The fluorescent lights in the Laundromat flickered and died.
Matt, lost in a fantasy involving a very hot college cheerleader, jerked out of the hard plastic chair in which he was half lying and looked wildly around the empty room.
The only light came from streetlights through the plate glass windows that covered the front wall. Matt relaxed. It must’ve been a fuse, he thought. The washing machine still ran, so the lights and the machines were probably on separate circuits.
Convincing himself that indeed a fuse had blown, he sat down, leaned back and closed his eyes. Sighing, he resumed his fantasy and idly stroked himself over his jeans. His dream was intensifying when the door to the Laundromat slammed open and a brief but freezing wind gusted through the room.
Matt jumped to his feet again. His heart, brought to a fast jog when the fuse went, ran now at a full sprint. He took a couple of steps towards the door.
“Who’s there?” He yelled. “What do you want?” His eyes darted across the row of washers and dryers along the back wall. Four long folding tables filled the center of the room. There was no one to respond.
Suddenly, all ten of the dryer’s doors slammed shut. Matt jumped. That’s it. I’m outta here!
He threw his washer’s lid back so hard that it ricocheted back and nearly took off a finger. ****! He pulled it up again and yanked out wet clothes by the handful, cramming them into the plastic laundry basket he’d brought.
Snatchin up the full basket, Matt ran toward the door only to see it slam shut. He dropped the basket, spilled his clothes, and jerked the door’s handle as hard as he could. It wouldn’t budge.
Frantic, he grabbed a chair, intent on throwing it through a window. He gasped in pain as a muscle pulled in his back. The chairs were bolted to the floor. Bent over in agony, he saw the tables were firmly affixed, too.
Hands on knees, back still smarting, he forced himself to calm down. He looked outside. No one out there either. If I try to open the door again, it’ll open. It was just my imagination. He straightened up slowly and the sharp pain in his back abated to a dull ache.
With a click and a whir, one of the dryers turned on.
Startled anew, he checked over his shoulder. Something thumped from within the dryer. The sound was soft but heavy. Curiosity killed the cat, stupid, he thought. Yeah, but satisfaction brought him back.
He approached the dryer, lunged for the door, yanked it open and jumped backwards.
Nothing flew out. The dryer stopped turning just as it was supposed to. After assuring himself that he was still alone, Matt leaned forward until he could see a pair of black Converse sneakers – high tops, the basketball kind.
You are such a Wuss sometimes. He pulled out the shoes and tossed them on a nearby table. Matt noticed something white protruding from one of the shoes. Upon closer inspection, he found a folded piece of paper stuffed into the shoe.
He plucked the paper out and held it at an angle to catch what little light was filtering through the windows. Covered with red lipstick kisses, there was a type written sentence across the middle. “Put these on, you won’t regret it. Don’t put them on and you will die!"
Matt dropped the note like a hot potato and called out, "Anybody here? Come on, this isn’t funny!"
No one answered. He studied the shoes. What kind of joke is this? Cautiously, he leaned over, picked up the fallen note, and read again. "Don't put them on and you will surely die!”
Surely? Did it say surely before? Matt was unsure. He shook his head; must have missed it the first time. He recalled horror movies where the killer left notes. The killers always kept the promises in their notes. Why take a chance.
Curious more than scared; Matt kicked off his flip-flops and slid his feet into the Converses. They fit perfectly. They were even warm, but not dryer warm.
He paced several steps. Nothing happened. Put these on, you won’t regret it. Well “won’t regret it” as in the opposite of dying seemed to be true. He thought about it a few seconds and then, burst out laughing. What a crock of ****, he thought.He returned to his scattered clothes on the floor. Leaning over to scoop them up, Matt nearly fell on his ****, his balance all cockamamie because his feet kept walking toward the door. Oh, ****! Now what? What the **** is going on here? Try as he might, he couldn’t control his feet.
The Laundromat door opened as easily as when he’d first entered and the shoes walked him out into the night, a little dog on a supernatural leash.
Matt saw a streetlamp ahead. He directed his walk at an angle to intersect the lamp pole. The shoes offered no resistance. He was still going in the direction they wanted to go. One step from the pole, he jumped sideways and wrapped both arms and legs around it. Straddling the pole, the shoes continued to walk.
As his feet went forward, his body was pulled down until he was on his butt. Instinctively, he lifted his legs and the shoes took two steps in the air before stopping.
Panting, Matt strained to keep his legs up. I can’t do this all night but, what else can I do? His feet began to hurt. Matt looked and saw the shoe laces tightening. From the toe to the ankle, each shoelace pulled itself tighter. An intense heat radiated from the soles of the shoes and the combination of heat and lack of blood circulation quickly became unbearable.
Alright, ALRIGHT! I give up! Matt let his feet fall. Before he could think, the shoes spun him around until he was facing in the opposite direction. Like a car backing up, the shoes back walked, scraping Matt’s butt along the ground, pushing him away from the pole.
Once clear, the shoes turned left until Matt faced in the right direction and then; they took off with Matt bumping along on his ****. Matt struggled to regain his feet.
Finally, with scraped hands to show for it he was up and walking normally. On his feet, he was relieved to be walking normally and the heat evaporated, the laces loosened.
The shoes carried him down Smithson Avenue and turned right on to Lindsey Street. Resistance was futile and although this scared him, the lack of any real physical threat calmed him in equal measure. A perverse curiosity overcame his fear. Where the hell were these shoes taking him? He pulled the note from his pocket. Put these on (Trust me, Matt inserted) you won’t regret it. Still uneasy, Matt tried to focus his hopes on the positive tone those words elicited.
