by Kay Brandt
“As much as I like talking to you, I do have other appointments after this,” he reminded her, “so, if you could point me in the right direction?”
“Whatever, man,” she said with no authority. “Put them where you think it's best.”
“Customers usually like one over the register, one looking out at the parking lot, the back and front door and if there's a back room or employee lounge.” He shared his expertise.
Her cheeks were red from the searing pain and she cursed under her breath. “It's up to you. I just do what I'm told. My opinions are not valid here.”
“Too bad,” he replied. “Your boss doesn't appreciate you?”
“Not even a little,” she said, playing the sympathy card. “He's using me.”
“Well, I'm hiring for a receptionist. Need someone to run the front office while I'm out in the field.” He chuckled. The exaggerated dimple in his chin doesn't captivate her interest, as he'd expected. “You'd be great at that job. I can see your potential.”
“Sorry, you've read me wrong,” she clarified. “I hate working. I'd quit but the boss says he'll send me to jail, so, this arrangement works for now.”
He observed the delinquent, nodding with an agreeable shrug. “If it works, it works.”
“I need a cigarette. I'll be right outside the front door if you need me.” A cigarette was bit by her crooked teeth. Like a gust of wind she flew out the front door, leaving the surveillance man to his own devices.
He scoped out possible camera locations, measuring the area on the wall above the register desk and over the front door. He paused for a little shoe shopping, appreciating the mass-produced selections, and searched for his size. Disappointed that only two of the styles he liked were available in size ten, he took a seat in the corner chair, removing his stale shoes and hole-covered socks.
Exhaling, he wiggled his toes into the right shoe, and then the left, but something blocked his foot from entering. Pushing, then shoving, he removed his feet from the stubborn sneakers, and examined the interior. An unidentifiable object was smashed inside the toe. “Hmmm... what could that be?” he pondered out loud, sticking his fingers inside the shoe, latching on to the hard object.
“What the hell?” he said, unsure of what he'd retrieved. And then he screamed, biting his tongue, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the stained carpet.
A female toe, gray with rot, is what he'd discovered. It was stiff and stunk like a nasty fungus with a broken toenail at the tip still painted perfectly red. A few dead hairs where it'd been chopped at the bone stuck out like thorns and pricked his skin.
Too horrified to utter a sound, he threw the toe and the shoes, standing quickly as if nothing had happened. He whistled, then kicked the box off to the side, pretending to study his clipboard. “Got to be a prank,” he spoke to himself again. Sweat dripped from his head onto his paperwork, smearing the fresh ink. “Hidden camera prank... that's what it is.”
Stephanie reentered in a cloud of smoke, checking out his nervous energy. “Everything okay?”
“My girlfriend set this up, didn't she?” he asked, borderline giddy.
“Huh? His aunt did, yeah,” she replied. “She's your girlfriend?”
Shaking his head, he clung to the notion cameras were actively on him. “My regional manager, it was her, wasn't it?”
Frustrated with him, she asked, “Dude, what are you talking about? Did you find the right spots or not?”
He played along, smiling, chuckling, and collecting himself as calm and cool. He checked out the mirror on the wall. “It's a two-way with a camera behind it? That's cool. I can dig it.”
“Okay, so, I have no clue what you're talking about. Mind having your acid trip somewhere else?”
“Ha ha ha, alright then, I'll get to work.” He winked at her, like they shared a secret.
Unnerved, she retrieved another cigarette from the pack. “What gives with the mess?”
Without an alibi, he reverted to the truth. “I found a toe.”
“A toe?” Stephanie sighed, “”You're trippin'. Where is this toe?”
“I threw it. It's somewhere.”
Stephanie flexed her authority. “You better find it.”
“Look, let me do what I got to do and I'll be out of your hair in no time. I'll give you twenty bucks if you don't say a word about it.” He handed her cash from his Velcro wallet and whispered, “Destroy the footage, okay? No one needs to see it.”
Still confused by his weird talk, Stephanie held out her hand, palm turned up. “It's going to cost more than that. How about forty?”
He emptied his wallet, and she stuffed her greedy pocket with his last dime.
