.
My ears were gone.
#
Owen visited one morning a few days later, sipping coffee from a thermos with his own SolTone 9Xs tucked neatly in his ears.
I stared at them. They were the same beige as mine.
“We both see the same audiologist and have the same model. You’re sure you didn’t take mine by accident?”
Owen appeared puzzled, then laughed. “These are mine. Got them a month ago. Same model, yeah—but I had to replace the first pair.”
“What happened to the first?”
Owen scratched his head. “Lost them. Honestly? I think I threw them out. I don’t even remember doing it. I only had the things for about two months, too. It was an expensive mistake.”
I winced and said, “I don’t remember losing them either. And it was about two months after I bought them. That’s a weird coincidence.”
Owen sighed. “Yeah, well, we aren’t exactly spring chickens anymore. You know how it is.”
“I suppose. Growing old isn’t for the poor.”
“Are you going to buy the replacements?”
“Not until I figure out what happened to the originals.”
As the days passed, a growing suspicion began to form in my mind. Owen had been with me the night I lost them. Could he have taken them? Swapped them out? He had said they were the same model…
But Owen was my friend. Gaslighting me was something he would do, but I knew him. He would have come clean in fifteen minutes to have a big laugh at my expense.
Still.
#
That evening, I reviewed the security footage from the doorbell cam again, expanding the viewing window both before and after. I did not leave the house that day. No one entered before Owen arrived. Owen came and then left. I watched it once more in slow motion as if that would make a difference.
Nothing.
The video proved that I hadn’t gone anywhere. Yet, the hearing aids had vanished. By midnight, I had rewritten and discarded three theories: home intruder, faulty memory, and Owen. None of them held.
And now, another thought whispered in my mind: What if I did it?
Every crime has a motive, right? So why would I steal my ears from myself? I held the empty charger and muttered, “I loved having my hearing back.”
Still.
#
I booked an appointment with Dr. Peyme, my neurologist. She believed the most likely explanation was a loss of focus, but she indulged my fears. She ordered an MRI and cognitive testing and suggested a week of daily logs.
When the doctor’s tests came back clear, I was relieved that there was nothing physically wrong with me. I was healthy; there was no sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes. It was a weight off my shoulders.
Dr. Peyme said, “You’re healthy, Clive. Not even the faintest sign of early dementia, trauma, or dissociative episodes.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but it doesn’t address the five-thousand-dollar question: Where are they?”
The doctor hesitated. “Maybe it was just misplacement.”
“I know what happened.”
“The mind plays tricks.”
I walked out of the clinic with a growing weight in my chest—neither fear nor sadness, but uncertainty. If there wasn’t an explanation, then I have a screw loose. This uncertainty was crushing, leaving me feeling lost and disoriented.
#
The following week, I was ready to surrender, realizing I would have to live with uncertainty. Without my ears, simple tasks became daunting, conversations were a struggle, and I felt isolated. I almost bought a new pair of hearing aids—almost. But something kept gnawing at me, and I couldn’t let it go.
Owen stopped by on Thursday for our usual happy hour.
I said, “They’re running a discount on the SolTone 9Xs over at the clinic. I’m tempted to get another pair. But it still bugs me what happened,” hoping that he would discourage me from giving up the search.
“Yeah,” Owen said. “Losing them like that. I know the feeling. But what will you do, say huh and what, and miss half the words in every conversation? Not hearing was hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”
Owen’s phone vibrated, and he said, “Hang on. I have a voicemail.”
He picked up the phone to listen. Owen blinked and put the phone on the counter without locking it. Then, like a puppet yanked by an invisible thread, he reached toward his ears. His face had gone expressionless, lips parted slightly. His eyes looked past me toward something empty and far away. He put the hearing aids in their case and walked toward the kitchen sink. He turned on the trash compactor.
“Owen!” I leapt up and ripped the case from his hands. He didn’t resist but looked blankly out the window over the sink. I smacked his cheek with an open hand.
Owen flinched, and his eyes refocused. As if nothing happened, he said, “Not hearing was really hurting my performance at work. I probably wouldn’t have my job right now without them. Is it interfering with your work?”
