Soles

by Kay Brandt

  My realization was far worse. The blood wasn't coming from the fitting chair at all. Hung by steely hooks at the top of the racks were the dead bodies of Stephanie and the gunslinger. Their lifeless forms tore inch by inch.

  “I didn't, that's not my handy work!” he yelled like a goon.

  “I didn't do that to them, either!” I stuck my defense in, too.

  “Then how did they get there?” Not waiting for an answer, the surveillance guy made a run for the back door.

  “I swear it wasn't me! I'm not a murderer!” Panicking over being reported for crimes I can't explain, I went after him. He threw his clipboard at me, whacking my forehead, and I stopped the chase to deal with the deep cut.

  “Don't come after me! I swear, I'll fight back!” And with that he went like a tornado out the door. It slammed behind him, and clicked loudly. The familiar noise of being locked in.

  Suddenly, a soft female voice trailed from somewhere in the room, calling out, “William? Where are you?”

  William, I thought, what the hell does she want with a dead man? And then I decided to open my eyes, for better or for worse. Pleasantly surprised to see the lovely young woman having returned—the one who claimed to be my grandfather's lineage—I smiled awkwardly and said, “Um, he's not here.”

  The floor is clean and the bodies were gone, and she walked towards me, but her high-heeled shoes were silent on the cement. Her sweet, angelic face sparkled and glowed. “William! I was worried you'd gone.”

  Convinced I'm hallucinating, I said, “I'm not William. I told you, he's dead. I'm Roland, his grandson, and I can't help you.”

  “You're a very negative young man.” She wagged a finger at me, acting as my mother did. Behind her, the evil boot with the thick wooden heel crept and I couldn't decipher if it was a friend or foe.

  “I have no reason to be anything but negative. You didn't tell me your name before you went poof last visit.” Nervously, I asked, “How did you get in?”

  “Why so many questions? You left the back door open for me.” Her hand descended into her purse, and I could see the outline of the disturbing shoe she shoved in my face earlier... or was it yesterday?

  “If the back door was open, I didn't know. It wasn't an invitation.” My head felt feverish, and I couldn't swallow, seeing her cradle the dainty footwear. “Like I told you before, please, put them away!”

  She smiled, taking a step towards me, holding the shoe like a cross to a vampire. “You must finish the shoes. I made a promise to my mother.”

  “Yes, but I didn't! My answer's the same as before!” My shouts bounced off the walls and racks, creating an eerie echo. “I can't help you!”

  Her tone changed, and so did the odd way she looked at me. “If you don't finish them, Rolie, they will never be.”

  “They? Look, I have no feelings for this place or shoes made by my grandfather or father at all. NONE!”

  “No, Rolie, no. Don't say such terrible things,” she scolded. “You were meant to achieve great things. It's destined.”

  My whole face screwed in a twisted knot, and I wanted to punch this pretty lady, like knock her out cold. “You don't know a thing about my destiny. And stop calling me that horrible nickname! Only my mother and my aunt called me that and I hated it.” I paused, caught in her hypnotic gaze. “How did you know?”

  “Because she remembers you, the precious boy.” She swayed her hips in my direction. It made me nauseous.

  “Knock it off!” My arms jutted out, stopping her from getting closer—close enough to touch me. “Give me a straight answer, then get the hell out!”

  “What's your price, master shoemaker?” she asked point blank, rocking the shoes in her arms. Her chest pressed against the palm of my outstretched hands, feeling gloriously full. This was the most I'd touched on a female and my instinct said to squeeze. But I maintained control.

  “No price,” I stated as she pushed her bosom into my hands. Backing down wasn't an option. “You see the crap in the store? I don't make shoes! No matter what! NEVER!” The evil boot was still behind her, mocking, twitching.

  “My mother was an heiress. I inherited her fortune. Jonathan would have been rich beyond measure if he hadn't been married to that whore.”

  “You mean, my mother?” The anger I felt, was no match to the extreme muscle burn in my trembling arms, and I wanted to drop them so bad, but her tits where on me. “You said Jonathan? Don't you mean William?”

  “Poor Melinda. She didn't have his heart and it killed her.” Her angelic face soured, coughing up a mouthful of phlegm. “State your fee. I'll pay anything you want to see these shoes reborn.”