CHAPTER NINE
Something tugged on my jeans, right at my ankle, like a playful puppy needing attention. It tickled my skin with its prickly whiskers, waking me from a soupy nap.
I'd fallen asleep in a twisted position at the old workbench, and sat up with a stiff neck. Straightening my spine for a blissful stretch, I made the mistake of looking down at my foot. Like a wicked hallucination, the black strappy heeled shoe nuzzled my leg, nipping, twitching, vibrating with bad energy.
The beats of my heart slowed as I focused my eyes, afraid to move a muscle. This wasn't the reality I wanted to face, yet everything I feared. But what if it's not there? I forced the thought into my head. It's not really there, and this isn't really happening.
But it was. It remembered me, and It was waiting, as I suspected.
And then, the shoe lurched at me, heel lifted like a stinger, aimed to strike. This wasn't an invitation to engage, it was a threat of war, and I suddenly feared for my life.
With shallow breathing, I slowly brought my hands in front of my chest, expecting an attack. Whispering to the shoe, my voice trembled as I warned, “Don't you even think about it, fucker.”
The beastly thing shook and pins popped out of its sides. The rusted pins bristled sharply against my jeans. I could smash it with my other foot if I spun and maneuvered faster than the enemy, but that was impossible. We faced off, the hunter and the hunted.
Scream! Scream like a girl! Is what my brain told me to do. If Stephanie heard me, though, the shameful secret of the shoes would be exposed.
“We don't have to play this game,” I told the shoe. Glancing at the cabinet, my gut went ice cold. The middle drawer I thought was locked was wide open.
I'm motionless, terrified of what the shoe might do. It's bit me before, in plain sight, in front of my mother, father and aunt, and they couldn't stop the attacks. Not intimidated by the size and weight of my Dr. Martin thick-soled work boot, the relentless shoe wanted action—it wanted my blood.
“I could smash you,” I threatened. “I'm bigger than you, stronger, meaner. And I don't care if you die.”
Strike first! I thought. Do it now! I went for a head-fake as my open hand swooped for the shoe... and missed it. My lower leg was sliced as the stiletto's icepick heel slammed into my shin. The vicious pins embedded deep into my flesh, like razor-sharp claws, spilling blood down to my ankle. A hot rush of blood filled my boot.
Jerking wildly, growling in agony, and engulfed with burning pain, I flailed, trying to whack the strappy shoe from my limb. The pins elongated, digging deeper into my leg, hitting the bone.
I swung and hit the attacker repeatedly, until the pins dislodged. The shoe flew across the room, crashing into the wall without a thud or vibration—like a puff of air on a cloud.
Gasping with unexpected victory, I grabbed my leg and rocked it. Pressing my palms on the puncture wounds, I tried to stop the bleeding, but the crevice between my fingers flooded with dark red.
The stockroom door suddenly swung open.
“He gave me an invoice.” Stephanie waved the bill at me. “But I don't think he finished the job. He left kinda quickly.”
“Invoice?” My shaky voice and bloody hands were a dead giveaway of something bad. She looked at me with suspicion.
“The dude who
did the install? You had an appointment for it today?” She handed me the statement. “He was here and like totally tripped out, asking me about his girlfriend and boss and shit. I think he said he's your aunt's boyfriend.”
“What?” Releasing my leg, I read over the invoice and did a double-take. “That's how much he charged? Five hundred dollars?” At nineteen, having that much money meant you were rich, like the meth dealers in my apartment building. “And then you let him leave without finishing the job?”
“You were sleeping, asshole!” Stephanie was defensive, twisting her hair between her skinny fingers. “I stepped up and acted like I work here and you still complain?”
“No, I just mean, thanks.”
“Sure you do.” She went for the guilt. “You're mad at me. I suck and you're disappointed.”
My mind was with the shoe, eyes darting from corner to corner. “Stephanie, did you unlock the cabinet when I was sleeping?”
“What cabinet?”
“That one,” I pointed to the metal stack with four large drawers. The middle drawer was still open, and I prayed nothing would jump out of it. “I won't yell or press any more charges, even if your intention was to rip me off and leave. Please, Stephanie, be honest.”
