by Angela Sylvaine
(372 words)
It started with the red heel. Or pump, as my mother called them. I saw it while walking to school with the other kids in my neighborhood. A single red high-heel in the middle of the street. Some of the kids blew it off, didn’t care, while others insisted they couldn’t see it at all. Playing pranks on me, as usual.
I shoved the heel in my backpack, crushing my butter and white bread sandwich. Throughout the day, I’d reach in my bag to touch the shoe, run my fingertips over the smooth patent leather.
At home, I showed my mother. Her gaze skipped past and over my find, unfocused and unseeing. She insisted nothing was there, said, “You worry me sometimes, Ginny.” I hated when she said that.
In my room, I stared at the high heel, so bright and precious and lonely, until my eyes burned from not blinking. Hands trembling, I slipped my bare foot inside like Cinderella but felt a sharp poke at my big toe. Lips closed to hold in the yelp that would summon my mother, I tipped the shoe and a shiny, black beetle fell to the carpet, unmoving. The sight of the insect made me feel hot and cold at once, drove me to hide beneath my comforter.
The next morning the bug was gone, and there were two more shoes in the road. A sneaker and a child’s MaryJane. Again, some didn’t care, and others didn’t see. I brought the shoes home and found more of those same, dead black beetles that somehow flew away by morning. Every day more shoes appeared, multiplying until they filled the bottom of my closet. They never made a pair.
Today, I found a shoe I know. A pale pink tennis shoe with a spaghetti stain on the toe. And no one can find my mother. They say it’ll be okay but won’t look me in the eyes. Aunt Sheila comes to take me for a sleepover, just for tonight, she says. When she’s not looking, I slip mother’s beetle in my mouth and swallow it down, the antennae and legs scraping my tongue, catching in my throat. This one won’t fly away without taking me, too.
END
Angela Sylvaine is a self-proclaimed cheerful goth who writes horror fiction and poetry. Her debut novel, Frost Bite, is forthcoming from Dark Matter INK, and her debut novella, Chopping Spree, an homage to 1980s slashers and mall culture, is available now. Angela’s short fiction has appeared in various publications and podcasts, including Apex Magazine, Dark Recesses, and The NoSleep Podcast. Her poetry has appeared in publications including Under Her Skin and Monstroddities. You can find her online at angelasylvaine.com.