  “Anything?” I contemplated like an asshole, and made my offer. “Okay. One million dollars.”

  “Done. I'll have it delivered to you by tomorrow morning.” She brushed past me, finally releasing my extended arms, which dropped like bricks, and set the shoe on the desk. “I need the job done in two days.”

  That's not what I expected her to say and I laughed. “Listen, whatever your name is, you're wasting your time and money. I will ruin them. I don't make shoes, for the millionth time.”

  “You will,” she whispered confidently. To my horror, the evil boot nudged up against her leg and she petted it as if it were a beloved dog or cat. “Just you wait and see.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The lovely, weird, mouthy and demanding bitch had left me alone with the hideous, unwanted relic from her so-called “mother”. It looked harmless—just an old shoe that managed to land on the massive wooden work bench imbedded with my family's blood and sweat. The marks of insanity were dug deep into the stained and splintered bench. Running my fingers across the divots on the wood's surface, I shivered, remembering Jonathan, and imagining William, pounding relentlessly on it. The haunted slab existed at the core of my misfortune, torture and pain. Kill the bench, kill the shoes, I tried to convince myself. Destroy everything in the store.

  Assessing the tools dumped in a metal bin under the slab, I cut my hand on the pointy tip of giant scissors. The cut was serious, and probably needed stitches, but a dingy, grease-covered cloth buried at the bottom of the bin sufficed for the bandage.

  Maybe destroying the bench was the key to burning the store down? My thought process spiraled, mentally working out the ramifications. Chop the dry wood to bits, covering it with whatever toxic substances exist in the stockroom like the sneakers, then set the wood on fire. Imagining the furious blaze with trapped demonic spirits expelling from the flames was a beautiful vision. I caught myself smiling, thinking of them being sent straight to Hell. Smiling. I'd make my escape while the fires burn and burn, then watch from a distance as the building falls and disintegrates into ash. Yes, this must happen.

  Like it was fated, I suddenly uncovered a sledgehammer from the bin, and fearlessly gripped it with my cut hand. Raising it over my head, drawing in a deep breath, I flung the hammer down, bent on total destruction. In an instant, my arms went stiff, elbows locked as if injected with quick-dry cement. The mighty head of the sledgehammer stopped by a force greater than my will, hovering an inch above the bench. From my shoulders to my bloodied hands, I was immobile, my attack thwarted. Moments, that felt like hours passed, unable to move my arms.

  Then, I heard the hum—the electric buzz of the demon shoes, slithering out from the shadows. Closer and closer they crawled, looking hungry and angry, starving for my flesh. I couldn't yell, or growl or whimper. Helplessly, I shook as the vicious footwear sunk their nails into my legs through my jeans. Mouth hinged open without a sound emanating from it, I succumbed, letting them eat me limb by limb.

  “AHHHH!!” I woke with a jolt, smacking my head on the bench, disrupting the horrible nightmare. My head snapped side to side, searching for the shoes, feeling my legs, noticing no cuts or blood on my hands. The dainty shoe wasn't bothered or hurt. It was just there, waiting for me. Chest heaving, I wiped the sweat from my face, and swallowed dryly.

  “Fuck you
!” I screamed, squeezing the shoe in my hands like I could strangle it. But the shoe defended itself, slicing my palms with its embellishments, and I dropped the thing.

  “Now what am I supposed to do?” I asked, mashing my shredded palms together. “You screwed up my hands, asshole!” The shoe didn't respond. It was motionless—dead on the bench as if it hadn't attacked me back. “Not that I was going to fix you anyway, you piece of shit!” Not into cursing, or speaking, just listening quietly to thrash metal bands, the vulgar talk was shocking. The words flew out of me as if I'd been hit with a massive gut punch and I wasn't done. “Yeah, lie there, freak show, and wait till I rip you apart piece by piece, with no intentions of putting your stupid ass back together. You aren't humpty-fucking-dumpty, dick.” And then I fucking ended it. “I'm the boss, asshole. I'm the boss.”

  The shoe gleamed, like a switch had been flipped. It wasn't afraid. It wanted me to touch it and my hands went forward, not to murder but to pet.