Stephanie looked at me incredulously. “I didn't open the stupid cabinet, okay? Same for the drawers. I have no clue as to where the key might be, either. And beyond that, I don't care.”
Obsession had control over me. My mouth wasn't my own. “You had time to look! Can you understand why I would suspect? Thieves can't be trusted.”
“For real, dude? You're accusing me, again?” Her face was red with anger and her eyes didn't hide from mine. “You're the one bleeding for some unknown reason. What the fuck did you do to yourself? Or was it a psychotic episode that caused the cuts?”
Exposed, vulnerable, and scared, I shifted. “Sorry, I'm not looking to blame. It's just important, that I know.”
“Know what?” she asked stubbornly.
“If you unlocked them.”
“I said NO!”
“I'm sorry, Stephanie, but I don't believe you.”
“You're one paranoid whack job, dude. Are you on meds? Do I need to get them for you?”
“Don't make fun of me!” I yelled, on the verge of hysteria. “I'm asking you sincerely! You're the only person I can talk to about this! Why won't you tell me the truth?”
She went into statue-mode, transfixed by my borderline insanity. “Uh... because you're weird, weird, weird. How about you stay in here and I'll stay out front?”
Standing suddenly, the pain in my wounded leg made me clench. Through gritting teeth, I told her, “It's my store. I can do what I want.”
“Cool, go for it.” Stephanie disengaged. “Oh, by the way, some of my friends might come by to visit me today. Word got out that I have a job.”
“No friends, Stephanie! Not one, okay? I make the rules, not you.”
She ignored me, and went back to the sales floor.
I followed behind her, limping. “Seriously. Your friends aren't allowed!”
“What's your problem? Like anything bad is going to happen?” She points at the camera installed in the top corner of the wall next to the register. “With this here?”
Blinking at the large silver eye-in-the-sky, I commented, “Wow, he was fast.”
“Fast? It took him two hours. He said he would come back for the stockroom tomorrow. You were sleeping, and I didn't think you'd be happy if I woke you.” Stephanie looked curiously at my leg again. “You're bleeding on the carpet.”
Noticing my bloody shin, the anger quelled, and I gave in. “Look, I need Band-Aids and water, and some kind of food.”
“And?”
“And if I give you money will you go to the store?” I asked, extending a small wad of cash to her from my pocket. “It's three blocks away.”
“Sure,” she replied. “Anything to get out of here.”
“I expect you to come back... with change.”
“You're so funny, dude,” she heckled. “What else could I spend a whole twenty bucks on? Afraid I might raid a gumball machine?”
“If you do,” I said, “save me a piece.”
****
My jeans came off as soon as she disappeared from view. Sock stuck to my bloody ankle, I peeled it off, inch by inch. The stockroom was eerily quiet, yet I heard the shoes rustle in the shadows.
Shoe and sock off, I cleaned off what blood I could, and headed for the bathroom. With caution, I took baby steps towards it, visually searching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Racks swayed with the draft from the air conditioning, and it rattled my fried nerves. The shoes were lurking―fresh from hibernation.
There, trekking across the cement, I felt stuck in a time warp, no longer nineteen, but Roland at age seven, ignored as I played behind my father's back. The shoes surrounded me, at first benignly, before revealing their dark nature. One by one they inched closer, their stitches popping, reanimated. The evil eight—a stiletto, dressy flat, sandal, silky slipper, a loafer and three different sizes of leather boots—invaded my personal space. They taunted and threatened as a pedestrian gang would, unafraid, seeking to inflict pain.
“Daddy!” I cried for my dead father. “Dad, help me!” I yelled, unable to move my numb limbs. Spitting on the shoes as my weak defense, my phlegm only fueled their fire. In a whiplash flash the shoes were on me, sinking nails and staples into my thighs and groin. One of the boots hovered over my face, burning my skin with the heat that poured from its possessed sole.