My heart skipped a beat.
“What?”
“What, what?” he echoed.
He picked his phone up from the counter. “Hold on. I just need to—”
“Need to what?”
“Delete this voicemail. It says scam likely.”
I took the phone from his hand again. This time, he resisted.
He protested, “What the hell are you doing? Give me back my phone.”
I glanced at the number and recognized it. That was it. That was the clue. A thought buried like a landmine in my head.
#
“Give me my phone,” Owen said testily.
“Why did you take out your hearing aids?”
“What are you talking about? I’m still wearing them.”
Owen placed his fingers to his ears and said, “See. There…”
He appeared perplexed. “Huh? That’s weird. I don’t remember taking them out.”
“You put them in your charger just now. Don’t you remember?”
He opened the case in his hand. “No. I put them in to hear just before I came in. I was wearing them while we were talking. I swear.”
“The voicemail you were about to delete. It must be a trigger.”
“A trigger for what?” Owen was about to play the voicemail again.
“No, No! If I’m right, that voicemail will send us both into a hypnotic state.”
“Well, what are we supposed to do then?”
“Let me listen to the voicemail. I don’t have any hearing aids to throw out.”
“Sure.” He handed me the phone.
I said, “If I start acting weird, slap me in the face.”
Owen shook his head. “I’m not going to slap you in the face. That’s crazy.”
The next thing I said was, “Nothing happened. I thought for sure. I guess I am the one that is crazy.”
Owen was staring at me white-faced, holding his phone, and I felt the sting of needles and pins on my jaw.
#
I prepared carefully. I charged a pair of old dummy hearing aids—the same shape and color. I booked a follow-up fitting with the audiologist, Dr. Bunco. I had to check the business card because I didn’t remember her name. I hid two mini-cameras: one in my glasses, the other clipped inside my coat.
When I arrived, Dr. Bunco greeted me warmly.
“Still no sign of your hearing aids?” the doctor asked, genuinely or not, I can’t say.
“No,” I said calmly. “It’s the strangest thing. I don’t know how I lost them. It’s as if I were hypnotized or something.”
Dr. Bunco’s mouth twitched.
She laughed awkwardly. “I—well, that’s—”
I said, firmer, “And the same thing happened to my friend, a patient at your clinic. Both of us lost them exactly two months after we bought them. Isn’t that strange?”
Dr. Bunco stood, turned, and walked over to a drawer. She opened it. Inside was a bin of hearing aid demos. But instead of handling them, she picked up the small waste bin beneath the desk.
I held my breath.
Dr. Bunco dropped a pair of demos inside. Then another. She stood there, staring into the bin.
I whispered, “Got you.”
Dr. Bunco turned. Her face was blank.
I pressed the emergency button on my coat. A prerecorded message went straight to a friend at the police station.
“Clive,” she said evenly. “You should be going now.”
“No,” Clive said. “I think I’ll stay.”
And then the doctor lunged.
#
The struggle was brief. I managed to dodge, knocking over the bin. Hearing aids scattered across the floor like dropped candy. A half dozen pairs—dozens of lives dulled into silence.
The police burst in three minutes later.
Dr. Bunco didn’t resist. She said nothing.
During the investigation, detectives uncovered encrypted files on Dr. Bunco’s work computer: patient hypnosis scripts, implant logs, and behavioral test data. She’d embedded audio cues into the hearing aid fittings themselves, planting triggers in the minds of her patients. A specific phrase delivered by voicemail would induce a mild dissociative fugue—a trance long enough to dispose of the devices. Once lost, patients returned, bought replacements, and the scam repeated.
Over forty patients had been affected. All had lost their hearing aids two months after purchasing them. Two months was the smoking gun. It was statistically impossible, even for old people. She was charged with fraud, unauthorized medical experimentation, and multiple counts of psychological abuse.
Owen stopped wearing his hearing aids for a while.
We both switched to a new clinic.
I bought new ones but would never again allow myself to be tested in a booth without another person present.