  There, along the frayed seams, and unfinished designs, I started to fall in love with the shoe. Precious, glittering beads sewn into delicate flower patterns called out to me. The longer I looked, the quieter the room got, as if I'd zoned into another dimension where only me and the shoe existed. It was attractive, and the details had my full attention—the handiwork of my father, or grandfather, and I suddenly was filled with an innate understanding for what they felt sitting at this bench, laboring over their creations. Stitch after stitch, I studied how the thread penetrated layers of silk and held beads in place, completely mesmerized. What had happened to me? I thought, turning it over to examine the writing on the scuffed sole. Within the carved, tilted heart I read the inscription. It said: Roland.

  The silence was unreal, and my heart thumped heavily. I felt the curse tingle through my soul, and the sensation was addictive. I could make great shoes, I thought, better than theirs. My designs will be loved by gorgeous, wealthy women, and they'll beg me to make more.

  Slowly, the bench drawer to my right opened, revealing a jackpot of shoemaker's gold. Spools, beads, needles, pins, scissors, and much more, there for the using. Reaching in, my thumb was pierced through the nail bed by a long, sharp needle. It pulled its thread against the bone of my knuckle, then went for my index finger. Cracking that nail in half, the thread drew my thumb and finger together, forming a knot in the air that bound them tightly with the needle between. Positioned for work, I stationed the needle at the shoe and made my first incision.

  With precise motion and speed I sewed tiny patterns around the rim, and along the back seam, fixing the torn stitching and ribbing like I knew what I was doing—as if I'd been sewing shoes all my life. Faster and faster the needle and thread swam across the fabric, till it was halted at the wooden base. The restoration was nearly complete, and the shoe vibrated in my hand. It needed to be finished.

  Then, I heard, “Hello there, William,” said by an alluring female voice, trailing from somewhere in the stockroom. The shoe went limp, and the needle and thread attaching my fingers to it withdrew, viewing the stunning woman lying in front of me. “I'm early, as usual.”

  “For?” I asked her, but I instinctively knew why.

  “Our appointment?”

  “Right, the appointment.” Leaving the shoe on the bench, I went to the elegant woman with an alarming level of confidence.

  “William, darling,” she called to me with a sexy smile. Her bare legs were exposed, and I could see up her red dress. “It's chilly in here. Can you turn up the heat?”

  “Of course,” I responded like a seasoned lover. “How hot do you want it?”

  On her right foot she wore the match to one of the demon shoes―the vicious strappy heel. Her left foot was bare and she walked on her tippy-toes. “As hot as we can get it, William.” Her face was hauntingly beautiful, and she reached for me. Our hands met, and my pulse went electric, skipping beats. “And I don't want rhinestones either. I want real diamonds on the shoes, and loads of them.”

  “You can have whatever you want,” I replied, no longer speaking as Roland, but as William. My voice and mannerisms had matured, and I felt confident, worthy.

  She graced my hands with her foot and I held the demon shoe's mate. It wasn't filled with life, or wicked energy and it didn't twitch. It cupped her foot beautifully, hugging every curve. The unfinished shoe awaited completion on the desk, but I had to ignore it in favor of this woman.

  “Where's the other one?” Pointing to her shoeless foot.

  “I, uh, don't know.” I wasn't about to tell her the other shoe was evil and a killer. Scanning the room, I didn't see it. Out of sight, out of mind... for now.

  “Warm my foot, William. You know I can't stand it when my feet are cold.”

  My hands were freezing, too. She wiggled her foot in my palms, and I rubbed it like mad, irritating the wounds, making them bleed again.

  “Such a funny man, William,” she said, and then asked, “You're just kidding, yes?”

  Suddenly I wasn't my grandfather, but me: a lonely, clueless non-romancer. “Uh, hold on.” The charm was gone in a flash, and I choked on a wad of spit, nervously shaking and totally exposed.

  “I don't like your tone,” she told me. “I came a long way to be fitted and I've already waited months, much longer than usual.”

  My brain was blinking out, just like the TV did when I'd watch it on the sales floor as a kid, always during a favorite show. “I'm... sorry?”