“No speaking, son,” was whispered from behind my back. “You must be quiet if you want to be near me.” Ghostly Jonathan sat at his desk, not turning to see me, oblivious to the predicament, unaffected by his son being mauled.
I knew he could see what was happening, though. I'd caught a glimpse of his eyes forced shut in absolute avoidance. “Dad! They're going to get me!” I yelled from the top of my lungs. “Stop them! STOP THEM!”
The insane memory halted abruptly as I reached the bathroom, catching onto the door frame like a life preserver. The quicksand that sucked me into the past was thick and powerful, but somehow locking myself in the bathroom brought me back to the present—for better or worse.
The reflection in the mirror was mine: sweaty, greasy, and unshaven. Turning on the faucet, I relished the cold water, cleaning the dirt from my face, and rinsing out my unwashed hair. The sink filled with black dye—the residual color I'd used days previous, prepping for my return to the store. I wanted to stay in here and let the tap water keep me alive for as long as it could. The bathroom was the only safe zone.
My parents never asked questions when I spent hours in the bathroom, probably because they were too self-absorbed to notice I was missing.
I twisted my pant leg under the faucet, washing out the blood. Shivering cold, I remembered the jacket hanging on the edge of the workbench, and I knew I couldn't hide in the bathroom for long. As much as I didn't want to leave my safe place, I wasn't into freezing to death either. It was worth the risk, I thought, go get the coat.
Carefully, I opened the door, holding my breath, looking everywhere for my hand-made enemies.
WHAM! My forehead was whacked by a hard, stiff object that sent me to the floor.
Expecting to see the shoes, instead I saw the thieves Aunt Grace had caught the day before―Stephanie's buddies—fists clenched for a knockout brawl. There were punches to my ribs, head and chest and I was worthless fighting back. An unblocked blow to my jaw knocked me senseless and I went rag-doll as they dragged me towards the back door, muttering details of their plan for disposal.
“Shit!” One of them yelled, slamming his shoulder against the locked door.
Scanning the ground for anything to grab onto, I flailed to get away. The onslaught of their fists coming at my face was suddenly interrupted as their bodies were yanked backwards. They landed with a thud in a heap between the rolling racks.
I was sent hur
ling, too, in the other direction, and smacked the far wall near the bathroom. The rolling racks moved slowly, like jaws ready to chomp with metal teeth, hungry for meat. Scrambling on the ground, the thieves attempted an escape, but their legs and arms were captured and latched by the man-eating racks.
I didn't want them to die, but I couldn't stop the evil energy from having its way. Part of me was drawn to their demise, relieved it wasn't me the racks wanted. They were thugs, ruthless criminals without remorse. A loud voice inside my gut yelled: they deserve it! Kill them. Kill them! And then I thought of Aunt Grace and her string of dead managers. This is what happened to them, I thought.
Horrified and compelled by the quickening roll of the killer racks, inching closer and closer to the trapped, my mind spun with questions. Did she watch helplessly, too? Did she scream or try to save them? Or was she like me, hiding behind a stack of boxes, crying like a baby, unable to look away?
The thieves screamed like wild cats being electrocuted as the racks sunk their teeth passed their clothes and into their flesh. Gruesomely, the racks pulverized them, cutting deeper, ripping their limbs. They couldn't escape, played like bloody, human accordions, smashed and stretched over and over. The sickening sounds of their bones breaking filled the stockroom. I covered my ears and begged for the bloodshed to end, but the racks kept crashing against each other. It was brutal, the mass murder committed, and yet I was enthralled by the ease of their destruction. A murky pool of blood formed under the racks and leftover bodily bits floated on the surface.
I expected Stephanie to barge in and scream, or hit me, or worse. She'd probably fled from her retail captivity, letting her buddies handle the job of doing me in, and robbing the store for all its worthlessness. Still without pants, shivering and sick to my stomach, I crawled for the bathroom, desperate to be locked inside of it.
My aunt's stories about the grim plight of her dead managers wasn't fabricated, I thought. The entire store is possessed, not just the shoes. Why hasn't the store killed me yet? What is it waiting for? Dread pitted my gut, and yet I was grateful to have escaped being its victim.