  Pulling her foot from my hands abruptly, she glared at me. Spittle gathered in the corner of her pink-stained mouth. “William? What's wrong with you?”

  I grabbed the workbench for support as my nerves went into hyper-spasm. “I, uh, don't even know your name.”

  She laughed like a haunted wind. “You don't? Aren't you a fatal charmer, William, pretending like we're strangers?” Thrusting her hips at me, she hiked up her dress. I admired her lengthy, curvaceous legs in a daze. “You love to pretend you have a waiting list of other women, but I know I come first. Don't I?”

  Knuckles white and scabbed, I shook my head vehemently, wanting her to leave me alone. The spell had worn off, and stockroom grew dim and frigid. “I guess.”

  “You wouldn't put another before me, would you?” she asked. “The least you could do is kiss me, William. Kiss me like you used to before you became so popular.”

  Terrified of her ghostly image fading in and out, I stood, raising the chair over my head with conviction. “Stay where you are!”

  And then this horrible sound streamed from her mouth, like a muted cry. “Do you remember what I told you? I said I'd be forgotten once your styles were widely known. That you'd forget about me and I'd sink into the past with the discarded ones.”

  “No, I don't remember,” I stated, still threatening with the chair that she somehow didn't see. “I'm not who you insist I am!”

  “Have you forgotten I was the one who funded you, buying every shoe you made, when no one else would? When no one gave a damn about your talent? And now you won't kiss me, like I'm not the one you swore your dedication and love to.” Her eyes were hungry, and her tongue was wet. She drooled a thick, frothy fluid as her emotions grew more intense. Then, she stopped just before I dropped the chair down on her head. “You're not the man I remember.”

  “I'm not the man at all.” My arms acted like they were pulled by strings, swinging the chair. I closed my eyes tightly, and smashed her skull with it.

  Her appearance evaporated in a misty flash and the smell left behind in her wake was sour and foul, like rotting trash.

  Unable to catch my breath, I fell onto the chair, limp yet furious. I was crazy, I told myself, just like my lineage. I'd imagined that woman because I'm sick in the head.

  “Roland?”

  I heard myself screaming from shock before I realized my mouth was open. My shirt collar was pulled tight against my throat by the hand of the young woman who owned the dainty slipper on the bench. She smacked her bony hand over my hanging jaw an
d shut it, quickly silencing the scream, before hissing in my ear.

  “You're a bad, bad man,” she told me, whirling my body around to face her. “This is your last chance to remake my mother's shoes. Don't you dare let me catch you servicing another woman! I come first! Do you understand?!”

  I nodded like a dope, totally lost, desperate and scared.

  “Restore them back to their original integrity or else!”

  “Or else what?” I stupidly asked.

  “Or else you're a dead man,” she threatened, and I believed her, completely.

  In a sudden blast of otherworldly fire, her hands dissolved from my mouth and neck. The burn of her hot breath and red lips on my earlobe ignited before her image faded and I felt her lingering touch tingle though me. I'm in love with her, I thought, totally head over heels.

  My ineptness was gone. My mind was crystal clear. I faced the lone slipper on the bench and resolved to finish it as proof of my love and dedication for the mystical woman claiming to be my... relative? Fuck this.

  Allowing the achy feeling of bad energy to permeate my soul, I succumbed to its possession of me. Like claws ripping at my guts, I welcomed the evil inside, and became one with the doomed souls of Jonathan and William. It was inevitable, fated, and I alone was left to finish the dirty business left undone—whatever it was.

  The old people who rant about heavy metal and rock music polluting a young person's mind and turning teens into satanic worshipers should spend a minute in the store with me. Dark lyrics are nothing but words. The devil is a bitch with a shoe fetish.

  Hands maneuvering on their own, I mimicked my father's techniques on the slipper, and I was good at it, but my bladder spoke louder than my possession. Just a few more stitches, I thought, and it's done.

  And then her face reflected in my memory. Her beautiful, serene face. I couldn't present the finished slipper in blood-soaked clothes and smelling heinous. There must be a scrap of clothing to change into. I'd settle for an old towel. The delirious thought of sewing tube socks together in the form of underwear crossed my mind as I dragged myself to the bathroom, careful of my footing, keeping my eyes wide open.